Emily and the Dark Angel

by Jo Beverley

  Remember, this test is not of my making. If you don’t wish to hunt it is of no significance. I will give up hunting immediately if that is your desire. All I need is for you to put your hand in mine and say you will trust me with it forever.

  As for the hunt, if you still wish to sell Nelson, it would go better if I were to ride him as I could then sell him as “my horse” at the club, which always brings the best price. If you wish to take part, I would like you to ride Beelzebub. He will take care of you, and you must allow me a little foolish, doting protectiveness.

  I will send him over this evening for you to ride if you wish.

  Emily thought of the horse he said no one but he was allowed to ride. Proof of devotion indeed. And, truth to tell, she had nothing against a little foolish, doting protectiveness.

  There was little more to the note.

  I am not an earthly paragon, and certainly not an angel. My desires are all too earthly. Make no doubt about it. That, however, is a subject for another letter which you have not yet given me the right to send.

  It is written, though, and scorching a hole in a nasty old walnut desk here at Hume House. I hope tomorrow to give it to you, and perhaps demonstrate some of the finer points therein.

  For now, my love, be of good courage. A daring deed, once done, becomes a commonplace. There is very little in life truly worth fearing.

  It was signed simply, “Ver.”

  It all clicked together. The need to see what was happening to Nelson out in the field, the fact that she’d been present today without the sky falling in, and Verderan.

  He wanted her and was willing to lower his hard-won guard almost to nothing before her. Surely she could do her part.

  12

  IT WAS, however, no easier than she had expected.

  A Hume House groom walked Beelzebub over. Emily sent back Nelson and Oak-apple.

  The man also brought a note from Sophie saying she and Randal would come by to collect Emily. It would be too easy, though, to allow herself to be swept up and carried along by the self-assured Ashbys, and so she replied gratefully but declined, saying she would make her own way to the meet.

  Then, after the man had gone, wished she had taken the easy way.

  Emily spent quite some time in communication with Bel, but the horse did not have anything to say about Verderan that she did not already know and seemed to have little sympathy with her predicament.

  Just before dinner, Emily visited her father. She occupied the time with a lively account of the balloon descension. Sir Henry was in one of his better moods and laughed along with her, only once saying, “Damme, I wish I’d been there!”

  As a visit it went very well, but Emily had intended to warn him of the next day’s events. If she was, in effect, going to accept an offer of marriage, her father should know. Her courage failed her, however, and she left to go to the dining room with the carefully planned words unsaid.

  If she couldn’t even tell her father, could she go through with the deed?

  She remembered her one disastrous foray into theatricals. Sir Arthur and Lady Overbrook had proposed a production of The Unfortunate Couple during Christmas some years back, and Emily had been reluctantly conscripted to play Lady Lydia’s maid. Though she was not thrilled at the opportunity she had managed the rehearsals well enough and had truly believed she could go through with it.

  When the night came, however, and the Overbrook’s ballroom began to fill with the local gentry, she had peeped through the makeshift curtain and panicked. Her throat had seized up and she had been unable to utter a word.

  Frantic reassurances and even a drop of brandy had achieved nothing. It had been fortunate that Miss Hardesty, who played Lady Lydia, had always brought her maid to the rehearsals, for that young woman proved to be word-perfect in the part and able to step into the breech admirably.

  Could something equally ridiculous happen again? How could she be sure it wouldn’t?

  After dinner she determined to have done with all this foolishness and prove her nerve. She marched along to her father’s room to reveal all. She knocked briskly and entered, finding him playing a desultory game of Patience.

  “Care for a hand of Piquet?” she asked impulsively.

  He brightened. “What stakes?”

  “Father,” said Emily. “Are you trying to chouse me out of my pin money? A thousand a point is the highest I’ll go.” When he’d taught her this game years ago they had played for such fanciful high stakes.

  With a laugh he agreed and the game progressed in great good humor, tallying up, despite the outrageous stakes, close to even at the end.

  Emily realized how much their relationship had deteriorated since his accident, and how much she had neglected him of late. Certainly, Sir Henry had become unpleasant about business matters and misunderstood her in so many ways, but he was a well-intentioned father for all that and she had become so caught up in other matters that she had almost forgotten him.

  As she put away the cards and he reminisced about other games and other times, she wondered if one could hire a male companion. Something was needed, especially if she were to marry . . .

  She stopped, remembering why she had come here in the first place.

  She even turned to speak.

  Sir Henry smiled. “You’re a good daughter, Emily. I’m a fortunate man to have you and know you’ll never leave me. Come give me a kiss.”

  Emily kissed him and left, a failure again, and now with a new burden. How could she leave her father to the care of strangers? And was this a genuine dilemma or just an excuse not to have to make a public spectacle of herself on the morrow?

  She went up and sat by the window of her room, brushing her hair. She watched the breeze stir the trees in the moonlight and send the falling leaves whirling and scudding. Then she saw the figure.

  Someone was making his way from the drive across the lawn towards the side of the house. It was Lord Randal Ashby. What had happened?

  She flung up the window, leant out, and gave an unladylike whistle. He turned and came quickly over, miming that she should come down to speak to him. Emily flung her red woolen cloak around her shoulders and slipped down the backstairs to the kitchen.

  The stove was already banked and the room deserted. She unlocked the back door and crept out into the night, her heart thundering with fear. Something terrible must have occurred.

  Lord Randal met her at the corner of the house. “What is it?” Emily gasped.

  He took her hand. “Did I frighten you? I’m sorry. Nothing too terrible . . . I don’t think, but Ver’s mother’s turned up.”

  “Helen Sillitoe?”

  “As was,” he agreed. “We were at the club—Ver sold Wallingford for eighty-five by the way—when his man came with the message. Osbaldeston somehow got wind of it, probably listening behind pillars again, and started making comments about Ver finally facing up to his Irish responsibilities, about his mother’s reaction to the debauch going on at Hume House . . . Ver hit him before your name could come into it.”

  “Oh, heavens,” Emily moaned. “Will there be a duel?”

  “I doubt it,” Randal said with a grin. “Osbaldeston was making fiery noises, but I pointed out that if he survived Ver he’d have to fight me, since he’d implied Sophie was taking part in a debauch. He decided to consider it a mill and forget about it.”

  “So where is Ver?”

  “At Hume House. After I’d dropped him off, I gave into impulse and came down here. I think he’ll need you.”

  Emily gathered her cloak more firmly around herself. “Why?”

  He looked away and frowned. “I don’t know how much you know about Ver and his family ...”

  “Quite a lot, actually.”

  “Well, then, perhaps you can guess. I don’t think I know the whole of it, but for all he’s grown a tough shell, it’s like a wound inside. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I don’t see how his mother turning up can be pleasant for hi
m.”

  “But what can I do?”

  “Be there.”

  “Lord Randal,” Emily protested, “it’s eleven o’clock at night.”

  “I know.”

  Emily looked back helplessly at the house, then up at the man. He was disquietingly serious. “Very well. Did you say you’d driven?”

  “Good girl. Yes, I’ve got the curricle. Come along.”

  So when Mrs. Dobson, alerted by some noises in her kitchen, peered out of the window, she saw Emily and a gentleman sneaking down the driveway. “Lord love us,” she muttered. “She’s eloping!” She hurried off to tell Miss Junia.

  When Randal brought the curricle to a halt before Hume House, delicately avoiding the worst depressions, all seemed quiet and normal. Candlelight shone in a number of rooms but there were no sounds.

  Emily got cold feet. “Lord Randal, are you sure . . . ?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Emily climbed down and went with him into the house. The hall was deserted, but Kevin Renfrew came out of the billiard room in shirt sleeves, cue still in hand.

  “Oh good,” he said, and it particularly seemed to be addressed to Emily. “They’re in the library.”

  “In you go,” said Randal, indicating a door.

  “But what about you?” Emily asked in panic.

  “I’ll do vigil out here. This is, I think, family business.”

  “But I’m not ...”

  “Emily, you’re the closest thing to family Ver’s had since he was eight years old.” He gave her a little push and Emily went.

  Her hand was sticky with sweat as she turned the knob and opened the door.

  Verderan was standing by the fire facing a woman seated in a chair. Helen Sillitoe. Her hair was grey and some had escaped from its bun to straggle in wisps down the sides of her haggard face. She was no longer a beauty and looked much older than her contemporary, Junia, but the bones were still there, the bones she had passed on to her son.

  She turned, startled and even frightened, to face the new arrival. She looked wounded and exhausted. Emily quietly shut the door behind her. She searched desperately for something to say to cut through the heavy painful atmosphere of the room.

  She glanced at Verderan and saw the stark lines of his face. She wanted to run to him, but instead she went to his mother.

  “Mrs. Verderan,” she said, drawing on a lifetime of training in correct behavior. “I am Emily Grantwich of Grantwich Hall. You doubtless remember my father, Sir Henry, and my aunt, Junia. You must have had a tiring journey. I’m afraid this house isn’t in the best repair—Ver’s only been here for a few weeks. We would be pleased to have you come to stay at the Hall for a day or two if that would be more comfortable.”

  She cast a quick glance at Verderan, trying to judge if she was doing the best thing, but he was looking down at the fire and she could not read him.

  “Comfortable!” repeated Helen with a half laugh. “Comfortable! I’ve forgotten what the word means.” She looked up at Emily, wild-eyed. “We ate gruel. I turned my dresses. I scrubbed the walls with my own hands . . . He left one hundred thousand pounds!”

  Emily looked to Verderan in bewilderment. He met her eyes. “My grandfather is dead.”

  “Crushed!” declared Helen. She smiled feverishly at Emily. “You’ve heard of people being crushed by debts? Well, old James Verderan was crushed by miserliness. These last years he wouldn’t even spend to keep the place in good repair, and in the end the arch into the courtyard collapsed on top of him and did for the old bugger.”

  Emily gaped at this sudden burst of vulgarity and flashed another look at Verderan. He, however, seemed to be plagued by his own devils. “You’re Lord Templemore,” she said blankly.

  “Damnable, isn’t it?”

  Emily hadn’t the faintest idea what to say or do. Had these two been here in silence ever since Verderan had arrived home? No, Helen must at least have told him the news.

  “It’s late,” she said at last. “Everyone is tired. You need your bed, Mrs. Verderan, and it is your choice as to whether you stay here or at the Hall.”

  Helen looked down at her roughened hands. “He hasn’t asked me to stay.”

  Emily looked up at Verderan. “You’re his mother. There’s no question of asking.”

  Verderan met her eyes, but there were depths behind his gaze that she could not begin to grasp. “Given an alternative,” he said, “I am not sure she would want to stay here.”

  “She has an alternative,” Emily responded. “She may also stay here.” It was a statement and she meant it. No matter what had happened between these two in the past, she could not marry a man who would refuse his mother a bed for the night.

  “Of course she may stay,” he said with a sigh. “This is her old home, after all.”

  It was something Emily had forgotten, but it put a grudging edge on the invitation she did not like. She did not presume to judge too quickly, however. She had no idea what was going on beneath the surface.

  “Mrs. Verderan?” she prompted, catching on Helen’s face a yearning look at her son which tore at her heart.

  “I will stay here,” the woman whispered. “Just for a day or two,” she added hastily.

  Without prompting, Verderan said, “You will stay here as long as you wish. Or at any other of my homes. You may wish in a while to set up an establishment for yourself, but there is no hurry. I’m afraid Casper let this place fall to rack and ruin too, but I’ll see what can be done.”

  With that he walked out of the door and Helen watched him. Emily was horribly aware that he had not once called Helen “mother.”

  “No matter what happens,” Helen said with a sigh, “never let yourself be estranged from a child.” She turned to Emily curiously. “I never thought to wonder where you had come from like an angel of mediation.”

  “From the Hall. Lord Randal Ashby brought me to see if I could help.” At Helen’s blank look she added, “He’s Ver’s friend and he’s staying here with his wife.”

  Helen sighed again. “I didn’t expect him to have friends. I believed it all, you see, that he was a thief and a libertine. I knew he was living richly, but I thought . . . I thought it would be seedy somehow, and full of low characters.”

  Emily smiled wryly. “You should meet my cousin Felix.” She took Helen’s rough, dry hand. “Many people believe it, and in truth Ver’s not exactly a saint, but he is a good man at heart and so he has friends.”

  “You love him,” Helen said.

  “Yes.”

  “Does he love you?”

  Emily thought of hedging her answer, but simply said, “Yes.”

  Helen smiled faintly. “I’m glad, but a little jealous. I find myself foolishly hoping that we might get back a little of the time we missed. But now he will have someone else to absorb him.”

  “There will be time for you too,” Emily promised. “But I think he needs time now to accommodate himself.”

  Helen stood, proving to be quite tall. Her travelling cloak was stained, worn, and patched; the gown beneath was so faded that the print could scarcely be distinguished. How many years had it been since Ver had left for Eton, never to return? About sixteen.

  Sixteen years of scrimping and slaving for tyrannical Lord Templemore, believing her son had stolen the family money and left her in penury.

  “He feels guilty,” Helen said. “I should have thought before I fled here, and not turned up as quite such a waif. The old man took my money, though. I don’t understand these legal matters, but somehow my annuity died with him ...” Her fingers plucked at a loose thread in her cloak. “He feels as if he abandoned me, but it was I who abandoned him.”

  The thread broke in her fingers and she looked down with a frown. “I was lost without Damon, you see, and awed by the fact that Piers was heir to a title. I let Lord Templemore bully me . . . and I let him ...” She shuddered. “So many nights I have thought of the things I could have done ...”

  S
he turned suddenly to Emily. “Can you make him happy?”

  Emily felt no doubts. “Yes,” she said. “And you too, I think.”

  Helen’s lips turned up in a quizzical smile, and for the first time she showed the ghost of her younger beauty. “You can make me happy, too?” she queried. “Or I can also make him happy?”

  Emily smiled back. “Both.”

  Verderan came back in and caught the smile. He looked startled. “I’m afraid the spare beds are all damp,” he said. “You will sleep in my room tonight. It is aired and comfortable.”

  Helen looked as if she would protest, but then accepted.

  Verderan looked behind him and Sophie came into the room. “This is Lady Randal Ashby, Mother. She will take you up and see you have everything you need.”

  The word “mother” sounded in the room like a deep bell. Emily caught her breath; Helen looked at him, startled, and a little color came into her cheeks. She did not look quite so old.

  He took her hand and drew her closer for a cool kiss on the cheek. “You are welcome, Mother, and will not be in need again.”

  Watching, Emily silently begged Helen to draw him in for a warm hug. The woman hesitated, obviously tempted, but then just touched his face gently, said, “Good night, Piers,” and left with Sophie.

  Verderan turned to Emily and gave a sigh that was close to a shudder. “I wonder how long it will take for her to stop calling me that,” he said brittlely. Then he held out a hand. “Thank you for coming.”

  She went straight to him to give him the hug his mother had not. He clung to her.

  “All these years,” he said bitterly, “I’ve sat on my grievances and ignored her situation.”

  “You could not have known ...”

  He pulled away and paced the room. “Oh yes I could. If I hadn’t been able to guess, I had plenty of people willing to drop hints. I sent her a curt invitation to come and live in England and when she refused, I abandoned her.”

  “She did refuse,” Emily pointed out.

  “You didn’t know my grandfather. He could make a starving man refuse food.” He turned to face her. “I was punishing her. She didn’t stop him, you see. I don’t know what I expected her to do, but she was my mother . . . and she didn’t stop him.”