Ruined Reputations

by Lela Bay

  Aunt Prue collected Catherine’s empty box and tissue paper and took it into the other room, calling. “I suppose we’ll have to allow him to visit, now. It would have been difficult to deny him any longer. He is the younger son of a peer, after all. I’m quite relieved. It’s a civilized apology.”

  Catherine swirled, hands cradling the ribbons of her bonnet to the regal curve of her chin. She grabbed Emmaline by the elbow and dragged her to the sunny rose salon, sliding the door shut behind her. “It’s the one I’ve been positively craving. How did he know? Did you tell him, you naughty thing?”

  Emmaline smiled fondly. “Not I, darling. You look absolutely smashing.”

  “Did you look in the box? There’s a whole collection of lace and trimmings I can add. It’s quite an apology. And the card!” Catherine swooned backward onto the settee, placing an arm dramatically to her forehead.

  “Card?” Emmaline hadn’t seen him write it out. He must have added the trimmings and penned the card when he paid.

  Catherine glanced at the door, still reclining in dramatic heroine fashion, and reached into the lace trim at the neckline of her muslin gown. She lifted an ivory card and read from it.

  “Miss Connersfield, please forgive my clumsy admiration. You need no enhancement, but I would feel privileged if you would wear this adornment. Yours, The Honorable Mr. Aarons.”

  Emmaline’s smile trembled on her lips. Yes, indeed. Mr. Aarons compliments rang with sincerity. She had underestimated him. Hearing his words from Catherine’s lips, she realized how little she knew of the man, and how much she’d attributed without evidence.

  She removed the pin from her hair and dragged off her simple hat. The feather tickled her chin. She clutched it to her chest, uncertain whether she meant to chuck it into the fireplace or intern it by her bedside.

  Catherine sat up, “Darling, you look pale. Are you quite the thing?”

  Words failed Emmaline, and she shook her head.

  Catherine rushed to her side, hat forgotten on the cushion, and ushered Emmaline to an armchair and crouched before her.

  Ashamed, Emmaline pressed her fingers over her lips. Just the day before she’d observed how she’d never pined for someone. Aching somewhere deep in her stomach, she remembered her glibness. The strength of her emotion made the person she’d been before seem childish and ignorant. Longing remade her.

  Catherine bent her head to see Emmaline’s expression.

  Brought back by the concern on her cousin’s face, Emmaline restrained her emotions and took a calming breath.

  Catherine sat back on her heels. “Indeed.”

  Aunt Prue bustled in, silencing Catherine’s questions, but not her curiosity.

  Emmaline rolled her eyes, promising answers later. Her foolishness had rattled them both, but she knew the perfect thing to reacquire composure. With Aunt’s permission, she rose and rang the bell for tea.

  Emmaline and Catherine straightened the room, set bonnets side-by-side on an end table, and placed hands in their laps as the tea tray was delivered. Catherine served, silent and watchful as she poured and added two lumps to Emmaline’s porcelain cup.

  Spoons clicked and settled into saucers. They sipped. After a bit of chatter, Aunt settled back against the cushions with a sigh and stared out the window.

  Catherine could contain her curiosity no further. Emmaline braced herself.

  “All this over—” Catherine glanced at her mother and then inclined her head, drawing Emmaline’s attention toward the card and bonnets, “All this over a hat?”

  Emmaline looked at her lap, finding her tea needed additional stirring.

  “This cup is dirty,” Aunt Prue complained.

  “The shop boy who made delivery mentioned your visit. Did you enjoy shopping?” Catherine asked with a clenched smile. Aunt Prue rustled and settled deeper into her armchair, listening nonetheless.

  “I did. Very much,” choked Emmaline.

  “And you like your new hat?” Catherine widened her eyes significantly.

  “More than any hat I’ve seen before,” Emmaline agreed sadly.

  As her mother accepted a clean teacup from the maid and moved to pour from the painted teapot, Catherine leaned toward Emmaline. “Perhaps the hat isn’t as accommodating, as agreeable, as you once thought? A hat can be flattering in the shop, but take on a different countenance at home.”

  A smothered laugh bubbled past uncertainty to burst from Emmaline in a small squeak. “Really, Catherine,” she whispered, “Soon we’ll be talking about what the hat had for tea.”

  Catherine relaxed, no doubt sensing Emmaline returning to her usual amiable self. “Did you and the hat take tea? How intriguing.”

  “What’s this?” asked Aunt Prue.

  “Indeed, we did. Mr. Aarons even joined us.” Emmaline said in normal tones. “I do not know whether I will wear the hat again. It makes me feel obvious and awkward. Perhaps I like it too well.”

  Aunt Prue eyed the hats where they sat side-by-side. She huffed doubtfully. “It’s not that nice.”

  Catherine finished her tea with a quick gulp and rose. “Well, after consideration, I don’t care for mine at all.”

  Emmaline appreciated her cousin’s stout friendship. “No, you should enjoy it. It is, after all, only a silly hat and nothing more significant. Please.”

  “It would be a shame to blame a hat for one man’s peccadillos,” Aunt Prue added, silencing the girls, who could not be certain she was as oblivious as they liked to think. Aunt Prue was shrewd when it came to mothering them.

  Catherine collected both their bonnets and left for upstairs. Emmaline finished tea with her aunt, sharing small anecdotes of the day. She even laughed, describing the sad state of her sodden bonnet.

  At the back of her mind, she wondered how to act when Mr. Aarons came calling.

  Chapter 4

  A week passed without word from Mr. Aarons. He did not call.

  Emmaline maintained cheerfulness even so, at least in front of Catherine and her parents, but gloomy weather gave a welcome excuse to retire to bed early.

  Emmaline snuggled beneath her bedclothes, more listless than tired.

  By the glow of her banked fire she spotted the box with her old hat. A quick dash across the cold floor and Emmaline seized it before scrambling back into bed, pulling her nightgown down her bent knees and yanking the covers up. She considered the closed box top without conscious thought, eyes unfocused as she turned inward.

  In the long intervening days since the milliner’s shop she’d come to remember her outburst in front of Catherine with shame. So much weight to place on a chance meeting. So much wasted emotion when nothing could come of it. She wouldn’t even see Mr. Aarons again, or if she did, it would be as a neighbor passing on the road. He had not been at church that weekend. The mayor’s daughter said he was traveling.

  Emmaline resolved to place events behind her.

  She had helped him shop, and in gratitude he’d taken her to tea. For that, she’d flown into a tizzy?

  Given time, her sharp feelings would bleed into watercolor beauty, too vague to hurt. It would become a story one talked about with amazement, like a holiday trip outside ordinary life. Nothing that would happen again or be relevant to her life’s course.

  The firm shake of her head rattled the rags tying down her curls. She tugged the twine on the box. Her old hat should have been taken out and dried immediately. Anticipating the musty smell of damp, moldy straw, her nose wrinkled. Fortunately, Mrs. Lohan had packed tissue papers within and around the hat to draw away moisture. Her hat seemed little the worse for wear. She lifted it, thinking she’d need a new ribbon, for this one’s stripes had bled. Beneath, a treasure-trove of fittings shimmered.

  Eyes wide, Emmaline set the hat beside her. The sharp angle of her knees sent items cascading to the downward corner of the box. She shoved tissue paper aside and recognized a feather, a scarab beetle, and a wide ribbon. Each one she’d touched when she’d entered
the shop. Had he watched her, remembered, and selected them? Or had Mrs. Lohan guided him? Somehow, she did not see the shopkeeper’s hand in the glossy green-black beetle medallion and lack of lace.

  And there, along the side of the box, lay a cream-colored envelope.

  From somewhere came the strange notion not to open it. She’d gone this long ignorant of its presence. Who could claim with certainty that she had opened the Pandora’s box this stormy night? She could replace the box top, tie up the twine, and leave matters well enough alone. Hadn’t she learned to accept her lot in life? Coming to stay with the Connersfield family had presented challenges, but she’d seen the truth of matters. She’d never have Catherine’s prospects, she’d admit without bitterness, for she’d risen above her station by their connection. To hope for more…

  Emmaline bit her lip. To hope for more was to be human. The world might limit her, as a woman not rising from a prosperous family, but it would be wrong to cut herself off from the possibility of more. Gratitude did not require that, surely.

  The world might punish her, but she would not punish herself pre-emptively. That path led to lonely bitterness. In the last week, she’d stewed over their moments together, seeking a clue to his feelings. Here was a bit of new evidence.

  Emmaline tapped the unopened envelope on the back of her hand once and ripped it open.

  Monday morning

  Miss Emmaline Connersfield,

  I am grateful my quest led to you.

  The Honorable Mr. Aarons

  Beneath the terse words he’d scrawled a sweeping feather. She puzzled over it, by turns finding it encouraging and discouraging. It didn’t compare to Catherine’s note, but then again it had the disarming taste of something written just for her, not a form filled in by politeness learned in the nursery from a stern nanny. It wasn’t as pretty as Catherine’s, but she could imagine him saying it with warmth in his emerald eyes.

  Still unresolved, she fell asleep with the card somehow coming to be tucked beneath her pillow.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning the ladies remained indoors to avoid the storm that continued to darken the sky and toss the fitful tops of trees. A last breath of winter fought spring, bound to lose but making an effort just the same to send blades of icy rain against the eaves.

  Uncle joined them in the sitting room, waving his hands before the warm fire and enjoying the girls’ surprise. He rolled his eyes and chuckled to himself, obviously pleased.

  Aunt rose to her feet. “You’re looking like the cat who caught the canary.”

  “Indeed. If you’re done sitting about, we can gather up. We’ve had an invite, you see.”

  They waited, indulging his bit of showmanship.

  Tucking thumbs beneath lapels, Uncle swaggered to the door. “It’s an invite to the country property of Viscount Durrant. He’s in residence. Now, get on with you.”

  The girls and their aunt scrambled to oblige. In short order, they’d spruced their hair and added outerwear. Emmaline debated wearing nankeen half-boots due to the rough weather, but opted for a pair of delicate kid slippers that matched her emerald green ribbons, simply hoping the passage from carriage to house would be short.

  As they boarded, the ladies did not ask many questions about their invitation or the Viscount, whom they’d never met and, to the best of their knowledge, neither had Uncle. They’d been reprimanded in the past for what Mr. Connersfield called their endless nattering. To slake their curiosity, Catherine and Aunt hung by the carriage windows for a first glimpse of the estate.

  Emmaline also asked no questions, afraid words would betray her. She had heard nothing from Mr. Aarons for a week and a day. If she was not mistaken, Mr. Aarons had numbered Viscount Durrant among his friends. The coincidence was too much not to remark on, so she made no remarks at all.

  The grounds were green and manicured. Hedges swept back from the drive and opened onto a courtyard with the large manor framed by outbuildings and roads leading deeper into the estate. Despite the damp air, servants in livery and powder waited to accept the horses and assist the ladies. Emmaline tried not to gape.

  They were greeted by the Viscount, a young man with jet-black hair and a warm smile. He welcomed her family with an all-encompassing sweep of his arms that invited them to make themselves at home. If Emmaline did not imagine it, he gave her particular attention as he touched her fingertips in greeting and suggested she might like to see the library.

  As if in a dream, Emmaline diverted from the group and crossed a hallway. She barely noted the line of portraits. When she reached the double-doors of the library, she pushed them open with a nudge. Mr. Aarons waited within, just as she’d known he would. He wore a green coat with tails, and stood with arms crossed behind his back.

  She smiled, wanting to tease his proper posture.

  The warmth of her smile seemed to free him. He stepped forward studying her face and looking the slightest bit disappointed. “I’d hoped to surprise you.”

  Emmaline laughed, for there was nothing serious or dismal in all the world. “I recognized Viscount Durrant’s name. I recall everything you said to me.”

  He had come for her, rather cleverly. Uncle could never have turned down such an invitation.

  She waited for him to admit his purpose, but he glanced away from her and cleared his throat. He did not attempt to take her hands, keeping both his rigidly hidden behind his back. “Did you know the Viscount is also an admirer of birds?”

  She licked her lips, wondering whether she’d gotten it wrong. He was more remote than at their first meeting. Why did men have to be so puzzling, she thought and nearly scowled.

  “I did not know that,” Emmaline admitted. “For we have never met. I am not on intimate terms with his circle of friends.”

  He did not rush to reassure her of the strength of her connection through him, and she felt a bit ashamed to have invited it. She looked away, wishing for Catherine’s confidence.

  Mr. Aarons turned to walk beside her, urging her before him into the hallway. Further along, they came to a small servant’s door which opened to a cold courtyard behind the house. The storm had ceased, leaving shimmering puddles behind.

  Mr. Aarons stood aside so she might pass through the door.

  Despite her irritation, Emmaline admired his masculine profile. Gold glinted in his long eyelashes.

  “Oh yes,” Mr. Aarons breathed deeply of the outdoors and relaxed, resuming their conversation. “Durrant conducts birdwatching expeditions.”

  A sound of scrabbling, like nails scraping wood, rattled behind his back. Emmaline halted, startled, but he gently urged her along and would not give in no matter how she craned her neck to see what he must be holding in his hands behind the tails of his coat.

  Giving up, she focused on stepping in the least damp spots, and only when they slowed did her eyes rise and widen with surprised. Before them glowed a glass house. Raindrops glistened along the peaked roofline. If it were a greenhouse like she’d read about, sometimes used by horticulturalists and nurseries for pineapples and winter roses, it was larger than anything she’d imagined.

  Mr. Aarons grinned when her still-amazed eyes met his. “So, some surprises still work on you.”

  He brought his hands forward, sheltering beneath one arm what she now perceived was a small wooden crate. With the other, he pushed open the door to the glass house.

  Hot and humid air washed across her skin. His hand pressed the small of her back. She dashed inside. They let out very little of the controlled enclosure’s heated air. It took a stunned moment for Emmaline to take in the wafting tropical foliage. Her ears, more than her eyes, revealed the life contained within. Screeches and tweets filled the air with a cacophony of joy. Feathered wings fluttered overhead. Colorful avian bodies lined trees and twigs. She turned in circles at each new call, gradually spotting individual birds.

  “Indeed, sir, my surprise has never been greater,” said Emmaline after her heartbeat settled
and she’d taken her fill of the lush life surrounding her. Small braziers in outer buildings ensured the greenhouse remained warm in even the coldest weather. No mere rose gardener, Viscount Durrant had imported a tropical environment for his feathered friends.

  “Did you acquire these for him?” she asked at last.

  “Some, I did.” Mr. Aarons stood close beside her, hardly gazing at the birds he’d hunted. “But I made a mistake. I did not account for the fellowship some animals need. I told you, sometimes I do not know what is important.”

  She remembered he’d said it. At the time, he hadn’t been talking about birds. She wasn’t sure he was now, either. His hand rose and caught a curl by her temple that had sprung up in the humidity. He eased it behind her ear.

  “Would you like to do the honors?”

  “The honors?” She stood mesmerized by his green eyes. The dimple that had flirted with her appeared and stayed.

  He pressed the box into her hands. Thankfully, he kept his grip, because the box rocked and the scrabbling sound resumed. Unprepared, she’d have dropped it.

  “You found a living bird?” she asked, astonished and a little appalled. “They had a captive bird?”

  “One of a pair. A corrupt seaman stole it away,” he admitted ruefully. “It took some tracking down. The shop had gotten a few tail feathers he’d shed, but it took two more stops to track down the owner and convince him to release the bird into my care. I may have rushed the fellow, but I was in a hurry to return.”

  Emmaline saw the determination in his eyes and a grim scowl as he thought back, and realized his soft looks and warm dimple weren’t reserved for everyone. Maybe even just for her.

  A familiar, mournful call sounded from the box pressed to her bosom. Amazed that he’d gifted her this moment, she pressed her fingers to the lid.

  Mr. Aarons pulled a small crowbar from his coat, pried, and stepped back.