Startled, Emma tilted her head back and looked up into the face of Sir David Marton. Her rescuer.
He looked back at her, unsmiling, his face as expressionless as if it was carved from marble. He appeared no older than when they last met, his features as sharply chiselled and handsome as ever, his eyes the same pale, piercing grey behind his spectacles. His skin seemed a bit bronzed, as if he spent a great deal of time outdoors, which gave him the appearance of vigorous good health quite different from the night-dwelling pallor of Henry and his friends.
David Marton looked—good. No, better than good. Dangerously handsome.
Yet there was something different about him now. Something harder, colder, even more distant, in a man who had always seemed cautious and watchful.
But Jane had said he too had had his trials these last few years. A lost wife. Surely they were all older and harder than they once were?
His face was expressionless as he looked down at her, as if he caught falling damsels every day and barely recognised her. How could this man make her feel so unsure, yet still want to be near him? Made her want to know more about what went on behind his infuriatingly inscrutable expression?
Suddenly Emma realised he still held her in his arms, as easily and lightly as if she was no more than a feather. And her arms were wrapped around his shoulders as they stared at each other in heavy, tight silence.
He seemed to realise it at the same moment, for he slowly lowered her to her feet. She swayed dizzily and his hand on her arm kept her steady.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Emma said, trying to laugh as if the whole thing was just a joke. That was the only way she had ever found to deal with Henry and his friends, by never letting them see her real feelings. ‘That was terribly clumsy of me.’
‘Not at all,’ he answered. He still watched her and Emma wished with all her might she could read his thoughts even as she hid hers. With Henry’s friends, who had tried to flirt with her or drunkenly lure her to their beds, she had always known what they were thinking and could easily brush them off. They were like primers for children once she learned their ways.
David Marton, on the other hand, was a sonnet in Latin, complicated and inscrutable and maddening.
‘I fear I startled you,’ he said, ‘and these ladders are much too precarious for you to be scurrying along.’
Emma laughed, for real this time. So Sir David hadn’t entirely changed; she remembered this protective quality within his watchfulness before. Like a medieval knight. ‘Oh, I’ve been in much more precarious spots before.’
A smile finally touched his lips, just a hint at the very corners, but Emma was ridiculously glad to see it. She wondered whimsically what it would take to get a real smile from him.
‘I’m sure you have,’ he said.
‘But I haven’t been lucky enough to have anyone there to catch me until today.’
And finally there it was, a smile. It was quickly gone, but was assuredly real. To Emma’s fascinated astonishment, she glimpsed a dimple set low in his sculpted cheek.
No man should really be allowed to be so good looking. Especially one as cool and distant as Sir David Marton.
‘It’s good to see you at home again, Miss Bancroft,’ he said.
‘Ah, but she is Mrs Carrington now, Sir David,’ Mr Lorne said, sharply reminding Emma that she wasn’t actually alone with David Marton.
She quickly stepped back from his steadying hand. The warmth of his touch lingered on her arm through her sleeve and she rubbed her hand over it.
‘Indeed she is,’ Sir David said, his smile vanishing behind his usual polite mask. ‘Forgive me, Mrs Carrington. And please accept my condolences on your loss.’
Emma nodded. She was so disappointed to lose that rare glimpse of another David and be right back to distant, commonplace words. Or maybe she had only imagined that glimpse in the first place. Maybe this really was the true David Marton.
‘And I am sorry for your loss as well, Sir David,’ she said. ‘My sister told me about your wife. I remember Lady Marton, she was very beautiful.’
‘You knew my mother?’ a little voice suddenly said.
Startled, Emma turned to see a tiny girl standing beside Mr Lorne’s desk. She was possibly the prettiest child Emma had ever seen, with a porcelain-pale face and red-gold waves of hair peeking from beneath a very stylish straw bonnet. She was very still, very proper, and if her demeanour hadn’t convinced Emma this was Sir David’s daughter her grey eyes would have.
Emma walked toward her slowly. She was never entirely sure how to behave toward small children. The only ones she really knew were William and Eleanor, and the rambunctious twins seemed as different from this girl as it was possible to be. Once, when she first married Henry, she’d longed for a child of her own. But later, when she saw his true nature, she knew it was a blessing she had never had a baby.
Yet this girl drew Emma to her by her very stillness. ‘Yes, I knew her, though not very well, I’m afraid. I saw her at dances and parties, and she was always the prettiest lady there. Just as I suspect you will be one day.’
The little girl bit her lip. ‘I’m not sure I would want to be.’
Sir David hurried over to lay his hand protectively on the girl’s shoulder. ‘Mrs Carrington, may I present my daughter, Miss Beatrice Marton? Bea, this is Mrs Carrington. She’s Lady Ramsay’s sister from Barton Park.’
Miss Beatrice dropped a perfect little curtsy. ‘How do you do, Mrs Carrington? I’m very sorry we haven’t seen you at Barton Park before. I like it when we visit there.’
Emma gave her a smile. There was something about the child, something so sad and still, that made her want to give her a hug. But she was sure the preternaturally polite Miss Beatrice Marton would be appalled by such a move.
Much like her father.
‘I’ve been living abroad and have only just returned to Barton,’ Emma said. ‘I fear my sister and her family have gone to London for a while, but you may call on me any time you like, Miss Marton. I am quite lonely there by myself.’
‘So what brings you to my shop today, Sir David?’ Mr Lorne interrupted. ‘Has your uncle, Mr Sansom, finally decided to sell me his library?’
‘I’ve just come to find Beatrice a new book. She’s already read the last ones you sent to Rose Hill,’ David said. ‘As for my uncle, you would have to ask him yourself. I fear he never leaves his estate now, though you are certainly quite right—his library is exceedingly fine.’
‘Such a pity.’ Mr Lorne sighed. ‘I am quite sure I would find buyers for his volumes right away. Books should have loving homes.’
As Mr Lorne and Sir David talked about the library, Emma watched Beatrice sort through stacks of volumes on the floor. She came back not with children’s picture books, but with titles like The Environs of Venice and A Voyage Through the Lands of India.
‘Do you wish to travel yourself, Miss Marton?’ Emma asked, quite sure such volumes should be too weighty for such a little girl.
Beatrice shook her head, hiding shyly behind the brim of her bonnet. ‘I like to stay at home the best. But I like looking at the pictures of other places and when Papa reads me the stories. It’s like getting to be somewhere else without actually having to leave.’
‘Yes, that’s exactly what books are,’ Emma said. ‘Like trying on a different life.’
‘Have you been to these places, Mrs Carrington?’
‘A few of them.’
Beatrice hesitated for a moment, then said quickly, ‘Perhaps you would tell me about them one day?’
Emma’s heart ached at the girl’s shy words. She heard so much in them that she tried to hide in herself: that uncertainty, that need for life, but the fear of it at the same time. ‘I would enjoy that very much, Miss Marton.’
‘Beatrice, we should be going
soon,’ Sir David said. ‘Have you found something you like?’
Once everyone’s purchases were paid for, Emma left the shop with Sir David and his daughter. As it was nearing teatime, the street was not as crowded and there was no one to stare at her. But she did notice Mrs Browning, the old widow who lived in the cottage across the street, peering at her through the lace curtains at her windows. Mrs Browning had always known everything that happened in the village.
‘Did you bring your carriage from Barton, Mrs Carrington?’ Sir David asked.
‘No, I walked. The exercise was quite nice after the last few rainy days.’
‘But it looks as if it might rain again,’ he said. ‘Let us drive you back.’
Against her will, Emma was very tempted. Her old intrigue with Sir David Marton, formed when she was no more than a naïve young girl, was still there, stronger than ever. When she looked into his beautiful, inscrutable grey eyes, there was so much she wanted to know. If she did sit beside him on a narrow carriage seat, all the way back to Barton, surely he could not always maintain his maddening mystery?
Yet she was no longer that girl. She had seen far more of the world than her old, curious self could ever have wanted. And she knew that men like Sir David—respectable, attractive—could not be for her. No matter how tempted she might be.
She saw the curtains twitch at the house across the street again and could almost feel the burn of avid eyes. In the cosmopolitan, sophisticated environs of Continental spa towns, where everyone was escaping from something and no one was what they appeared, she had forgotten what it was like to live in a place where everyone knew everyone else’s business. Where they knew one’s family—and one’s past.
Emma had vowed to atone, both for the sake of herself and especially for Jane and her family. She couldn’t let her sister come home to Barton to find fresh gossip, which was surely what would happen if she drove off now with the eligible David Marton. Nor did she want Sir David and his lovely little daughter to face that, only because he was being polite.
And she knew politeness could surely be all it was for him.
The curtain twitched again.
‘You are so kind, Sir David,’ she said. ‘But I do enjoy the walk.’
‘Just as you like, Mrs Carrington,’ he said, still so polite. He put on his hat and the shadow of its brim hid him from her even more than he had been before. ‘I hope we shall see you more often, since you have returned home.’
‘Perhaps so,’ Emma answered carefully. ‘It was good to see you again, Sir David, and know that you are well. And very good to meet you, Miss Marton. I always love meeting other great readers.’
Little Miss Beatrice gave another of her perfect curtsies before she took her father’s hand and the two of them made their way down the lane. Once they were gone from sight, the curtain fell back into place and Emma was alone on the path.
She looked up and down the street, suddenly feeling lost and rather lonely. She’d grown rather used to such a feeling with Henry. After all, he usually left her in their lodgings while he went off to find a card game. But even there she could usually find a few people to talk to, or a task to set herself. Here, she wasn’t sure what she should do.
And being with David Marton made her feel all the more alone, now that he was gone.
She glanced back at the window of the bookshop behind her, at its dusty glass and empty display shelves. Like her, it seemed to be waiting for something to fill it. Suddenly a thought struck her, as improbable as it was exciting.
Maybe, just maybe, there was a way she could find her path back into the life of this place once more. A way she could redeem herself.
She spun around and pushed open the door, moving resolutely inside. Mr Lorne, who was bent over an open volume, looked up with wide, startled eyes under his bushy grey brows.
‘Mr Lorne,’ Emma blurted before she could change her mind. ‘How much might you ask as the purchase price for your shop?’
* * *
‘Mrs Carrington is very pretty.’
David glanced down at Bea, startled by the sudden sound of her little voice. She’d said nothing at all since they left the village, the empty road and thick hedgerows rolling past peacefully on the way back to Rose Hill.
In truth, he himself had not been in a talking mood. Not since his last glimpse of Emma Bancroft—no, Emma Carrington—standing alone outside the bookshop. David had always lived his life in a rational way—he had to, if his estate and his family, especially his daughter, were to be safely looked after. But when he held Emma Carrington in his arms, felt her body against his, he hadn’t felt in the least bit rational.
He felt like a sizzling, burning bolt of white-hot lightning had shot through him, sudden and shocking and just as unwelcome.
He remembered what a pretty young lady she had been before she left Barton Park and he married Maude. Her green eyes had been as bright and full of life as a spring day and she had always seemed just on the cusp of dashing off and leaping into whatever caught her attention. Her life since then more than fulfilled that promise of reckless trouble.
And now she was back, startlingly beautiful. Her pretty girl’s face had matured into its high cheekbones and large eyes, and her black clothes only set off her golden hair and glowing skin. The high collar and dull silk couldn’t even begin to hide the slender grace of her body.
The body he had held so close—and hadn’t wanted to let go.
David’s gloved hands tightened on the reins, causing the horses to go faster. He shook his head to clear it of thoughts he shouldn’t even be having and brought himself back to where he should be. In the present moment, in the full knowledge of who he was and the responsibility he had.
‘Don’t you think so, Papa?’ Bea said.
David smiled down at her. She looked up at him from beneath the beribboned edge of her bonnet, and for the first time in a long while there was a spark of real interest in her eyes.
But it was an interest she should not have. David would never let a woman hurt his daughter as his wife had when she eloped. If he did marry again, which he knew one day he would have to, it would be to a lady as fully aware of her duty as he was, someone steady and quiet. That was the sort of woman Bea should like and want to emulate.
Unfortunately, it seemed to be the spirited Emma Carrington who sparked Bea’s interest. And his own, blast it all.
‘Isn’t Mrs Carrington pretty?’ Bea said again. She held up her doll and added, ‘Her hair is just the same colour as my doll’s.’
‘Yes.’ David had to agree, for really there was no denying it. Mrs Carrington was pretty. Too pretty. ‘But there are things more important than looks, you know, Bea.’
Beatrice frowned doubtfully. ‘That’s what Nanny says too. She says the goodness of my soul and the kindness of my manners are what I should mind.’
‘Nanny is very right.’
‘Then are you saying Mrs Carrington doesn’t have a good soul?’
David laughed. ‘You are too clever by half, my dear. And, no, that’s not what I’m saying. I have no idea what Mrs Carrington’s soul is like.’
‘But she is Lady Ramsay’s sister and Lady Ramsay is kind.’
‘Indeed she is.’
‘And Aunt Louisa says you should marry again.’
This was more than Bea had spoken at one time in many weeks, and for a moment David couldn’t decipher the quick, apparent changes in topic.
Then he realised, much to his alarm, that maybe they were all of one topic.
‘Perhaps one day I will marry again,’ he said carefully. ‘You should have a new mother and Rose Hill a mistress. But I am sure we have not met her yet.’
‘Aunt Louisa said Mrs Carrington’s husband died, just like Mama did.’
‘Yes. But Mrs Carrington isn’t ready
to marry again. And neither am I. We’re happy on our own for now, aren’t we, Bea?’ David felt a bolt of worry over his daughter’s sudden worry over his marital status. He had thought she was happy at Rose Hill, that once her mother’s death had receded into the past she wouldn’t be so quiet. He had thought his love and attention would see her through it all. What if he had been wrong?
‘Yes, Papa,’ Bea said quietly. She settled back on the seat and was silent for the rest of the drive home.
David could only hope she accepted his words and was truly content. Emma Carrington wasn’t the sort of lady who could ever fit into his vision of their future and he surely wasn’t the sort of person who could attract her. Not if her first marriage was her standard. He knew himself and he knew all of that very well.
Why, then, couldn’t he get the memory of her sparkling eyes out of his mind?
* * *
From the diary of Arabella Bancroft
I have met the most fascinating gentleman at the dinner tonight. His name is Sir William and he appears to have no estate yet, but the king favours him. I can see why. He is so very charming, and knows much about music and theatre and books. And most astonishing, he spent much time talking to me, despite my insignificance in such company. Indeed, he did not leave my side all evening and I did not wish him to.
He has asked to walk with me in the garden tomorrow...
Chapter Four
Miss Melanie Harding was quite, quite bored.
She sighed and propped her elbows on the windowsill as she stared down at the street below. It had surely been an hour since she sat down there and not more than ten people had gone by! None of them were at all interesting either. Why had her mother sent her off to this forsaken place? It was most unfair.
She glanced back over her shoulder at her uncle, who as usual sat snoring by the fire. That was all he ever seemed to do. And she had so hoped that the home of a retired admiral would at least be full of handsome officers. That was her only consolation when her mother declared she was sending Melanie off to stay with her uncle in a backwater village no one had ever heard of.
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