“My darling daughter, if you see this it will mean I never had the chance to speak these words myself. I haven’t much time now, but still I hope that my agents combing Spain and Portugal will find you and bring you home. Please, God, that I might see your face again and meet my grandson before I die.
If that is not to be, let me tell you now what I should have long ago. I was wrong, Auriana. Wrong to give in to my wrath and threaten to banish you for marrying against my wishes. Wrong not to admit the mistake and beg you to come home after you ran away.”
The words blurred and she had to wipe her eyes. She could hardly believe Papa, her stern unyielding Papa, was actually apologizing. Deep within the kernel of her decadeold anger, a child’s simple unquestioning love stirred. She raised the parchment again.
“Your dear mama, God rest her gentle soul, tried to tell me so, but in my arrogance I would not heed her. I was so sure you would relent, that the hardships you would experience following the drum would kill your joy in that hasty marriage and bring you back to me.
But we are so alike, are we not, my child? I should have known you would hold fast to your husband with the same tenacity that made you jump my stallion when you were barely big enough to throw a leg on him. The courage that, despite the arm you broke when you tumbled off, made you refuse to be carried back and insist on walking in to tell me about it yourself.
I should have known, after forcing your mama to break off communication and refusing your letters, you would believe my anger fierce enough to send you into hiding after your husband’s death.
Your absence now is the penance I pay. I can only hope that someday you will return and read this. Then you will know how much I loved and love you, how much I regret the years of privation my anger caused you. The years together of which I robbed us both.
I can make amends now for the first mistake only. And so I have, as you will discover if you but return.
Ah, my darling child…”
The note continued half a page longer, the characters so distorted she could no longer make them into words, then ended without a signature. Her father, she’d learned, had died a few hours after penning the note, nearly a year ago.
’Twas only then the realization struck her. All that time after Andrew’s death as she evaded the agents tracking her—’twas not her father-in-law, intent on wresting away her son. No, it had been Papa, desiring reconciliation. Wishing to bring her back home to wealth and comfort, to acknowledge her before the world as his beloved daughter and her Drew as his grandson.
His beloved and extremely wealthy daughter, as it turned out. The lawyers had contacted her last week, advising her they were in the last stages of confirming she was indeed the missing Lady Auriana Emilie Spenser Weston, daughter of the late Duke of Suffolk and widow of Lieutenant Andrew Waring-Black. Once they were sure, they would forward a letter held in trust for her from her father—as well as an extremely generous inheritance that would make her one of the wealthiest women in England.
She had to smile at that. Emily Spenser, who’d reused tea leaves and agonized whether she could afford the price of a theater ticket, was now to have at her unfettered disposal nearly forty thousand pounds a year. In addition, Papa had insisted the bequest be worded so that the sum was hers and hers alone, beyond the touch of any husband. “My daughter is capable of anything,” he’d told the lawyer. “She can manage her own wealth.”
Even before the letter in her hand arrived, rumors had begun to circulate. The modest trickle of cards inviting her to dinners and soirées had become a flood, hostesses all over London apparently deciding no entertainment was now complete without the presence of the most unusual—and now wealthiest—widow in London.
Ladies who had formerly avoided her now stood in line to chat her up—and asked baldly about her shop, a topic of conversation they would have considered anathema but a week previous. Just yesterday one such socially prominent caller had brought a gift that sent Natalie into raptures—vouchers to Almack’s.
The Wednesday night assembly wasn’t called the Marriage Mart for naught. Emily wondered, a half smile playing about her lips, which Patroness had a friend or relative with a son or brother, blue of blood but empty of purse, who’d clamored for the opportunity to lead Financial Salvation into a waltz.
How amused Papa would have been by it all. A deep sadness welled up at the thought.
’Twas not Papa’s fault alone their break had never been bridged. Stubborn herself as he had always been, she’d not been able to bring herself to come home and beg forgiveness.
Tenderly she folded the letter. Drew was too young for it to mean much now, but when he was older, he, too, would be warmed by knowledge of the love of the tyrannical grandfather he’d never met.
Another bittersweet thought occurred. Papa had died only a year ago, just before she’d secretly returned to London. What difference would it have made had he found her before that? If instead of lurking at the fringes of the ton, she had been acknowledged and presented as the Duke’s daughter? If she’d met Evan for the first time as his equal, a woman worthy of his hand?
’Twas far too late to waste time on such speculation. Or was it?
Her newfound wealth and acceptance did not confuse her nearly as much as the unexpected visit she’d received yesterday from Miss Andrea Marlowe.
Emily had been at her design office working on sketches when Francesca ran up to announce the caller. Having not seen Evan’s betrothed since the night she’d spent at his bedside, she’d forgotten to construct a plausible story to explain her abnormally intense interest in the wounded son of a mere acquaintance.
However, the young lady followed so directly on the maid’s heels that Emily, her head full of line, color and fabric, had no time to fabricate one now.
Wondering uneasily what the young lady wished to discuss that would have brought her to so ungenteel a meeting place, Emily politely offered tea.
“’Tis kind of you, but I don’t wish to disturb your work. I, for one, think it marvelous that you have a talent and pursue it. Your designs are so original and clever, and Lady Cheverley thinks so highly of you. In fact, if it would not inconvenience you terribly, I should very much like to see your sketches.”
Though surprised, Emily could not help but feel gratified as well. Miss Marlowe’s voice rang of sincerity and she seemed genuinely interested in the designs.
“Certainly. I was about to stop for a dish of tea, and would be happy to have you join me.”
“In that case, I should be delighted.”
After another ten minutes spent inspecting her sketchbooks, Miss Marlowe both exclaiming with enthusiasm and asking quite intelligent questions, Emily’s wariness dissipated a bit.
Even had it not, she told herself as she led Miss Marlowe across the hall to the little parlor where Francesca had set out tea, after the service the young lady had done her in alleviating her anxiety about Evan’s injuries, she owed her every courtesy.
They were seated over their cups, Miss Marlowe having petitioned Emily’s opinion about the colors that might best become her, when the girl asked, “Would you design a gown for my wedding?”
Emily choked on her tea. It had been all too easy, after their interlude as coconspirators and this animated discussion about design, to forget who this girl was.
Get hold, she told herself brusquely. Miss Marlowe would be just another paying customer. Besides, who more than Evan deserved to find on his wedding day a bride gowned as best enhanced her beauty, aglow with love and eagerness?
As Miss Marlowe was certainly glowing at this moment. And why not, with Evan to be her groom?
Emily took another sip and swallowed slowly, allowing herself time to calm. “I should be honored,” she heard herself saying.
If she repeated the phrase often enough, by the time the gown was complete she might believe it.
“I must warn you, I shall need the dress almost immediately. I wish to be married the very day after the
second reading of the banns.”
The news distracted her. Why the sudden haste? Or perhaps she knew why. Perhaps Miss Marlowe had chosen Madame Emilie not so much for her design skills as to emphasize she would soon make permanent a bond that would place Evan forever out of reach, even for angels of mercy.
“He has recovered, then?” Emily asked, voicing the immediate worry that popped into mind.
“Oh, yes. The arm will always pain him, of course, but he’s been back to his usual pursuits for some months now. He even rides beautifully.”
“Rides?”
“Um. I was thinking of something in blue. He’ll wear his uniform, of course, and I shouldn’t wish to compete with the red. Did we not agree that cerulean might suit?”
“U-uniform?” Emily stuttered. Had the mission he’d undertaken for the ministry conveyed some military title upon him?
Miss Marlowe grew very still. “Oh, my dear Lady Auriana. Did you not read the announcement in the Post?”
“What announcement?”
To her total bewilderment Miss Marlowe sprang up and hugged her fiercely. “I am so sorry! What a wretch you must think me. Let me tell you straightaway that I ended my engagement with Evan a week ago. I’ve fallen in love with a young soldier, you see, and we will be married just as soon as can be arranged.”
Married. But not to Evan. Emily couldn’t seem to summon either coherent thought or polite reply.
Miss Marlowe poured her another dish of tea. “I wish I had something stronger to offer, but you should at least take this. Now, let me tell you what happened.”
She settled back on the settee with a sigh. “When Evan asked me to marry him, I knew his affections were not engaged. I accepted him because, with Richard gone, I was too cowardly to face life on my own. That was very bad of me, but it had, I think you will agree, a rather wonderful result. Had I not been an engaged lady when I met my Giles, I would not have had the courage to pursue his friendship. Nor would he have let down his guard. As it was, my betrothal offered the safety that allowed us to be ourselves, and to fall in love.”
Andrea glanced over. Apparently noting Emily had not yet managed to reconnect mind with speech, she continued, “I also knew, almost immediately upon returning to London, that something was very wrong with Evan. At first I thought it must have to do with his work, or Richard’s death—you must know he always blamed himself, as if had they gone into the army together he might have prevented it. But I soon came to realize ’twas not these things that so troubled him—’twas his heart.
“By then I was glad of his preoccupation, for I had come to know Giles. Later, once I realized I’d fallen in love, I was only waiting for the proper moment to break the engagement. But first he left unexpectedly, then he was wounded.
“Not until I saw your face that night you tended him did I suspect you loved him. How I hoped loving you but feeling honor-bound not to break with me was the cause of his unhappiness! Then, after Lady Cheverley told me you’d painted the landscape he takes everywhere with him, I was sure.”
Emily was still having difficulty framing words. “I h-hardly know what to say.”
“Dear lady, you need tell me nothing! I’m overjoyed that the woman Evan loves so desperately is a beautiful, talented creature worthy of him, one who, now that our silly engagement has been ended, can end his misery as well by pledging him her heart and love. You do love him, do you not?”
“Yes.” ’Twas a joy to acknowledge it out loud, however bizarre it might be that the first soul to whom she admitted the truth was the one woman she’d vowed must never discover it. “Yes, I love Evan.”
With a little shriek, Miss Marlowe hugged her again. “Wonderful! Then we shall both be happy! Lord willing, you’ll make Evan as ecstatic as he has been miserable, for I’ve known him all my life, and never have I seen him as he’s been these last few months, shutting himself alone for hours, avoiding all company. Knowing all will be well, I can at last stop feeling guilty about my own happiness.”
She paused a moment, her smile fading. “But…if you did not know of our broken engagement, he must not have contacted you yet. He’s sent no word?”
“None. I’ve had no correspondence from him since…since we broke off our relationship months ago.”
Andrea frowned. “’Tis odd, that.”
The seesaw movement of her emotions, which in her dealings with Evan had so often rocked her from cautious affection to elation to grief, dipped again. “Perhaps he…no longer holds me in affection.”
Andrea made an impatient gesture. “Nonsense. He loves you still, I’m sure of it. Ah…why did I not suspect it from the first?”
She rounded on Emily and seized her hands. “If Evan does not contact you shortly, you must go to him.”
Even in midswing of emotion, Emily had to smile at that. “I assure you, if Evan still cares for me, he will seek me out.”
Andrea looked thoughtful. “Perhaps. But the Evan sitting in a darkened library at Highgrove is not the same man who left England eight weeks ago. He still has no sight in his right eye, his right arm has little movement and his hand may be permanently crippled. Oh, I know all that would make no difference to you, but I assure you from personal experience, it will to him! When someone who has been whole becomes…damaged, it does something to one’s sense of self. It must be even worse for a man who feels he should always be the strong, commanding one, caring for those he loves. If he no longer feels himself capable of that, he may very well not seek you out.” She paused, as if to let Emily absorb the truth of that.
“I see how that might be so,” Emily admitted.
Andrea laughed. “’Tis that, I’m sure. Gentlemen and their silly scruples! Even my Giles, when I told him I intended to end my engagement to Evan, was horrified that I meant to abandon the protection of a husband in possession of all his limbs and entrust myself to one who was, he said, ‘lacking.’ Of course,” she added with a devilish twinkle, “after I finished kissing him he decided my marrying him might be better, after all. So you see, if Evan does not come to you, you shall have to go to him.”
Go to Evan unbidden? The notion both excited and appalled her. “And if he truly no longer wishes me?”
Andrea shrugged. “A few moments in his company should suffice to establish that. Prepare some excuse to have ready, if you must—you were visiting friends in the neighborhood and stopped by to see how he was getting on, or some such.”
For a moment Emily stared at her, swayed by the intensity of the girl’s conviction. Go to Evan unbidden. Could she summon up that much courage?
“He returns to London in a week for my wedding, which—” Andrea flashed her a smile “—if you can finish the dress, will take place in a fortnight. If he’s not contacted you before then, I think you should go to him.” As if reading her thoughts, Andrea added softly, “If you love him, you can do it. If you truly want him, you may have to.”
Miss Marlowe gathered her gloves and reticule. “Would you do me one more favor? Would you come to the wedding? Had it not been for the love Evan bears you that made him act so strangely, in my anxiety I might have forced us into a hasty marriage we would have regretted the rest of our lives. Instead, I had the time and confidence to find my Giles. For which incredible gift I can never thank you enough.”
Despite the conflicting emotions battering her, Emily had to smile at life’s absurdity: the girl she felt she’d badly wronged seemed to view her as a sort of guardian angel. “If you wish it, I should be honored.”
“Excellent! Since Evan is like a brother to me, you and I must be sisters. Mayhap he will have an ‘interesting announcement’ to make at my wedding!”
Grinning at that romantic thought, the young lady took her leave.
Emily smiled too, then. Nearly two weeks later she was no longer smiling. She’d received no letters. For the first few days after she knew he’d arrived back in London, her ear had continually listened for the sound of his footsteps approaching her office, he
r workroom, her parlor. Footsteps that never came.
Andrea’s wedding was but a few days away. Surely, after all that had passed between them, he would not meet her for the first time since the end of his engagement in front of a roomful of strangers. Even if he no longer wanted her for his wife, they might still be friends—mightn’t they? Then why, why had he not contacted her?
Sighing, Emily tapped on her sketch pad, not noticing that evening shadowed the room and the noise of the seamstresses had given way to silence, until Francesca came in.
“Why, mistress, sit you here in the darkness, your tea frio? Every day this week I find you thus.”
“I’ve been…sketching and lost track of time.”
After a skeptical glance at the mostly blank paper in front of her mistress, Francesca came over and peered down at Emily. “What is it, querida, that sets your mind fluttering like a wild bird without a nest?”
“Nothing, Francesca. I’m a bit tired, I suppose.”
The maid sighed. “Do not worry, querida. By the blessed saints, he will come for you.”
For two weeks she’d fluctuated between euphoria, hope and doubt. Tears threatened as she replied, “It’s been a month since his break with Miss Marlowe. How can you be so certain?”
“His eyes, querida. When he was wounded and we tended him, they followed you—yes, even the sound of your voice. Your spirit is in him. He must find you again if he is to be whole.”
Emily wanted so badly to believe that. Trying for a lighter tone, she replied, “‘Eyes’, Francesca? He can only see out of one.”
The little maid shook her head and gave her a pitying look. “So…literal, you English. But the master—when he was cut down, his power as dust, he knew better. He was seeing with his heart, querida. As you could, if you would but listen and do what it demands.”
Telling Emily she would summon the carriage, the maid went out.
As they journeyed home, during dinner, as she sat heedless over her book that evening, the maid’s words whispered to her: listen to your heart.
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