“Mary was with us, of course.” Beatrice made an evident sigh of relief. Emily then told her sisters of her visit to the Dulwich, and later trip to Vauxhall Gardens and how spectacular she had found it.
“Though I’m sure that both these places are of great interest,” Beatrice said with a smile, “I’m more inclined to believe that it’s the company you kept that has you looking so giddy this morning.”
“Oh, Bea, it was wonderful—he was wonderful. When the fireworks started . . .”
“There were fireworks?” Claire exclaimed, to which Emily nodded. “I should love to see them sometime.”
“Perhaps you shall,” Beatrice told her patiently, then turned her attention back to Emily. “And what happened when the fireworks started?”
Heat flushed Emily’s cheeks. “He put his arms around me, pulled me close, and kissed me, right there in the middle of the gardens.”
“Good God, Emily,” Beatrice exclaimed.
“Bravo!” Claire hooted simultaneously.
“Settle down, Claire,” Beatrice told her sister sternly. “This is a serious matter. Where was Mary while all of this kissing was going on?”
“I believe she was right there next to us, but the poor woman had never seen fireworks before, you see. One can hardly blame her for her lack of attention toward us.”
Beatrice slumped back against her chair, a perplexed look upon her face. She looked at Emily, her eyes suddenly narrowing as if she’d just seen something extraordinary. She leaned slowly toward her as she scrutinized every inch of her sister’s face. “Oh my,” she finally gasped. Emily averted her gaze with a growing degree of shyness, the sudden sensation of being under a microscope making her extremely uncomfortable.
“What?” Claire asked, noticing the look on Beatrice’s face. “What is it, Bea?”
“You’re in love with him,” Beatrice stated, much in the same way that she would have done if she’d just solved a mathematical equation. “You’re in love with Francis, the very man whom you’ve done nothing but complain about for the past ten years or more.”
A heavy silence filled the room. Emily could feel the weight of it confining her to her chair. She had no idea what to say. In truth, she hadn’t known that she loved him—really loved him—until that very moment. Her sister’s words somehow confirmed what she hadn’t yet had the courage to acknowledge. “I believe I am,” she finally sighed. “Oh my God, I’m in love with Francis Riley.” Without further warning, she burst out laughing. She was completely incapable of containing herself. How utterly wonderful. “This is probably the last thing I had ever expected to happen,” she giggled. Before she knew it, Beatrice and Claire had joined in until the whole room was filled with the sound of their laughter.
“Emily,” Beatrice said, her voice suddenly serious. “Do you know if he feels the same way toward you?”
Emily’s laughter subsided immediately at that question. It was the one thing that she had no desire to think about. Trust Beatrice to force her to confront it right there in the middle of her breakfast. Letting out a long sigh, she shook her head. “He desires me,” she told them plainly.
Claire looked as though she might choke on her scone at that remark, whilst Beatrice appeared on the verge of collapse. “Emily,” she managed to say with some degree of haranguing.
“Don’t you dare lecture me on propriety right now, Bea,” Emily said as she shot Beatrice an admonishing look. She could see Claire freeze out of the corner of her eye. “You are my sisters and I want to share all of my thoughts and feelings with you without constantly having to worry about being judged by you.” She bit down on her lower lip as her eyes softened into an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Bea, but we’re too often too afraid of stating things plainly because it’s ‘just not done.’ Well, to hell with that!” she exclaimed, as both of her sisters’ jaws dropped like flytraps. “I don’t think Francis loves me. I do, however, know that he respects me. I know that he enjoys spending time with me and I know that he yearns to have me in his bed.”
“He told you this?” Beatrice asked, dumbfounded.
“He did indeed.”
“Well, I certainly have newfound respect for the man,” Claire muttered. “I wish someone would tell me something like that.”
“Watch yourself, Claire,” Beatrice scolded. “It’s bad enough that Emily has taken to blatant honesty—however, I’d still like to remind you that you’re a lady and that there are certain things that ladies simply do not discuss.”
“I would never dream of saying such things in public, Bea,” Emily said. “But like I said, you’re my sisters. Who else would I say such things to?”
“Your confessor?” Claire ventured with a chuckle.
“Perhaps I would if I were Catholic,” Emily agreed with a grin. “And be given a thousand Hail Marys to absolve me from my sinful thoughts.”
“Ah, so Francis is not the only one thinking of sojourning in bed.” Claire’s voice was cheeky to a fault, her implication undeniable as she arched an eyebrow and challenged Emily for the truth.
“I must admit that there is nowhere I would rather be,” Emily acknowledged with a dreamy gaze.
“Even if he doesn’t love you?” Beatrice asked in shock. “And when on earth did you become so candid, Emily?”
Emily met her sister with a happy smile. “I don’t know. I’ve felt a change come over me for the past few months . . . something just had me feeling so tired of all the presence, and I must admit that it’s really quite liberating. And then with this whole thing with Adrian—I’ve just had enough.” She paused for a moment to sip her tea. “So yes, Bea, even if he doesn’t love me. Don’t you see that everything else—his eagerness to share my company, his genuine respect for me, and his ardent desire that’s forever in his eyes, all of that—is more than enough for me to be eternally happy? And perhaps in time, he will love me as our relationship grows.”
Beatrice nodded thoughtfully. “I believe you’re right, Emily. I believe you would be happy. But I must ask . . . why do you assume to know his heart? How do you know that he doesn’t love you already? After all, he’s known you for years—since you were children, in fact.”
“There’s something in his past, Bea,” Emily said with a hint of concern. “I’ve still to discover what it is, but whatever it is, it’s something that has consumed him to such a degree that there’s been no room for love or happiness of any kind. Since coming to London, however, I’ve witnessed a gradual change in him. I’ve seen him smile and laugh for the first time since I can’t remember when. So perhaps in time, the darkness will pass, and he’ll let love in again. Until then, however, everything else will have to suffice—and it shall, for they are just as valid elements in a relationship as love. In fact, they are the building blocks upon which love might have a chance to grow.”
Reaching for the envelope that lay beside her plate, Emily eyed the elegant script of her name, written on the front of it. She opened it carefully and pulled out a letter. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. It appears that I’m about to be late for an appointment.”
“With whom?” Beatrice asked as her eyes followed Emily to the door.
“With Kate. She says that she would like to talk.” Emily registered the apprehension in Beatrice’s eyes. “I have no quarrel with her, you know—she and Adrian love each other, they’re happy together, and the feelings that I had for Adrian are nothing compared to what I now feel for Francis.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that she hurt you beyond compare. Even if you’re no longer suffering, she paid no heed to your feelings at the time. Talk to her if you must, Emily, but don’t allow her to reclaim the position she once held in your heart by giving you an apology or an attempt at an explanation—she’s not worthy of it.”
“I know, Bea. I’ll be back soon. Will you be here?”
“Jonath— Mr. Rosedale,” Beatrice quickly corrected herself, “will be taking us to pick up our calling cards from the printers any minut
e now.”
“I had completely forgotten about that,” Emily said as she bit down on her bottom lip. “Would you mind picking mine up, too?”
“Of course not. In any case, we should be back in a couple of hours or so.”
Emily decided to ignore her sister’s use of Mr. Rosedale’s Christian name. There would be plenty of time for her to ask questions about that later. Right now, she was running very late. “Very well, then, I will see you later.”
By the time Emily crossed Piccadilly and entered Green Park, a faint drizzle had started up. She opened up her parasol and headed toward the tall and slender figure that stood sheltered beneath a large oak. “I was beginning to think that you wouldn’t come,” Kate said as she walked toward her.
“I’m sorry, but I only just received your letter this morning. How are you, Kate?” Reaching out her hand, she linked her arm with Kate’s as they began to stroll down the Queen’s Walk.
“I’m well,” Kate told her, “though I do miss our friendship terribly. I’m so sorry for the way in which both Adrian and I treated you. It was most unkind and inconsiderate of us. I think we were both so caught up in our own happiness that we completely forgot about everything else. I’m truly sorry.”
“You hurt me very badly, Kate,” Emily agreed. “But I’m so much better now— and stronger, I think—because of it. Coming to London has done me a world of good—I can see why you love it so.”
“Have you been to the theatre yet?”
“No, not yet, but Francis took me to see Vauxhall Gardens yesterday and I must say, it was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before in my life. It was wonderful.”
“I believe that you and Francis have spent quite a lot of time in each other’s company lately. Am I right?”
“I find myself enjoying his company more and more, Kate. I’ve spent so many years disliking him, yet now that I’m taking the time to talk to him, to get to know him again, I can’t help but be drawn to him. In fact, he’s largely to blame for my speedy recovery following my heartbreak over Adrian.”
“So you’ve taken a fancy to him?”
Emily paused for a moment. “No, Kate, I’ve fallen in love with him.” Kate spun around to face her friend, a look of grave concern upon her face. “What is it, Kate?” Emily laughed nervously. “Why the worrisome frown?”
“I’d hoped it hadn’t come to this,” Kate said. “Oh God, Emily, that I should be the one to break your heart twice is really more than I can bear.” Her eyes welled until tears dampened her rosy cheeks.
“Good grief, Kate, whatever is the matter?” Emily asked in trepidation as fear ran coldly down her back.
“I’ve heard a lot of talk lately,” Kate said, “about Francis. First at Lady Cunningham’s garden party the other day, and then again yesterday when I was out to tea with some friends of mine.”
“What kind of talk?” Emily asked with a growing sense of alarm.
“Emily, Francis has a mistress,” Kate told her seriously.
Emily froze for a moment, then burst out laughing while Kate looked on in shock. “Are you serious, Kate? I’m sure there must be some mistake. Francis just isn’t the sort of man to entertain a mistress. In fact it’s completely preposterous.”
“Apparently it’s quite a well-known fact amongst the ton, Emily. So well-known, in fact, that I’m quite surprised we didn’t hear of it sooner.”
“Do you have some proof, Kate? Some form of evidence that might convince me? Because to be quite fair, I’m not particularly inclined to believe such a rumor—and it is a rumor, is it not? Or have you actually seen the woman?”
Kate didn’t respond; she merely looked at Emily until her unspoken answer sank in. “Oh God,” Emily muttered. “Where did you see her?”
“She was at Lady Cunningham’s garden party. Miss Cartwright and Miss Howard, two new acquaintances of mine, pointed her out to me. Her name is Charlotte Browne.”
A chill settled over Emily as bile began to rise in her throat. “Where does she live? Do you know?”
They turned about, heading back toward Piccadilly. “Not precisely, no. I’ve been told that she has an apartment here in London—paid for by Francis, of course.”
“Of course,” Emily heard herself say.
“But apparently he never meets her there.”
Emily had no desire to ask the question that she knew must follow, but her mouth and voice seemed to have taken up a united front against her better judgment. “Then where do they meet?” she asked.
“At Dunhurst Park,” Kate said quietly, sensing her friend’s distress.
“And when did she last visit there?” Emily found herself asking, pressing the issue, though she feared to know the answer. In fact, to be perfectly honest, the whole conversation was more nauseating than the smell of rotten fish.
“Rumor has it that she was there just last week. I’m not sure of the exact days, however.”
“Oh God,” Emily murmured as she clutched hold of Kate’s arm. She felt a dull pain growing in her throat and her breath caught as if something was constricting her lungs. “Francis was there last week as well . . .” Her voice was barely audible, but it didn’t matter—she was no longer talking to Kate. Had he really gone straight from kissing her in his study to spending three days with his mistress, only to return and . . . she groaned as the images of what they had shared in her bedroom flashed before her. It was too humiliating to think of.
“I’m so sorry,” Kate told her as she hugged her friend. “I wasn’t sure if I should tell you or not, but I felt that it was the right thing to do.”
“It was,” Emily murmured. “Thank you, Kate, you’ve been a true friend.”
“I’m just trying to make amends . . . in whatever way that I can. I hope that one day everything will be as it was, before all of this happened.”
“I know you do,” Emily said, her voice growing distant. “But nothing will ever be as it used to be; too much damage has been done. I’m sorry, Kate, but you and I will never be as close as we once were—it’s simply not possible.”
“What will you do now?” Kate asked her, her voice heavy with regret.
They had reached the entrance to the park once more, where Emily now stood as if transfixed. She felt numb and defeated. What would she do? What could she do? She had no desire to return to Francis’s home—the mere thought of possibly seeing him again nauseated her. How could she have been so blind? She’d known he was incapable of love—nobody as depressed as he was could possibly fall in love—yet she’d allowed herself to be captured by his desire for her. She’d treasured his touch and his kisses. . . . She’d relished his courtship.
Francis Riley needed a wife in order to produce an heir—all men of his stature needed that—and who better than someone who fell in love as easily as she apparently did. Given enough time and the right explanation, he probably would have coaxed her into accepting his mistress as part of the package.
As she allowed this final thought to manifest, she suddenly reeled away from Kate to cast up her accounts all over the pavement.
“You’re not well, Emily,” Kate told her, stating the obvious as she put her hand on Emily’s shoulder. “Let me escort you back to your house.”
“I’m not going back there,” Emily said, her eyes wide with despair. “I’m never going back there.” Backing away, she stumbled slightly as her foot caught the hem of her dress—yet she quickly managed to recover her balance as she reached for the back of a bench on which to steady herself. Without another word, she turned on her heel and ran out into the street to hail the first hackney she could find.
Kate watched in horrified silence as Emily scampered on board, just managing to make out the word “Redding,” as Emily called out her destination to the driver. The carriage then took off with a jolt, leaving behind a distraught Kate at the edge of Green Gardens.
The butler responded rapidly to Kate’s incessant hammering on the door. “Yes?” he asked, arching a disapproving
eyebrow.
“Are either of the Rutherford sisters at home?” she stammered. She had run as fast as she could to get there, only to find herself panting and wheezing quite shamefully on the doorstep of Francis’s home.
“I’m afraid not,” Parker replied in a haughty tone that gave Kate the urge to hit him. She restrained herself, partly due to decorum but mostly because he was the gatekeeper—he had the power to admit her or to turn her away.
“How about Lord Dunhurst, then?” she asked, gritting her teeth. “It’s a matter of some urgency.”
“His lordship is not in either.” Kate’s shoulders slumped in visible exasperation. She wasn’t handling the situation well at all, she realized, to her annoyance. “They may return shortly, however. May I suggest that you wait for them in the parlor?”
With a sigh of relief, Kate thanked Parker as she hurried inside before he had a chance to change his mind.
It was well over an hour before Kate heard the front door open and close to the sound of prattling voices. A brief silence ensued as hats and gloves were undoubtedly being removed, and then there were footsteps approaching. A moment later, the door to the parlor swung open, and Kate jumped to her feet as Beatrice and Claire entered, followed by Jonathan and Francis.
“Hello, Kate,” Beatrice said in a polite tone. “Parker told us you were here. Where’s Emily? She said that she was going to meet you—did you not find one another?”
Kate just stood there, staring back at them all, wringing her hands, unable to find the right words with which to begin. “Are you all right?” Claire asked. “Here, why don’t you sit down? You look thoroughly put out.”
“I’d much rather stand,” Kate said, her voice quivering. “If you don’t mind.”
“Very well,” Beatrice said. “Why don’t you have a drink, then, to calm your nerves, and then tell us what all of this is about.”
Kate nodded anxiously, eager to have something with which to still her fidgety hands. She watched in silence as Francis poured her a small brandy, then thanked him as he handed it to her. She took a large sip, her fingers trembling as they held the glass to her lips. Then, steadying herself on a table next to her, she sank down onto the chair behind her and heaved a big, strenuous sigh. “I told Emily . . .” she began, but her voice faltered. “Oh God, I’m so sorry, I should have come to you first, Francis.”
How Miss Rutherford Got Her Groove Back Page 17