by Nichole Van
Her coughing settling down, Georgiana straightened slightly and gratefully took the water from her brother.
“Dear Emma, we are only a few minutes into our new friendship, and I have already arranged a trial for it,” she said with a sad smile. And then, sipped the water and took a fortifying breath, “There is nothing to be done about my illness, you see. I am consumptive. The illness will kill me, little by little, until I fade entirely away.”
Emme stared at her in shock. This pale, ethereal creature was dying?
“Consumption is a terrible sickness,” Mr. Knight agreed, holding his sister’s hand. All his carefree easiness gone, concerned intensity in its place. “It slowly eats at one’s health, killing by degrees.”
This is wrong, Alter Emme whispered, stunned. People don’t die of consumption.
Emme found herself looking back and forth between them. It did feel wrong. Very, very wrong. Someone so young should be not be dying of a bad cough. Again, something tickled at the edges of her consciousness. Something that should be done.
“I am so sorry,” Emme found herself saying. “I don’t even know what to say. It seems so dreadful. Are you sure?”
“As long as I am still breathing, there is always hope, but so few receive a miracle. Not many survive consumption.”
Her brave smile tore at Emme.
“I am not a fair weather friend to be chased off by the first sign of rain,” Emme said, matching Georgiana’s little smile with one of her own. “We shall care for each other in our trials.” She reached out and took Georgiana’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
You’d better remember to wash that hand, Alter Emme said.
“Thank you, Miss Emma,” Mr. Knight said, his eyes meeting hers warmly. “I know that Georgiana often pines for company. We are isolated here in the country and not many care to associate with a consumptive.”
“I am here and delighted to make Miss Georgiana’s acquaintance. I do feel that we will be great friends.” Emme smiled what she hoped was her warmest smile.
“I feel the same,” Georgiana said, clutching Emme’s hand. “And now, as James knows I do not like discussing my impending doom, I am going to officially change the topic. What were you saying about Sir Henry earlier, James?”
“You had best prepare yourself, Miss Emma,” he said, turning to Emme. “Sir Henry has invited us all to dinner later this week. And I fully expect that he will join forces with Georgiana to uncover all of your secrets!”
Haldon Manor
Near the ancient oak tree
Four days later
May 7, 1812
“Damn,” James muttered. “This is bad.”
Somehow from the moment James had heard that terrible noise several nights ago, he had known.
“Very bad.” Arthur nodded in agreement, twisting in his saddle to survey the damage.
“Very, very bad,” James repeated slowly, reaching down to pat Luther’s neck.
The ancient oak lay fragmented. Huge limbs shattered and jumbled across the meadow.
Its enormous girth had been neatly cleaved in two—sheered to the ground. As if carved into a steep canyon by a giant’s ax. The two halves of the trunk yawned apart.
With a sighing shake of his head, James dismounted and tethered Luther to a low tree branch, Arthur following suit. Picking their way through the wooden carnage, they walked slowly out into the meadow.
It was obvious they weren’t the first ones to have visited. Votive offerings dotted the meadow: a bottle of wine here, a beaded necklace there, several handkerchiefs and a shawl tied to branches. Gifts from the villagers, his own tenant farmers, all the hardworking folk from the county roundabout hoping to placate the witches who must have caused this dreadful mischief. The myths tied to the ancient oak were still strongly felt. Indeed, the legends were potent enough even the not-so-superstitious gave them heed.
Arthur sighed next to him, surveying the scattered offerings. “We are going to have to do something about this. The tenants take these ridiculous superstitions much too seriously.”
James grunted and wandered away from his brother, climbing over and under piles of tangled limbs. He stopped short of the trunk, his hands on his hips. There was nothing to be done. The tree was dead, though its still green leaves belied this reality, bobbing in the breeze as they lay sideways on the ground. They would wither soon enough.
James took a few steps closer to the sheered trunk, wondering at the power of lightning that could have so neatly severed the tree in two. Charred cindery streaks contrasted sharply with the stark brightness of raw wood. Though sharply cut apart, the massive trunk towered over James, dwarfing him. He stopped just outside the large crevice.
Though the day was cool, the air suddenly turned heavy. Peering inside the deepest depths of the oak, he saw white and charred wood give way to darkness. The very base of the tree was somehow hollow. James stepped closer, trying to see into its depths. As he did, the air around him began to tingle, reminiscent of the electricity he had felt along the road.
He sensed a bit of a tug, some unseen force drawing him forward. Startled, James retreated several steps backward, his heart suddenly beating rapidly.
That was extremely weird. Odd. Almost uncomfortable.
He shook his head. Even he wasn’t immune to all the superstition around this ancient relic.
Hearing Arthur come up behind him, James turned, surveying the meadow. “The villagers are obviously concerned. Perhaps we should chat with Auntie Gray. She might be able to help put this into some sort of perspective for everyone.”
Arthur snorted. “You do realize she is the reason so many firmly believe in the old legends. Without her stories and knowledge of the ancient ways, most of this nonsense would just die out.”
“True,” James said, pulling off his hat to run a hand through his hair. “But she understands better than anyone the ramifications of this. And despite her understanding of ancient ways, she is a sensible, rational woman.” Arthur nodded slowly and then turned with a grimace back toward their horses.
Following his brother, James caught a gleam from underneath the tangled branches to the left of the trunk. Squinting into the brush, he crouched down to get a better look. Something was in there, nestled in a little hollow on the ground, sheltered from the elements. It was too hidden to be an offering. It looked to be a satchel or bag of some sort. A poachers pouch, perhaps? James braced his hand against a nearby branch and reached in until he felt the smooth leather against his palm. Grasping the bag, he pulled it out.
The bag was different from any he had ever seen. Rectangular and made of a reddish, soft leather, it had a strange clasp on one side. Or at least what James assumed was the clasp. It was all intricate metal work and interlaced straps. Perhaps some gypsy-made piece accidentally left here.
“What do you have?” Arthur asked.
“I have no idea,” James answered, handing him the bag. Arthur turned it over in his hands, puzzling at the odd clasp. “Probably belongs to someone who brought an offering.”
“Or a poacher trespassing on our land,” Arthur grumbled.
James cocked an eyebrow in acknowledgment. “I’ll give it to Howard. He might know who the owner is.” Howard, the gamekeeper at Haldon Manor, knew just about everyone and everything. Arthur grunted and handed the bag back to him, turning away.
Retrieving their horses, James wrapped the purse around his saddle as he mounted.
“Have you given more thought about what to do with Emma?” Arthur asked as they nudged their horses back toward the house.
“You mean in the hour since you last asked the question?” James countered, trying to tamp down his irritation.
Arthur clenched his jaw slightly.
“It has been a week and no one has missed her or inquired after her. Does that not strike you as odd?”
“As I promised, I have sent out a few local inquiries.”
“Which have yielded nothing.”
“What precisely are you saying, Arthur?”
“That I still feel there is only one good explanation for her presence upon our lane late at night in a blinding storm. Someone driving through Marfield must have cast her out.”
James snorted. “That is hardly the only possible reason.”
“Then what else, James? What respectable explanation do you propose?”
“She could have been part of a traveling party set upon by highwaymen. She could have wandered from an estate in the neighboring county. There could have been a carriage accident, and we just haven’t found the wreckage yet. There are any number of plausible explanations. It is absurd to assume because we don’t know how she arrived here, she must therefore be a woman of loose morals. It is logic of the most ridiculous kind—”
“Come now, James!”
“—if one could even call such reasoning logic!”
Arthur rode for a few moments in stony silence, obviously trying to reign in his temper.
James loved his brother but knew Arthur would be relentless. He would pick and pester until he got his wish, relying on James’ good nature to give way. But for once, James felt almost inexplicably obstinate. Emma was harming no one, and she was quickly becoming a much needed friend for Georgiana.
“Why?” Arthur finally asked. “Why do you persist in defending her?”
James sighed inwardly. Part of him wondered the same thing. He was at a loss to explain the relentless pull he felt toward her.
Arthur misunderstood his silence.
“Or is there something more about her you would like to tell me?” Arthur asked, his voice taut.
“Again with your sordid implications. Truly, Arthur—”
“That locket of hers is too much of a coincidence to be—”
“Enough!” James interrupted, giving his brother his most icy stare. “To suggest I would keep such information from you, from Georgiana, from Emma herself. . . . It is . . . revolting. Painfully wrong. Why would I lie? Truthfully, I am heartily tired of defending myself against that damning locket.”
“Even you must admit that—”
“Leave it be, Arthur! I am not the man in that locket. I will not repeat myself again.”
They rode in silence for a few moments. A silence that James knew wouldn’t last.
“We should turn her over to the vicar or even the poor house until someone comes to claim her.”
James let out an exasperated sigh. Why couldn’t Arthur let this go?
“Arthur, I am done with this conversation. Really and truly done.”
Arthur apparently was not.
“You do not understand how her presence is affecting us all. Linwood is horrified that you have allowed her to stay here for so long.”
“Linwood?!” James exclaimed and then paused, controlling his temper. “I honestly don’t know what appalls me more. The fact that you discuss these matters with Linwood or that Timothy feels compelled to insert himself into them. He has no business offering an opinion about whom I allow to reside under my own roof.”
“Timothy cares because there is the potential for an alliance between our families.”
“An alliance he has so far rejected, might I point out.”
Arthur wisely ignored the jab. “We cannot sit here and do nothing about this situation. We should at least send out more inquiries, perhaps even involve some of our contacts in Bristol and London. If she truly is respectable, as you assert, then someone somewhere will have missed her.”
James nodded grudgingly. Arthur did have a point there. “If I agree to send out further inquiries, will you stop your incessant pestering?”
James captured and held Arthur’s eye until his brother curtly nodded.
“I believe Ethan knows people, men that he fought with in France who worked with intelligence gathering. I will ask him about it. And perhaps Sir Henry will have suggestions as well. I believe we are to dine there tomorrow evening. Will that satisfy you?”
Arthur grunted in assent.
Arriving back at Haldon Manor, James tossed Luther’s reins to a groom who came striding out from the stable to greet them. He grabbed the odd bag off the saddle and headed toward the house.
Glancing to his left, he caught a glimpse of dark curly hair and the flutter of a skirt disappearing into the old walled garden. He decided not to analyze why his heart instantly beat faster at the sight, why his mood suddenly lightened. He immediately walked toward the garden, determined to follow Miss Emma.
Realizing he still held the lost bag in his hand, James quickly diverted to the house, taking the wide steps of the back terrace two at a time. Stepping through french doors into the drawing room, James gestured to a passing footman and handed him the purse.
“Put this into the left side drawer of my private desk, please.”
“Yes sir.” The footman bobbed his head in acknowledgment, holding the bag firmly.
Turning, James walked briskly back out the doors and took the steps in three large leaps down, half jogging to intercept their lovely guest. The purse already forgotten.
Chapter 13
Haldon Manor
In the walled garden
May 7, 1812
Emme breathed in the fresh spring air, reveling in the warm sun against her face. How wonderful it was to be out of her small room. The walled garden had beckoned her along its gravel paths, riotous clumps of blooms and greenery drawing her in.
She had awakened that morning to Fanny bringing in dress after dress, hanging them in her armoire. Georgiana trailed behind, explaining she had far too many dresses from her three Seasons in London and insisted on lending some to Emme.
“Besides,” Georgiana laughed, bouncing slightly as she sat on Emme’s bed. “You are so thin. The dresses fit you without needing any alteration. I often find my too slim figure somewhat embarrassing. Do you feel the same?”
Again with the no filters, Alter Emme murmured. I don’t think you can ask another woman that.
“I honestly don’t know. Should I be embarrassed?”
Georgiana shrugged. “No, I suppose not. But I wonder if you haven’t been ill too.”
“Well, I feel fine and have recovered quite quickly—”
“Perhaps,” Georgiana interrupted, “you were so ill with fever that you went out of your mind and wandered into the night. And there you were, at death’s door, soaked through and clinging to the tree. And then James found you.”
Emme sighed. Georgiana kept coming up with possible explanations for her past. Of course, each scenario ended with how romantic it had been for James to find her along their lane. Which was really not helping Emme’s peace of mind. She had no intention of thinking of Mr. Knight as anything other than her kind host. It was too dangerous to her fragile emotional stability.
“Again, that seems somewhat unlikely given that I had no fever after Mr. Knight found me.” Emme kept trying to gently rein Georgiana in without much success.
“True,” Georgiana said, tapping her lips, lost in thought. And then she gasped, something occurring to her. “Do you suppose you were living with a wicked uncle?”
Emme merely laughed, shaking her head.
Fanny dressed Emme in a pale pink, muslin gown that Georgiana called a morning dress, its empire waist tight around her ribcage, her bobbed hair pulled back with a wide ribbon, a few curls left forward to gently frame her face. Georgiana sent her outside with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, just in case a “cool breeze disturbed the warm spring air.” It all seemed perfectly normal and yet not. The dress was lovely but its long skirts felt odd against her legs. Everything seemed slightly off. Even the sky seemed too blue, like it was the bluest sky she had ever seen.
Walking through the enclosed garden, Emme took a deep breath, loving the mingled scent of wildflowers and herbs. Moss and grass grew out of its walled crevices. Lush and well-cared for, the garden welcomed her. Against the far wall, she could see aged gothic arches overgrown with ivy. And again, she felt that
vague sense of knowing. Like she had been here before and yet not.
It was utterly maddening.
Emme continued along the path, focusing on the sound of gravel crunching beneath her feet.
“Miss Emma!” A voice called.
Startled, Emme turned to see Mr. Knight striding toward her, a welcoming smile on his lips.
Again, the disorientation hit her, everything feeling agonizingly familiar. That she knew him. That he was right.
He was dressed in what she recognized as riding clothes: tan buckskins disappearing into knee high boots, green wool coat with a loosely tied cravat, all covered by a large gray-brown overcoat that hugged his shoulders and then fell straight practically to his ankles, moving loosely as he walked, his stride lanky. The walk of a man comfortable with his body. With himself.
She suppressed, yet again, that little flip of her heart.
Such eye-candy, Alter Emme swooned. Delicious eye-candy.
Emme ignored that. Seriously. Her alter voice was not helping.
He tipped his hat and bowed his head slightly in greeting as he stopped in front of her.
“Miss Emma.” His wide crinkly smile did funny things to Emme’s breathing. “How delighted I am to see you out and about! How are you feeling today?”
“Well, thank you,” Emme answered, fighting to keep her own smile more politely serene and less school-girl infatuated silly.
She also refused to make any mental comparisons between his intense blue eyes and an ice blue winter sky. Refused to notice how broad his shoulders looked in his overcoat. Refused to think about the glimpses she had seen of a clever wit and accepting open nature.
No. She was determined not to notice such things.
Emme had given herself a stern talking to regarding Mr. Knight the previous evening. Yes, he was charming and kind and funny.
Don’t forget all that divinely mussed hair, Alter Emme had not-so-helpfully chimed in.
He had rescued her, given her shelter and, even more, extended his kindness, for which she was eternally grateful.