The Typewriter Girl

by J. L. Jarvis

  “I am not his asset.”

  “But you will be. Give him a chance, Emma. He will give you a life you cannot have here. Just think, you’ll be Countess of Clayworth. Oh! Just imagine your wedding! Everyone will be there! Just think of it, Emma!”

  “No. Gwendolyn, I will not. I will not marry him. I will not.” Emma hated herself for the tears that came next. She had meant to be strong, to be firm. But coming back to the same house for the same conversations pulled her back into the same patterns.

  They went round and round. Emma refused. Gwendolyn insisted. Her father would interject from time to time to appease them and to plead for Emma to use reason. In the end, Emma heard Benjamin’s deep voice. Three days. She stood and said, “I will not marry Lord Clayworth. I don’t love him.”

  “No one said that you have to love him.”

  Emma ignored Gwendolyn. “When I marry, I’ll marry for love.”

  Gwendolyn threw her arms into the air. “The girl’s gone stark raving mad!”

  “I will explain it to him and apologize kindly, but I will break the engagement.”

  “Do you want your father to be dragged through the courts?” Gwendolyn controlled her voice, but there was no mistaking the edge. “Do you want to ruin your father? What if Lord Clayworth sued for breach of promise?”

  “I’m sure he’d be happy to take the money you promised without having to marry me. We’d both get what we want.”

  “But, Emma! Gwendolyn’s voice grew syrup thick. “He adores you!”

  Emma looked at her stepmother blandly.

  Gwendolyn put her hand on Emma’s arm and dug her nails into her skin. Emma tried to pull away, but that hurt more. It was all well concealed from her father. “You will marry Lord Clayworth.”

  Emma’s face was expressionless but for the burning contempt in her eyes. As soon as Gwendolyn let go of her arm, Emma walked to the door and turned back. “I cannot make you change your mind. But know that you will not change mine. Even if you tie me to the altar, I will not say those vows.”

  Emma walked out and shut the door. Mary looked up from the table she’d been dusting for the past twenty minutes and watched Emma run up the marble steps to her room.

  After Gwendolyn recovered from the shock of Emma’s behavior, she turned to Henry. “She’s naïve and romantic, but she will come around.”

  “I hate to see her so unhappy.”

  Gwendolyn sat beside her husband and put her hand on his knee. “I do, too. But think of how unhappy she’d be if she never married—which is what will happen if she breaks this engagement. After the scandal, no one will want her. She’ll lose her chance at a title. Society will scorn her. And we, my darling, will lose most of all, and you know it.”

  Deep lines creased Henry’s brow. Gwendolyn had no idea how much they stood to lose.

  Emma looked through the window beside the massive front door, and turned around to find Wendell, the butler.

  She smiled. “Wendell, I’ll need a carriage.”

  “Miss Farlowe.” He cleared his throat. “There is no carriage available.”

  “Wendell, we’ve got a half dozen carriages, coaches, and buggies. They’re all unavailable?”

  He looked awkwardly downward. “To you they are, Miss.”

  Emma had known Wendell all of her life. She could not believe it, and yet Wendell’s discomfort confirmed it. He’d been told to deny her their use. She swallowed, and took a moment to absorb it, then exhaled proudly.

  “Thank you, Wendell.”

  “Miss Emma.” He nodded and cast a glance toward her before going on with his duties.

  Emma kept her composure until she was safely inside her room. She closed and locked the door behind her. “Nothing has changed,” she whispered softly. “Nothing has changed.” She pounded her gloved fist on the door. She went to her window and looked out through her tears to the cliff. There was nothing here for her. This no longer feels like my home. A sob escaped, and she sank to a chair, letting herself cry for her lost mother, her changed father, and the home that no longer welcomed her. She felt adrift and bereft. She suddenly wished she had accepted Benjamin’s offer to come with her and be nearby in town.

  No, she would not drag him into this. She was a grown woman. No one held her prisoner here. It was time to take charge of her life. She got to work packing the few clothes she had brought, and added some more from her closet. After tearfully writing a note to her father, she left it propped up on her dressing table. She knew Mary would find it. As she arrived at the bottom of the stairway, she looked about, desperate to avoid her stepmother. Anything they said now would merely be a less pleasant rephrasing of yesterday’s discussion. She made a determined path to the front door.

  Wendell called after her, “Miss?”

  “Goodbye, Wendell,” she said without turning back. With a vigorous tug, she swung open the door.

  There stood Owen Everett Hadley, Earl of Clayworth, her betrothed.

  Chapter 9

  “Lord Clayworth.” Emma hid her dismay. “Won’t you come in?” They made their way to the parlor, talking of the weather and sailing. While he did not profess to be a skilled sailor, he had some fine yachtsmen among his friends, and had been recently sailing.

  “Please forgive my greeting. I was not expecting you. In fact, I was told you were not in town.”

  “Mrs. Farlowe sent word, so I came at once.”

  Of course her stepmother had sent for him. Gwendolyn had exquisite timing when it served her own purpose. How awkward this was. He had tactfully avoided the subject of her disappearance, and yet it was all either could think of. As they sat angled toward one another in cool stillness, Emma decided that his arrival was perhaps fortuitous. It was not right to break her engagement without the courtesy of telling him to his face. It was the proper thing to do, so she might as well do it now.

  “Lord Clayworth, I deeply regret leaving as I did, with no notice. I can only guess what I put you through.”

  “Thank you, Miss Farlowe, but my thoughts were for you and your well-being.”

  Emma looked into his eyes and felt new warmth toward him. “You’re very kind to say so.”

  He searched her eyes with surprising tenderness. “I understand you worked as some sort of a laboring servant.”

  A smile twitched, but was quickly suppressed. “A typewriter girl.”

  “Yes, I see,” he said, which of course he did not.

  “Lord Clayworth, I have no satisfactory explanation to offer. I can only tell you that I hold you in such high regard. Truly, I do. But I now realize that I do not possess the qualities you deserve in a wife.”

  “For some time, I have been of the opinion that you do.”

  Emma found herself stirred by his seeming sincerity. And yet, she well knew the one wifely quality he most highly esteemed was the money she would bring to the marriage. Knowing this gave her the courage to speak. “Sir, I feel I must be clear and truthful, even though to do so may seem cruel.”

  He put his hand on hers as though to hush her. With calm understanding, he looked into her eyes. It was as if he knew what she would say, but remained unfazed.

  “I can’t marry you. I’m sorry. I hoped that I might—but I can’t. I would only make you unhappy.”

  He held both her hands in his, and shifted his weight to sit closer to her. “Miss Farlowe…” He lifted her hands to his lips. “Emma—”

  She stood and turned from him. “I can’t—” She softened her voice. “I can’t love you.” Emma imagined his disappointment and hated to cause it. She had not invited this courtship, but she had allowed it to continue. He had done nothing to deserve disappointment or scandal. She could no longer undo the past, but she could end it now, before even more damage was done. Unable to bear the long moments of silence, she turned toward him and said, “I’m so sorry.” But seeing the look in his eyes, she fled the room. Her coat lay on top of her suitcase by the door, where she’d left it. She pulled it on, grabbed hold
of her suitcase, and ran out of the house. She had done it. It had been horrible for both of them, but it was over. She was sorry for how this would hurt Lord Clayworth. Sadly, there was no way around it.

  It would be a long walk to the train station. Her suitcase was heavy. But she had done it before, although with less luggage.

  Minutes later, a carriage—one of her father’s—pulled up beside her.

  “Wendell, please leave me.”

  He got out of the coach and walked toward her. He was not himself. “Wendell?”

  Something was not right. He approached her and said, with forced reserve, “I’ve been sent to tell you that your father has taken ill.”

  Emma set down her suitcase. “What’s happened?” she whispered, concern lining her brow.

  “His heart.”

  Emma rushed to the carriage. Wendell took her suitcase. A tall, sinewy boy from the stable appeared from behind the carriage and offered his hand as she stepped in.

  Emma stared blankly as she passed drive after drive, and pulled into her own. As the carriage came to a stop, she rushed in. Gwendolyn waited in the foyer.

  “What’s happened? Where is he?”

  “Come, dear.” Gwendolyn took Emma’s elbow and led her into the parlor. Lord Clayworth stood up and turned to face her. She misread his disturbed expression for empathy.

  Gwendolyn said, “You left before we could talk.” She smiled for Lord Clayworth’s benefit.

  Emma flashed a look of distress. “My father is all that matters right now. Where is he?” Emma rushed to the door, and would have gone upstairs to his room, but her stepmother’s voice stopped her. “Your father is fine. He’s at work.”

  “But Wendell told me his heart—”

  Gwendolyn walked to the doorway and spoke under her breath. “Yes, he’s heartsick over what you have done, but he’s perfectly healthy. We had to stretch the truth a little to get you back. You left before we could talk.”

  Emma glared.

  Lord Clayworth cleared his throat. He looked uncomfortable—and why would he not—but he did not ask the obvious question. Seeing him, Emma was sure he could not have known of the ruse that had brought her back here.

  Emma quietly asked her stepmother, “You lied so I would come here to talk?”

  Gwendolyn met Emma’s accusing looks with chilled poise. “I’ve been worried about you, Emma. You’ve returned from your little adventure a changed girl.”

  Emma would not deny it. “I’ve grown up. Perhaps it’s a bit late in coming, but I’m ready to make my own decisions now.”

  “We’ve noticed that you seem quite high-strung.”

  Emma studied Gwendolyn, trying to understand what she was working up to.

  The exchange in the doorway had gone on too long. Emma was embarrassed for herself and for Lord Clayworth’s discomfort. He was gracious, but awkwardness stretched on too long.

  Lord Clayworth came to her side. “Miss Farlowe, I welcome the chance to speak with you again.”

  “Lord Clayworth,” Emma said softly, barely able to meet his gaze.

  “Mrs. Farlowe, may I speak with Miss Farlowe alone?”

  Gwendolyn graciously smiled. “Yes, of course.”

  He guided Emma to the settee. Taking a seat beside her, he took her hand and held it gently in both of his. Emma still burned with anger over the cruel ploy that brought her back here, but it was not Clayworth’s fault. He had looked as surprised as she had by Gwendolyn’s deception. Suddenly turning, Emma said in a hush, “Lord Clayworth, I have no right to ask anything of you, but I beg you, please take me out of this house for some air. I’m not well.”

  Emma’s flushed face and helpless plea rendered her all the more lovely in Clayworth’s eyes, and he was visibly moved.

  Glancing toward the door through her tears, Emma whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

  Lord Clayworth whisked her out, passing Gwendolyn on the way to the door. “We’re going for a ride.” He spoke sharply but nodded politely. Wendell and Mary brought their coats, which they hastily donned. Emma grasped her bonnet by the ribbons without bothering to put it on. Lord Clayworth touched Emma’s back as Wendell opened the door. Emma paused long enough to cast Wendell a look, showing her sense of betrayal for his part in the deception. She went on through the door with a rustle, and on down the walk.

  Gwendolyn watched with a crooked smile. Albeit not quite as she had planned, she had what she’d wanted. The two were together.

  Lord Clayworth drove Emma through Newport in his buggy. The wind was too strong near the cliffs, so they circled around and went down Bellevue Avenue. The cold air cooled the hot anger from Emma’s face. She relaxed, feeling grateful for Lord Clayworth’s help. Now that they were no longer engaged, she found him to be a much more appealing man. Suddenly she felt as though she could speak honestly. She reminded herself that he, too, was a victim of his own family’s need for her money. Perhaps he was as relieved as she was. Speaking with him now made her hope that they one day might be friends, and she told him as much.

  With no warning, Emma said, “Please, could we stop here?”

  Clayworth pulled over to a stop and look out over the harbor. Although it was warm for a late winter day, Emma shivered. Clayworth pulled the blanket closer around her and lifted admiring eyes to her neck as she wrapped her white angora scarf once more about it. Warmth filled his eyes as he picked up her bonnet. “In your hurry to leave, you forgot to wear this.” She smiled and forgot about the bonnet as the air between them grew still.

  The Boston Express pulled into the station nearby. Emma turned to watch. People milled about waiting, while others moved briskly to get to the station.

  “Miss Farlowe.”

  In the months of their courtship, she had seen little emotion in Lord Clayworth’s face, and less warmth in his actions. To turn and see him right now with such heat in his eyes surprised her.

  “Miss Farlowe, I know there has been no love, and little affection between us. I entered into this agreement expecting no more.”

  “I wish it had been different, Lord Clayworth.”

  “But, Miss Farlowe, forgive me for speaking plainly. I saw something today in your eyes, in your words—I saw strength I had not seen before. I believe I got a glimpse of the true woman you are.”

  “The woman I am is not what was presented to you, Lord Clayworth.” The weight of the day still oppressed her.

  “Owen.” His eyes had settled upon hers without yielding.

  “Owen.” Her brows drew together. She was unwilling to believe what she saw.

  “You’ve sparked my interest.”

  “Lord—Owen, please don’t say any more.”

  “Miss Farlowe—May I call you Emma? I believe we could be friends. In time, we might…love. We could be happy. You’re a bright and exciting young woman. I can take you to places and people—I could open a world to you!”

  Emma looked uncomfortably toward him. Who was he? How many months had she looked at this man who, for much of the time, had regarded her with polite tolerance? But he must think the same about her. In a way, they were meeting for the first time today. Clayworth had been desperately driven by a sense of duty to keep his legacy from falling into obscurity. Emma’s family had wanted his title to help them move up in society. But now they were free. Emma would go to her love, and Clayworth would find his own direction. She looked at him now and felt a pang of regret. She extended her gloved hand. “I will always look upon you as a dear friend, Owen. I only hope that one day you’ll forgive me.” Her eyes filled with light as she realized what she would do. “I must go.”

  Clayworth was too caught up in disappointment to follow Emma’s thinking.

  “I will get on that train. There’s nothing for me here anymore.”

  “With no luggage?”

  “I’ll buy what I need when I get there.”

  “Get where?” But as the words came out, he knew. He was crestfallen, and yet he envied her excitement and purpose,
and—he felt quite sure—love. “You’ll need train fare, and enough for a cab and some food.” He pressed several bills in her hand.

  Emma wanted to refuse, but she could not. She had no money. “I’ll pay you back. I hope someday to return this dear favor.” She looked in his eyes and, for the first time since she had known him, felt love. It was not a romantic. She felt no desire. It was love, nonetheless. He looked almost proud of her as she left him.

  Emma ran to the station. She bought a ticket and boarded the train. As it pulled from the station, Lord Clayworth stood on the platform clutching her bonnet in his hand. He watched as the train pulled out of sight.

  Emma stood at the front door of the stone house perched above jagged layers of shale that dropped 70 feet to the water. She took hold of the brass lion and knocked at the door.

  “I’m home, Benjamin.” She whispered it now to herself, but would say it and fly into his arms in a moment. She was radiant thinking of it. She waited. No answer. She walked to the carriage house. His buggy was there. As she walked back to the front door, a movement drew her attention. A curtain swayed at the corner. Someone was home. Emma walked around to the kitchen door. “Mrs. Dowling!” She rapped at the door. After knocking and calling out at every door and some windows, Emma gave up. Perhaps she’d imagined the curtain. She smiled. It was probably Shadow. It seemed strange that they’d leave the dog inside alone.

  She rode into town in her rented buggy. Once there, two women stopped and talked behind gloved hands as she passed. Emma held her head proudly and looked for the office marked Fletcher Van Elden, Attorney at Law. The door was locked.

  “He’s not there,” said a child’s voice. Emma turned and smiled at the boy. About six or seven, he was chewing on licorice, which had blacked his lips.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  A woman yanked the boy away from Emma, and continued to scold him as she pulled him around the corner. Of course, news of her must have spread through the town as soon as she’d returned home. But being a runaway heiress surely posed no danger to children.