It was the truth after all. She didn’t have news that she wanted to tell him.
When he only continued to stare at her, she added, “I must be going. Thank you again.”
“Might I have my carriage take you to your destination?”
Pride once more reared its head despite the long walk ahead of her. “No, thank you.”
“I insist.”
“No, thank you,” she said with more firmness then hurried to the door, anxious to escape, unable to remain in his company any longer without asking why.
Why had he abandoned them upon her uncle’s death?
After all, she reminded herself, it didn’t matter any longer.
~*~
Michael watched Emma go, torn between forcing her to accept a ride and allowing her to leave on her own, which was what she so obviously wanted.
“Jeffries?” he called when he heard the front door close.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Please have Miss Grisby followed. Discreetly, of course. I must know her address.”
Jeffries nodded, quite used to receiving such odd requests, and hurried away to fetch a footman for the task.
Unsettled at the strange turn of events, he went to his study only to stare out the window, wondering where Emma was going and who awaited her there. Could it be her uncle?
~*~
Emma clenched her lips tight, determined not to cry as she began the walk home. She’d gotten what she wanted—what she needed. She had no reason to be upset.
But seeing Michael—rather, Viscount Weston, she reminded herself—again had stirred more memories, more longing than she’d expected. She drew a deep breath. By now she should be used to wanting what she couldn’t have, what would never be. What she needed to do was focus on the task at hand.
Tomorrow she had an appointment to see the Marchioness of Warkshire, the viscount’s cousin. With luck and the reference letter she held, the marchioness would hire her to teach her three young children. Emma’s wages would be substantial enough to obtain the medical care Tessa so desperately needed.
Her sister’s image formed in her mind and helped to settle her emotions. Tessa’s pale, thin face and weak smile as she lay in bed made Emma’s heart squeeze. She shook her head.
That picture would never do.
Instead, Emma pictured her healthy and whole, no longer ravaged by the disease that had stolen her youth the last two years. The doctor said the best hope to treat her consumption was a sanatorium where she could have plenty of rest, fresh air, and a nutritious diet. At the moment, they could provide her with none of that.
The long walk gave her the time she needed to calm down, to regain her equilibrium before seeing her family. Tessa seemed especially sensitive to people’s moods and would notice Emma’s distress immediately. Emma straightened her shoulders and forced her lips to curve into the semblance of a smile.
The neat street of Park Lane gave way to Knightsbridge, then to the busier area of Piccadilly. Each neighborhood seemed to have its own personality. Her stomach grumbled as the scent of freshly baked bread drifted from a bakery but she hurried past. She briefly paused before the window of a department store, scanning the clever displays so she could describe them in detail to her sister.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a young man watching her. She turned to face him, but he walked away without looking back. Ignoring the sensation, she continued on her way, keeping a watchful eye on the clouds. With luck she’d arrive home dry and in time for a cup of tea.
Though the loss of her position had come at a terrible time, she appreciated the opportunity to spend more time with her family. Being away so much made her thankful for every moment they spent together, made more precious by Tessa’s illness.
Shuddering, she pushed away the unpleasant memories of her previous employer’s wandering hands. His wife wouldn’t have allowed her to remain even if Emma had wanted to, not after catching her husband acting so inappropriately.
She turned her focus to the present, hoping she’d start her new position with the marchioness in three days.
At last she arrived at their small flat on Trenary Lane. She climbed the two flights of stairs and retrieved her key from her pocket to let herself in.
“Miss Grisby?”
Emma turned to see their neighbor from down the hall approaching and gave an internal sigh. The woman’s rounded shoulders were draped in a faded yellow shawl, her expression grim.
“Mrs. Dobbs. How are you today?” Emma forced a smile.
“Better than you, I’d guess. Trouble is brewing.” The stout old woman shook her head, loosening coarse gray strands from her chignon. She claimed to have some gypsy ancestors, and Emma thought it probably true with her dark eyes and hawkish nose. However, Emma didn’t care for the way the woman tossed about fortunes whether asked or not.
“Oh? You might have something wrong today, Mrs. Dobbs. All is well.” She tried to stave off whatever dour premonition the woman wanted to share with her. She already had a difficult enough time hiding her worry from her family.
“I fear it won’t be for long. Tomorrow will bring misfortune.”
Emma’s heart sank. “Well, I’ll have to hope for the best, won’t I?” Of all the things the woman could’ve said, why had she chosen those particular words? “I must be going. Take care, Mrs. Dobbs.”
Anxious to escape before the woman told her anything more, she unlocked the door of their flat.
“Hello,” she said as she smiled at her mother, hoping she hadn’t overheard Mrs. Dobbs.
“Welcome back, dear.” Her mother sat in the small sitting room area. The window behind her sparkled, the clean panes cast a warm glow over her. The sight brought a genuine smile to Emma for the first time since she’d left that morning.
Jane Grisby had a perpetual positive attitude that surrounded a core of strength Emma could only hope to emulate. Her mother’s determination had seen her family through hard times, including the death of her husband, then his brother. How could Emma possibly complain about her lot in life when compared to her mother’s?
Emma’s memories of her father had faded over the years. He’d never been around much and had died when she was thirteen. Uncle Grisby had moved in soon after and had been a huge influence in her life. She owed much of her knowledge and skills to him. He’d taken the time to teach her things most boys her age didn’t know, let alone girls. Despite these modern times, most men felt educating girls, who spent their lives caring for a home and family, was a waste of time and money.
Not Uncle Grisby. He’d told her that since women were the center of the family, they needed to be educated. She’d never have guessed she’d make a living by teaching others the things he’d taught her. To this day, she was grateful for his foresight. Without her ability to serve as governess, they might very well be living in a workhouse.
“How did things go? Did the viscount remember you? He was such a nice young man.” Her mother’s nimble fingers continued stitching the hem of a shirt as she spoke. Her skill with a needle was wasted on mending, but it helped earn some money and allowed her to stay home and tend Tessa.
“Yes,” Emma answered. “I was able to obtain the reference letter.” She withdrew it from her pocket and waved it in the air, forcing a smile. “With luck, I’ll have a new position by this time tomorrow.”
“Excellent.” Her brown eyes, so like Emma’s, were warm and friendly. Though just past fifty, her face was lined, an outward indication of the internal worry she rarely revealed.
Emma had only told her the basics of why she’d lost her previous post, not all of it. The last thing her mother needed was another reason to worry. Emma wanted her to save all her energy for Tessa.
Remembering the details of that night made Emma nauseous—and impossible to share with her mother. The reek of brandy on the lord’s breath. The feel of his absurdly soft hands groping her body. The unexpected strength of him. The terror that had nearly frozen
her in place.
She shook her head, determined to push away the memory. Besides nothing had happened, thanks to his wife. In reality, Emma would’ve quit if she hadn’t lost her position. She couldn’t have stayed at their home when she didn’t feel safe. She didn’t miss the lord or the lady or their constant bickering but did miss the two children she’d taught.
“Please wash off that awful ash, dear,” her mother requested with a frown. Though she understood the reason Emma wore her disguise, she didn’t like it and frequently mentioned it. “Then we’ll have tea with Tessa and Patrick.”
“Where is Patrick?”
“Running an errand for someone, but he promised to be back.”
“He’s had many errands of late.” She couldn’t help but be suspicious. Young boys often found trouble, and while she loved her brother dearly, she wasn’t naive enough to believe his behavior was perfect.
“A friend introduced him to someone who hires boys for a variety of tasks, including errands. He pays well enough and Patrick seems to enjoy the work.”
Emma merely nodded, determined to speak with him when she had the chance. Since her little brother had no man in his life, she tried to keep extra watch over him when she was home. Yet she was there so infrequently that she wasn’t sure how much good it did.
The small flat they rented made Emma feel stifled. No wonder Patrick escaped as often as he could. It consisted of two rooms with one serving as a kitchen and sitting room and the other as a bedroom. Tessa slept in the bed and their mother slept on a cot beside her. Patrick slept on the floor of the sitting room. When Emma was here, she joined Patrick on the floor.
Her mother kept the flat tidy. Curtains hung from the windows, helping to give a cozy feel. The small space always smelled clean despite the unpleasant odors that lingered in the hall. Coal dust seeped into every nook and cranny, but her mother battled it each day. Rugs were beat and all possible surfaces wiped down.
Emma washed her face and hands and dabbed most of the ash from her hair before putting on the kettle for tea. She went to the bedroom to check on Tessa. Her sister slept on her side, her pale, thin face looking ill even in sleep. She’d lost so much weight and her frame hardly left an impression under the cover. As Emma watched, she coughed, her body convulsing with the effort.
Emma’s chest tightened. She wished things were different—that they had decent food to fill their bellies and give them strength, that they had medicine to help heal Tessa and ease her symptoms, and that the doctor bills were paid so they could send for him without the shame and guilt of knowing they owed him money. The man had his own family to feed.
Shoving her worry aside, she changed her gown, anxious to be rid of the ugly, patched grey one she wore and even more eager to be free of the bindings around her middle. She untied the knot at her side which held the strip of cloth that served to flatten her breasts and thicken her middle.
Left in her chemise, she rubbed her stomach, all too aware of the red marks that crisscrossed her body. She drew a deep breath, relieved to be free of the band. It was silly as the bindings were no worse than a corset, but somehow the restriction bound her very spirit. With a shake of her head, she admonished herself. The bindings had protected her, slowing the lord who’d tried to accost her. She had the freedom and the strength to rise each day, to venture into the world whereas Tessa was trapped—bound to the bed by the illness that had claimed her body.
Emma closed her eyes, praying for a miracle.
Praying for her sister to be whole and healthy, for her family to be in a warm, cozy home where once again, they could share laughter and fun and food.
With a sigh, she opened her eyes and reached for her other gown. Though her faith was strong, she had a difficult time understanding why her prayers went unanswered. God helped those who helped themselves, but she didn’t see what more she could do.
As Emma finished fastening her gown, Tessa coughed, waking as the spasm wracked her slim body. Emma sat on the edge of the bed and lifted a cup of water to her sister. Tessa coughed again, covering her mouth with her hand. She reached for a handkerchief from the bedside table and wiped her mouth.
Emma stared at the crimson stain on the cloth in dismay. “You’re bleeding,” she whispered to her sister.
Tessa’s eyes went wide as she looked down at the handkerchief. “Oh, dear.”
“I’ll send for the doctor.”
“No!” Tessa grabbed Emma’s arm. “No. I’m fine. I just need a sip of water.”
“Tessa, I’m sending for Dr. Barnes,” Emma insisted as she handed Tessa the water. “You’re getting worse, not better.”
“We’ll wait until tomorrow. After you obtain the new position. Then we can send for him.”
“Tessa—”
“No, Emma. You know we can’t afford it. I’m not taking away our supper by calling the doctor. Some of mother’s nice hot soup will do more good than anything Dr. Barnes would give me.”
Emma nodded reluctantly, even more determined to gain the position and the money that came with it.
CHAPTER TWO
Emma sat on the edge of the ornate chair in the formal drawing room as the Marchioness of Warkshire reviewed her letter of application and references. Emma made certain her posture was perfect. Her hands were folded neatly on her lap, her feet tucked under her chair, and a calm and composed expression was on her face. These were the very qualities she’d be expected to teach the Marchioness’s three young daughters, to act as a lady at all times.
On the inside, matters were quite the opposite—her heart pounded rapidly, her palms were sweating, and she had to remind herself to breathe. It was all she could do not to go down on her knees and beg for the position. Her entire family’s livelihood depended on this interview, but she knew sounding desperate would not help.
The marchioness was striking, her dark hair drawn back in an artful chignon, her alabaster skin flawless, her elaborate gown the color of the Caribbean Sea. At least what Emma guessed it to be from a painting she’d seen.
Emma’s insecurities surfaced, making her feel undeserving of sharing a room with the marchioness let alone speaking with the beautiful lady or her children.
With a stern reprimand to her doubts, she reminded herself that she had all the necessary qualifications and then some. She could play the piano, draw adequately, speak French and a smattering of Italian, conjugate Latin, and was skilled in geography, arithmetic, and knowledgeable about a variety of literature. All thanks to her deceased uncle. The education he’d given her was priceless and made her an excellent governess, as she’d been told on numerous occasions.
It was only the part where she had to take orders from parents who knew nothing of how to teach young children with which she had problems. Well, that, along with any lord who thought an unattached woman living in his home was fair game.
“You mentioned you had another letter of reference?” The marchioness raised a delicate brow with her inquiry.
“Yes, from Viscount Weston.”
The lady frowned and managed to look even more beautiful. “My cousin? How are you acquainted with him?”
“My uncle was his professor at Cambridge.” Emma had rehearsed her answer, hoping it implied she came from a long line of educators. She handed over the envelope.
“I see.” The marchioness broke the seal and withdrew the letter. “Hmm,” she said as she read it, then folded it and tucked it back in the envelope.
Emma wondered what that meant. Perhaps she should’ve read the letter. Surely the viscount hadn’t written anything that would strike against her.
“We received letters of application from several qualified candidates,” the marchioness said, avoiding eye contact.
Emma’s heart sank.
“I wanted to meet each of them personally before deciding which governess would best suit our family. The education of my children is of the utmost importance to me.”
“Of course,” Emma agreed, trying to quell her p
anic.
“I’m afraid I’ve decided on one of the other candidates. I hope you understand.” The marchioness offered a small smile with the devastating news.
“May I ask why?” Emma knew her question was impolite, but she had to know.
The lady appeared affronted at Emma’s inquiry. “I don’t owe an explanation to you, Miss Grisby. However, I will tell you the other candidate is well qualified and her letters of reference were outstanding.”
Emma could hardly believe it. Obviously, whatever Viscount Weston had written had been less than flattering. She caught herself from saying anything further. No purpose could be served from angering the marchioness. The person who deserved Emma’s wrath was the viscount and she intended to give him a piece of her mind.
~*~
Michael drummed his fingers on his desk, impatient with himself. His lack of concentration today was ridiculous not to mention annoying. The financial report before him on his latest venture in a Latin American railroad required his complete attention but, instead, he picked up a small piece of paper that held a single line of information.
102 Trenary Lane
Surely the only reason it captured his interest was because Miss Grisby might provide him with clues regarding her possibly resurrected uncle. Michael thought it too much of a coincidence that she’d contacted him now, so soon after he’d become suspicious about whether her uncle had truly been killed in the accident.
Michael didn’t believe in coincidences.
He’d tried to determine what ulterior motive Miss Grisby might have to seek him out. But she’d asked only for the letter of reference. She’d made no other comments, no other inquiries. Nor had she asked for money—something everyone else did, strangers and acquaintances alike. Despite that, he still felt her visit had to be tied to recent events. He withdrew the list he’d started of recent events, adding a new one: Emma involved?
Michael wished he’d made more of an effort to find Miss Grisby and her family after the funeral ten years ago. At the time, he, Stephen, and Lucas had still been recovering from their own injuries and grappling with their newfound aura-reading abilities. When he’d attempted to visit the Grisby’s home a week later, they’d already moved. The neighbors didn’t know where they’d gone. In a city the size of London, it was difficult to find anyone.
Passionate Secrets (The Secrets Trilogy Book 2) Page 2