by Anne Ashley
Chapter Eight
It was while she was seated before the dressing table early on Friday evening, having her hair arranged in a more elaborate style by Martha for the party, that Emma began to appreciate just how much authority Mr Benedict Grantley was now beginning to wield at the Ashworth Arms.
The very day after the wretched creature had had the sheer effrontery to evict her forcibly from the tap, Samuel had tactfully requested her not to venture in there again, because, as he explained a little sheepishly, ‘Mr Grantley don’t rightly think it fitting for a lady to be working behind the counter.’ And if that were not bad enough, later that very same day, Martha had informed her that she wasn’t to serve any further meals in the private parlour either, as his high-and-mightiness preferred Lucy waiting at table, although he had no objection whatsoever to her continuing to prepare their food.
Inwardly she had fumed at this crass interference, and had been on the verge of seeking him out to take him roundly to task for daring to dictate what she may or may not do, when wiser counsel had prevailed. Swallowing her pride, hard though it had been at the time to do so, she had accepted these dictates with as much grace as she could muster, simply because it would inevitably mean that she would see less of him. Which, as things had turned out, certainly proved to be the case.
Silently she was forced to concede that at least during the past week she had not been precisely stretched to the limits in endeavouring to keep those more tender feelings from surfacing. Benedict had been away from the inn for much of the time. He had received several dinner invitations. One, surprisingly enough, had been penned by none other than Isabel Ashworth, which he had promptly accepted.
Just what he had managed to discover Emma had no way of knowing, for she had not seen him since he had set out in the carriage for Ashworth Hall the previous evening. Nor had she had the opportunity to discover from Harry how well his uncle’s investigations were progressing, for he too had been out and about for much of the time, either bearing his uncle company, or taking advantage of the kind invitation issued by Sir Lionel to fish his well-stocked trout stream.
On the few occasions Emma had seen Benedict during recent days, she had somehow managed to overcome the temptation to gaze at him like some lovesick schoolgirl. None the less, his sudden appearances in the kitchen never failed to send her pulse racing and her foolish young heart pounding so loudly that she felt he must surely hear it. Undoubtedly tonight would turn out to be her greatest test thus far. She could only hope that both Lavinia and Deborah’s presence would prove beneficial, and that she would not find herself too frequently in the sole company of that gentleman who, with precious little effort it seemed, had succeeded in winning her love.
‘Now, Miss Em, tell me what you think of that.’
Thus adjured, she raised her eyes to see the spray of artificial flowers, cunningly fashioned from the same material as the dress, nestling amongst the riot of shining curls. ‘You have lost none of your skill, Martha. I have tended to forget during these past years just what an accomplished lady’s maid you used to be.’
Whilst Martha, looking very well pleased with herself, went over to the wardrobe to collect the primrose-coloured dress which she had worked on with such loving care for so many hours in order to have it finished for the party, Emma donned the pearl necklace and earrings which had once belonged to her mother, before finally stepping into the gown.
Once the last button had been securely fastened, Martha coaxed Emma across to see the finished result in the full length mirror. Never had she seen her one-time charge look more lovely. The gown fitted the slender figure perfectly, its colour enhancing the tints in the rich brown hair and the golden flecks in the striking eyes. Consequently she was rather taken aback to see a slight frown marring the perfection of Emma’s forehead.
‘What is it, dear? Is something not quite to your liking?’
Bitterly regretting now that she hadn’t shown more interest in selecting the exact style for her new dress, Emma continued to gaze at what she considered to be an indecent amount of cleavage erupting from the square-cut neckline. The exquisite pleating on the bodice, and the intricate detail on the delicate puff sleeves, the dress’s only adornments, quite naturally focused one’s attention on the upper part of the gown.
‘It is beautiful, Martha…except…well…I cannot help wondering whether it is not just a—er—trifle immodest.’
‘Nonsense, child! I have it on the best authority that ladies in London frequently wear their gowns much lower.’
An appalling possibility suddenly occurred to Emma. ‘Whose authority, may I ask?’ she demanded to know, eyes narrowing suspiciously.
No response was forthcoming, but Martha’s faintly guarded expression was answer enough. ‘Do you mean to tell me that—that man had the final say in the fashioning of this garment?’ It was bad enough having to kowtow to his edicts on what she might or might not do about the inn, without having to suffer the indignity of being instructed on how she must dress. ‘Well, really! That wretched man is taking far too much upon himself!’
‘Now, now, Emma dear. He was only trying to be helpful,’ Martha soothed, before hurriedly arranging a white shawl, beautifully embroidered with gold-coloured thread, about Emma’s slender shoulders and placing a delicately painted chicken-skin fan in one gloved hand.
Momentarily forgetting her grievances, Emma gazed at the exquisite accessories in wonder. ‘But these are not mine. Where did they come from?’
‘The fan is a gift from Samuel and me. And the shawl is a little something from—er—Mr Grantley. He made a special trip into Salisbury earlier in the week to buy it for you, and was kind enough to choose the fan too. He assured me that it is perfectly in order for young ladies to receive such small trifles when attending their first ball.’
‘Hardly trifles, Martha,’ Emma corrected. ‘And I’m not attending my first ball.’ She was having to do battle with her conscience. ‘I really shouldn’t accept such—’
‘Of course you should!’ Martha interrupted. ‘It’s only a little thank-you for all the hard work you’ve done for us over the years. Sam and I would be very upset if you spurned our gift.’
Emma wasn’t precisely thinking about the fan. She could hardly accept that, however, and reject the shawl. Mr Grantley, it seemed, was not above resorting to cunning tactics to achieve his aims.
Bending forward a little, Emma placed a kiss on one faintly lined cheek. ‘Thank you, Martha. It is lovely, and I shall cherish it always.’
She detected what sounded suspiciously like a sniff before being shooed from the bedchamber, and adjured to go directly down to the coffee room, where she discovered both her escorts awaiting her. As they were both standing with their backs to the stairs, and were deep in conversation with Samuel, neither was immediately aware of her presence, which granted her the opportunity to take stock of their attire without their knowing.
She did not suppose for a moment that either of them had come to Ashworth Magna expecting to attend any formal evening engagements, and quite naturally the amount of apparel they had been able to bring with them had been limited. Nevertheless both uncle and nephew were never less than immaculately attired, and this evening was no exception.
Undeniably Lucy Lampton ought to be given much of the credit for the superb condition of their clothes, for although Martha was frequently heard to scold her for her clumsiness, she was the first to admit that one would have to go a long way to find anyone more skilful with a flatiron, and the excellent care Lucy had taken of the gentlemen’s apparel was certainly testament to this. There was not so much as a single crease, as far as Emma could detect, in either pair of tight-fitting pantaloons, and the long-tailed dark coats had been pressed to perfection.
Samuel, suddenly catching sight of her, broke off what he was saying. ‘Why, Miss Em,’ he announced, thereby alerting his companions’ attention to her presence at last, ‘you’re as pretty as a picture! A real lady you look.’
‘You most certainly do,’ Harry agreed, appearing faintly surprised, as though he might have expected to see her clad in a dairymaid’s apron.
Much to her dismay, Benedict came forward to assist her down the last two stairs. The feather-light touch of those warm fingers on her arm was hard enough to withstand, but the slow appraising glance, much more like an intimate caress, left every inch of her flesh tingling with such a wealth of sensations that she could only hope that the colour stealing into her cheeks might be attributed to dipping too deeply into the rouge-pot.
Unwittingly Harry came to her aid by reminding his uncle that they had best be on their way if they were not to be late, and then promptly led the way outside to the waiting carriage.
Emma would have much preferred not to have had Benedict sitting directly opposite, for she was very conscious, even after the Hammond ladies had joined them, of those wonderful violet eyes too frequently turned in her direction. Nevertheless she strove not to allow this to mar her delight in travelling in such a wonderfully comfortable conveyance. Sadly the treat was over all too quickly, and it seemed no time at all before one well-shaped masculine hand, reassuringly placed just above her elbow, was guiding her through the impressive stone entrance at Ashworth Hall.
If the aged butler was surprised to see her fashionably attired, and entering by way of the main entrance, he possessed good manners enough to conceal the fact. Which was more than could be said for Miss Clarissa Ashworth who, after one startled glance of recognition, could hardly bring herself to respond to Emma’s polite greeting.
To some extent the warmth of Sir Lionel’s welcome, and Miss Isabel Ashworth’s politely worded greeting, more than made up for Clarissa’s distinctly frosty reception. None the less Emma might have wished that the young woman in whose honour the party was being held had waited until they were out of earshot before exclaiming, ‘What in the world is that creature doing here? Surely you didn’t invite her, Aunt? Why, she’s that serving wench from the village inn!’
Emma distinctly felt the tall figure beside her stiffen, and glanced up in time to glimpse those masculine features hardened by a rare expression of anger.
She was by no means the only one to observe the suddenly tense set of those powerful shoulders. Sir Lionel, too, had not been slow to note the sudden stiffening in a certain muscular frame, and could quite cheerfully have throttled his ward.
‘I shall take leave to inform you, Clarissa,’ he took the opportunity to say, as they waited for the next group of guests to make their way across the hall to the salon, ‘that your behaviour on occasions leaves much to be desired, unlike that of Miss Lynn, whose innate good manners are testament to her genteel birth. I shall also take leave to inform you that the young woman you have just so thoughtlessly maligned is closely related to the Derbyshire Lynns, a wealthy and most respected family.’
Clarissa appeared singularly unimpressed to learn this. Her aunt, on the other hand, betrayed mild interest. ‘You seem very well informed, Sir Lionel.’
‘I have learned something of that young woman’s history from Grantley during these past days, Isabel. Naturally I have met her on several occasions before, when I have visited the Hammonds, and have always considered her a well-mannered young woman. I did not realise until recently, however, just how well connected she is.’
‘If she is so well connected,’ Clarissa put in, her lips curled in an unpleasant smirk, ‘what in the world is she doing working in a common tavern?’
‘She is there, young woman, through no fault of her own!’ Sir Lionel answered, his sharp tone clear evidence of his continued displeasure. ‘And you can think yourself lucky that you will never find yourself in a position whereby you are forced to earn a living. Your situation, however, might not be as secure as you imagine.’
The smirk was instantly wiped off her face. ‘What—what do you mean, sir?’
‘Merely that your continuing to reside in this house is far from certain. The estate now belongs to your cousin, Richard Ashworth. He would be well within his rights to request both you and your aunt to remove yourselves from under this roof.’
Having been escorted to the far side of the large salon by Benedict and left in Lavinia’s care, Emma had been idly glancing about the room, when she had happened to catch a disturbing expression on a certain face which had sent an icy shiver feathering down the length of her spine.
‘I hope you were not too upset by Miss Clarissa Ashworth’s tactless remarks,’ Lavinia ventured gently, after noting the direction in which Emma’s troubled grey eyes were fixed. ‘She’s nothing but a silly, spoilt child.’
‘W-what? Oh, no, no,’ Emma hurriedly assured her, finally drawing her gaze away from the trio by the door, and managing a wry smile. ‘Well, to be truthful, Lavinia, it was no more than I expected, and I’m determined not to allow it to lessen my enjoyment of the evening.’
Which was surprisingly enough perfectly true, and she began to look about her with renewed interest, spotting among the ever-increasing throng the odd person here and there whom she recognised.
Emma didn’t suppose for a moment that the vast majority of guests present would rate this party as anything more than a small country affair, a pleasant way to spend an evening, but in no way grand. Yet to her it seemed such a splendid occasion, with all the ladies dressed in their finest laces and silks, and the gentlemen looking so very smart in their long-tailed coats and crisp, intricately tied neck-cloths.
She took a moment to glance down at her own gown, suddenly feeling rather foolish now for supposing that she might be considered indecently clad. Her décolletage was relatively modest compared to certain others on display that evening, a particular that Lavinia was not slow to point out when Emma voiced her former misgivings.
‘I wouldn’t go so far as to suggest that I would approve of such a gown for a chit straight out of the schoolroom, Emma,’ Lavinia went on to admit, ‘but you are hardly that, my dear. Furthermore, your figure is excellent, so I see no reason why you should attempt to conceal the fact.’
She too took a moment to cast a glance down at her own charming pearl-grey gown. ‘If anyone’s apparel is likely to be frowned upon this evening then it will undoubtedly be mine, but I shall not concern myself unduly over that. When I decided to accept the invitation, I had no intention of either Deborah or myself turning up in mourning attire.’ A rather wistful little smile flickered about her mouth. ‘Besides which, dear Henry wouldn’t have wished us to deprive ourselves of a little pleasure from time to time. In fact, he did not approve of strict mourning at all, considering it a meaningless gesture of respect.’
For her part Emma certainly did not think any less of Lavinia for appearing in public so charmingly clad. The widow had undoubtedly grieved over her husband’s untimely demise, and although she had just spoken about him quite without reserve, no one could mistake the lingering sadness in her voice.
It was a timely reminder, and Emma was determined to continue to aid Benedict in his endeavours. She didn’t immediately perceive of what further use she could be to him; nor indeed why he should suppose that Dr Hammond’s death was somehow linked with that of the servant-girl’s. He was certainly suspicious about something, though, she decided, raising her eyes and easily locating his tall figure among the group of gentlemen who had congregated in the far corner of the room. So if the opportunity arose to have a little conversation with any one of the Ashworths’ servants, she would certainly do her best to discover something which might be of help.
‘You must not feel obliged to remain with us all evening,’ Deborah remarked, swiftly gaining Emma’s attention. ‘Although I was very happy to attend the party, I promised Mama that I would not dance, but I expect to see you on the dance floor.’
‘Oh, you shall,’ Emma assured her. ‘I’ve already promised to stand up with both Harry and his uncle.’ She chose not to add that she had accepted one invitation very willingly and the other with the strongest misgivings, mos
t especially as it had been a request for the first waltz, where bodily contact was unavoidable.
‘And it would appear that your hand is about to be demanded for the first set of country dances,’ Deborah did not hesitate to inform her, ineffectually suppressing a chuckle, and Emma turned her head in the direction of her friend’s wickedly mischievous gaze to discover Colonel Meecham heading purposefully in her direction.
Benedict too had followed the amorous Colonel’s progress across the room, and had glimpsed the look of comical dismay flit briefly over Emma’s delicate features. It came as no great surprise to see Emma rise instantly to her feet, and graciously accompany her portly admirer to that area in the salon set out for dancing. Her nature was such that she would never hurt anyone’s feelings if she could possibly avoid it.
Edging away from the small cluster of gentlemen who were very content to lament the ills of the world, Benedict continued to study the progress of the dance. It came as no great surprise to him, either, to discover that Emma performed the steps with effortless grace, as light on her feet as any professional dancer. Which was possibly just as well, he mused, for she was going to need to be swift of foot if she was to stand the remotest chance of avoiding a collision with her enthusiastic partner, whose performance was not short on verve, but was lamentably lacking in elegance.
‘She is a charming young woman, Grantley,’ a voice unexpectedly announced, and Benedict turned to discover Sir Lionel at his side. ‘I wish I could say the same of my ward. I hope Miss Lynn was not too upset over Clarissa’s thoughtless remarks.’
‘She didn’t appear unduly concerned, no.’
This in all probability might have been the case, but the tone in which the response had been uttered left Sir Lionel in little doubt of Benedict’s continued annoyance.
He glanced beyond one well-muscled shoulder to where his ward, looking remarkably smug, now sat surrounded by a group of foolishly languishing young men, and experienced a return of his own ire.