by Sara Portman
Emma watched Charlotte continue to pace and fidget. What on earth had prompted her question? “Charlotte, why don’t you sit?”
Charlotte did as Emma asked, looking up at her with wide, expectant eyes.
Emma swallowed. “I will tell you,” Emma began, “that your question is rather impertinent and I would be entirely justified in refusing to answer it.”
Annoyance flashed through Charlotte’s deep blue eyes. John’s eyes. They were an uncanny match.
“I will answer you the best I am able, though. Our lives have been thrust together, so we may as well know each other better.”
Charlotte nodded, thus signaling the point in the conversation in which Emma should supply the promised answer. She tapped her fingers on the upholstered arm of the sofa. “Yes. Well, then,” she said. The answer. Yes. Hmmm. She sighed. “I suppose I agreed to marry your brother because it was the sensible thing to do. Women must be practical. Marrying your brother provided me with security for my future and, besides, he needed my help.”
“For me.”
“For you, yes.”
Charlotte considered this response, which Emma sensed did not resolve whatever burning question the girl desired to have answered. “In my experience,” Charlotte said, after a lengthy pause, “whenever anyone says they chose something because it was sensible, usually that means there was another, less sensible choice they would have preferred. Did you want to marry someone else?” She asked the question very plainly, her expression void of accusation.
Emma coughed. She smiled. “No. I was not hoping to marry someone other than your brother, but your judgment is correct. I had hoped to do something less sensible. I had hoped to not marry at all. I had thought I could happily live out my days as an old maid in my tiny cottage in Beadwell, tending my mother’s garden.”
“You would have chosen to be an old maid in a cottage over becoming a duchess?” Charlotte asked, disbelief heavy in her watchful expression.
Emma laughed. “Yes. Impractical through it was, I hadn’t any particular aspiration to be a duchess. I just happened to be engaged to a duke.”
Charlotte nodded thoughtfully.
This last revelation seemed to hold the answer Charlotte sought. She nodded, puzzled a moment, then nodded again. “I need your help,” she said finally.
“What is the matter?” Emma asked. Alarm coursed through her.
“I’m not a lady. I’m a kitchen girl.” Charlotte blurted the words in a loud rush.
Emma’s alarm dissipated. She patted Charlotte’s hand. “Of course you are a lady, Charlotte. You are a lady by birth. What do you mean by kitchen girl?”
“I mean I had to take a position—in the kitchen—for a family in Boston named Pritchard. I was their kitchen girl. I had to do something when my mother fell ill. I worked for them and they were nice people, but their son was horrid, and he’s followed me here and is demanding I marry him or he’ll tell everyone.” The words spilled out of Charlotte in a frantic rush. Her color rose as she spoke and her gestures became more animated.
“Stop.” Emma held up a staying hand. “This horrid son, you say he followed you? He has traveled from Boston to England?”
Charlotte nodded. “Yes.”
“Now. Explain again, perhaps more slowly this time, the part about him wanting to marry you.”
Charlotte blew out an anxious breath. “He is here. He was just here—at Brantmoor. He says he’ll tell everyone I am nothing but a kitchen girl and I will be an outcast. But if I agree to marry him, you can present me as the sister who married the son of a respectable Boston family and there will be no scandal at all.”
“Where is he now?” Emma asked, glancing involuntarily at the window.
“Mr. Brydges is chasing him off.”
“Good.” Emma nodded then and clutched Charlotte’s hands in hers. “Charlotte, dear, you listen to me. You won’t be marrying anyone who believes he can force you with threats. That I assure you.”
“But I was a kitchen maid,” Charlotte insisted. “It’s not a story. It’s the truth.” She delivered it as a dare and waited for Emma’s response.
“And your brother was a clerk. Anyone who is shallow enough to be offended by either fact is not worthy of our concern.” Of course, it would have been beneficial to know of Charlotte’s employment beforehand. She was certain John had not mentioned it. She would not have forgotten.
“You are not offended that I was a kitchen maid?” Charlotte asked.
“Certainly not. That’s a ridiculous suggestion.” Hadn’t she been the one to lecture Charlotte about earning respect through one’s conduct, not through one’s birth? “My concern is not for your past employment, Charlotte, but for your present safety. You say this man followed you to Brantmoor. If he is persistent enough to travel to England and threaten blackmail, then he is persistent enough to cause you harm.”
“You are not worried about the scandal?” Charlotte asked again.
“Only if it is hurtful to you, Charlotte. There will be gossip regardless and we shall overcome it.”
“But you and my brother are so intent on my becoming a lady,” she said.
Emma shook her head. “Oh, Charlotte, we only want to prepare you—to help you know what to expect for your own benefit. Your brother’s desire was to spare you the hurt that rejection and gossip would cause. I’m afraid he would see it as a failure on his part, Charlotte, if you were not accepted. He feels compelled to atone for your father’s sins. He must restore to you every advantage, every connection, every opportunity of which you’ve been deprived.” She looked at the uneasy young girl who sat across from her and wanted so much to take away her anxiety. “He loves you, Charlotte. He seeks your happiness and security above all else.” Emma had no doubt of it. In truth, she loved him for it.
She loved him.
She loved his tortured, well-meaning soul. And by extension, she loved Charlotte as well. She squeezed Charlotte’s hand again. “That is why we must go to your brother, Charlotte. This man could be dangerous. Your brother will know how to protect you.” He would. Emma had complete faith that John would spring into immediate action once he knew of this new threat.
“But he already had his man following Mr. Pritchard,” Charlotte said. “And Mr. Pritchard must have gotten away from him,.”
Emma let go of Charlotte’s hands and pressed fingers to her temples in an attempt to sort in her mind this jumble of new information. “Your brother had a man following Mr. Pritchard?”
“Yes,” Charlotte said, her voice rising, “but not a very competent man, it seems.”
“Your brother knows this man is in England?”
“Yes. John is the one who told me. He said he would have him followed and not let him near us, but then he was outside today making his threats again. I had to know for sure that you would not make me marry him.” She took Emma’s hand this time. “I believe you. I believe you will not make me marry him.”
Emma gulped. Anger and heartbreak roared through her. “How long has your brother known about Mr. Pritchard?”
“Since the day you went to your cottage. Before Miss Betancourt came to visit. Please don’t be angry with him. I asked him not to tell you about Mr. Pritchard because I didn’t want you to know I was a maid. I was worried about what you would think of me.”
A heavy lump sat in Emma’s stomach and seemed to grow there, becoming heavier and more difficult to ignore. “Fear not, Charlotte,” she said, struggling to project the confidence the girl needed. “You were right to come to me. I will talk with your brother.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Emma sat quietly as Liese brushed and plaited her hair that evening. Emma had always performed the task for herself, but Liese seemed disappointed when Emma sent her way, so she’d begun allowing the girl to do it as part of her nightly routine. She had even begun to enjoy the pampering, but she was too distracted to enjoy it this night.
She gazed at her reflection in the mirror. She wa
s not a great beauty, but she was not without handsome attributes. Her hair was only brown—not richly dark, like Charlotte’s, or angelic blonde, like Lucy’s, but it was thick and soft and fell in nice waves when Liese brushed it out and left it loose, as she sometimes did. Her eyes were also simple brown, but her nose and ears were delicately sized. She was not a person who had ever been particularly preoccupied with her outward appearance—until now. She sighed.
“Are you tired, Your Grace?”
“I suppose I am, Liese.”
“Well, you’ve been very busy, if you don’t mind my saying so. Maybe you would be more rested if you weren’t such an early riser in the mornings. I don’t mean to be presumptuous, Your Grace, but a little more rest might serve you well.”
“Thank you for your suggestion, Liese, and for your concern.”
She looked at her reflection again. “Perhaps you are right, Liese,” she said with a wistful smile. “I will try to get some extra rest tomorrow. If you can bring me a breakfast tray in the morning, I will linger a little longer in my bed.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Liese preened at such attention being paid to her advice. The girl tidied a few last things and bade Emma a quick, “Goodnight, Your Grace,” as she ducked out of the room.
With impossibly perfect timing, the rap on the adjoining door sounded just as the door to the hall closed. John’s knock was more a notice than a request, as he did not wait for a response before opening the door and entering. His dressing gown was knotted loosely at his waist, allowing for a gap that displayed a wide expanse of lightly furred chest. He smiled knowingly at her. “Good evening, sweet Emma.”
She tried to smile encouragingly, but her efforts were weak, for his smile faltered just a bit in response. Once they had their necessary conversation, his mood of happy anticipation would be dashed entirely.
He walked to where she still sat at her dressing table. He placed his hands on her shoulders, kneading there, then sliding up to soothe the tightness in her neck. She very nearly sighed and leaned into his ministrations.
“I’m sorry for my absence at dinner this evening,” he said. “I was visiting the western farms with Mr. Marshall.”
“That’s fine,” Emma said. “We had an eventful afternoon and took trays in our rooms this evening.”
“Has there been more difficulty with Charlotte?”
Has there been more difficulty with Charlotte? She might ask the question of him. What else did she not know of her little protégé? She leaned away from his touch and stood. “There has been a development with Charlotte, but it seems I am the last to know.” She had tried to keep the bitterness from her tone, but he recoiled as though bitten. He eyed her warily, but did not attempt to guess her meaning. She saw no purpose in guessing games anyway. “Charlotte came to me today because she received a threat, in person, from a Mr. Pritchard. I understand this is not his first visit to Brantmoor.”
John’s eyes flew to hers. “Here? Today? Why didn’t she come to me? How was he able to get anywhere close to Charlotte? I’m paying richly to have him watched round the clock!” John’s fists clenched as his voice rose. “Someone will answer for this; I will be certain.”
Emma watched him placidly. He was overcome with concern for his sister, as well he should be. His protection had failed. Perhaps he did not consider the significance of this revelation for Emma. Or, even worse, perhaps he did and did not consider it a betrayal. Emma waited silently as John tugged on the sash of his dressing gown, strode to the door, and summoned the nearest footman. “Awaken Mr. Marshall. I shall meet him in my study shortly.”
He shut the door and returned to Emma. “How long ago did this occur?”
“Charlotte came to me this afternoon, before dinner.”
His brow furrowed. “That was hours ago. Why was I not told immediately?”
Emma stared at him. A coldness had settled over her as he spoke. “I can understand your frustration at the delay,” she said steadily, intentionally contrasting the urgency of his demeanor. “Perhaps if I had been made aware of this threat to Charlotte’s safety, I would have been more alert in keeping watch and more prepared to act quickly when the circumstance arose.”
He stopped, realization of her meaning settling onto his countenance. “Emma,” he began, palm raised in supplication, “I will concede, it was a mistake to keep this from you, but you cannot possibly compare my informing you of some details of Charlotte’s past to a failure to immediately alert me of a threat delivered to her personally at our home. It is my responsibility to protect this family, and I cannot do so when I am not aware of threats which require my protection.”
She could not have worded the case more eloquently herself. “How can I protect Charlotte from threats to her reputation if I am not made aware of the threats?” she snapped. “By the time Charlotte came to me, Mr. Brydges had already seen to his removal.” She arched one brow and crossed her arms. “What I cannot understand is why you felt it necessary to keep these details from me in the first place.”
John looked away. Much of the bluster was lost from his voice when he answered. “Charlotte asked that I not tell you about Mr. Pritchard. She wasn’t sure of your reaction. There was no way to discuss him without revealing that she worked in the kitchens. She didn’t want you to know.”
“Naturally, you assured her that her fears were unfounded.” She knew he had not. She would have known even if his expression just then had not confirmed it.
She had never in her life felt more like scenery or decoration. If he could not find in her actions enough illustration of her character to know she would not judge Charlotte’s employment, then he had given her no more notice than he gave the statues in the entry hall. If he had applied any effort, shown any interest in knowing her, he would have been certain of her lack of prejudice. But, in the end, he had not. He had doubted.
John only shook his head at her question. “I must dress and find Brydges. We must locate Pritchard immediately.”
She watched him as he left.
John had sailed across the ocean to rush to his sister’s aid, lived as a poor clerk for four long years, then married a stranger to give his sister the best possible launch into society. Yet he suspected Emma might find cause to judge in knowing Charlotte had been forced, through no fault of her own, to support herself through her own labors.
He did not love her. If he believed her capable of such judgments, he did not even know her, despite their time together and the moments they had shared. Their marriage was truly nothing more than the mercenary bargain they had made.
Emma wept. Even as she chided herself for her girlish foolishness, she grieved for the loss of a thing she had never had.
Chapter Thirty-Six
John rose late, as he had been awake long into the night, awaiting confirmation that Pritchard had been located and that two men, instead of one, held vigil at the inn in Beadwell to monitor his movements. He’d already come to the decision he would not be idly waiting to see what Pritchard planned next. He would be riding to that particular inn himself to see to the conclusion of this episode with the American.
He passed Emma’s lady’s maid in the hall upon leaving his room for the morning. “Has my wife been down to breakfast?”
“No, Your Grace. She took a tray in her room this morning. Her Grace was wanting extra time to rest.”
“I see. Thank you.”
“Certainly, Your Grace.” The girl gave a quick bob of a curtsy and scurried off.
He had a fence to mend there, he knew. She should have immediately informed him of the threat from Pritchard. That was not in question. But she had a right to be bothered by his omissions in explaining Charlotte’s past and the man lurking about Brantmoor. He’d been too mired in his concerns upon hearing of Pritchard’s visit to recognize the need to atone for that mistake last evening. Now that Pritchard was in hand, he could explain himself. In his defense, it had been Charlotte’s request to keep the information from Emma, b
ut if he truly believed his defense, he wouldn’t feel the twinge of guilt that plucked at him as he made his way to find some food. After all, he’d only assented to Charlotte’s wishes because he’d gained her agreement to attend dress fittings and dance lessons in exchange. In the end, it had been for the greater good.
It truly had.
He simply needed to explain this to Emma.
Once John found his way to the empty breakfast room, he discovered he was too preoccupied to linger long. He consumed just enough to stave off any immediate hunger pangs and retreated to his study where he found his secretary, Marshall, waiting for him.
“I’ve had a report on Pritchard, Your Grace. He will not be returning to Brantmoor today, as he is currently en route to London. He bought a place on the stage that passed through this morning.”
“To London, you say?” It was too much to hope the man was giving up and seeking a ship to return to Boston. “There is a great deal of trouble the man could cause in London.”
“He’s not likely to gain entrée with any of your circle, Your Grace.”
“Hmmm.” Pritchard would not gain acceptance into any respectable home or exclusive club, but that did not mean he could not find a sympathetic ear were he bent on locating one. There were certain gaming hells or other establishments of vice where a man of the any station could encounter the occasional titled gentleman. Men were just as wont to repeat gossip as women, John well knew.
“Your men are following the stage. Once he arrives in London, they will determine his destination and report back.”
John sighed heavily. “If Pritchard goes to London, I go to London. We do not know what this man may do.”
Marshall nodded and left John to his burdens. How naïve he had been. He had genuinely believed once he was able to bring Charlotte to England, he should have every aspect of her future well in hand.
* * *
Given his recent lapses in judgment in sharing details with the duchess, John proceeded to her bedchamber to inform her immediately of the latest developments regarding Pritchard. The bedchamber, however, was empty. He inquired of four members of the staff, who did not know her whereabouts, and located her lady’s maid again, who insisted she had not seen the duchess since delivering her tray early that morning.