“You probably did. It may have appeared for a moment that I enjoyed his kiss, but Michael, I assure you I did not. Well, honestly, I—no! No. I did not enjoy it one bit. Dear Lord, he frightens the bejesus out of me. You told me he was intelligent beyond imagining, and that his honor was strung about him as armor, and something about...oh, what was it? Oh, yes, you said he ‘was impressed neither by appearance nor rumors, but rather by the knowledge and character of a person, and if they had a humble heart’. I have to tell you, Michael, your son wouldn’t know a humble heart if it thumped him upside the head. He’s too busy being bossy and intractable, and making people feel awkward in his presence. Again, not your fault.”
Intractable? Zach wondered. Was he? He didn’t know, but damn if he weren’t learning so very much right now. It was as good as being inside her head, he thought. But he chewed the inside of his cheek, believing it damnably unfortunate that she held such a low opinion of him.
He heard her yawn then, a vocal and lengthy yawn, and she was quiet for several more seconds until she said, a haunting melancholy tinting her words, “I hope you’ve been reunited with your Barbara. And maybe you’ve met Gretchen and have told her how adorable her daughter is. You always said I was a perfect mother to her,” she said, and tears must have come for her voice broke once more, “but does Gretchen think so? Will you tell her I’m trying my best?” Long pause now while she sobbed into her hands. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he thought she said, but could not be sure, muffled and cracked as the words were now.
Jesus, but it was enough to break his heart, even as he was quite sure she thought he hadn’t one.
“I miss you,” she whispered one more time and then was quiet and unmoving for so long, Zach was sure she must have fallen asleep in the chair.
He shifted his weight from one leg to another, so afraid to move if she were indeed still awake. But when another fifteen minutes or so had passed and she made no movement and uttered no more words, he gingerly and with excruciating slowness set the decanter and snifter onto the top of the cabinet. Only the smallest of noises accompanied this, but in this very still room, it might have been heard, if she were awake.
She was still yet.
Zach walked silently to where she sat. Just as he came around the side of the chair, he saw that her elbow was on one bent knee, her small hand fisted and holding up her chin while she slumbered. Her other arm was wrapped around the doll, clutched tightly to her. The moonlight, which had not reached the corner in which he’d hidden, offered just enough illumination that he could distinguish the trail of tears down her cheeks and the small furrow in her brow.
What am I going to do with you?
He moved all the way around the chair, so that he faced her. He leaned his back against the wall, just near the frame of the portrait, and watched her sleep.
Possibly, she wasn’t real. She couldn’t be. They weren’t made like this, so very exquisite, and with that beautiful heart of hers, that missed his father, and her sister, and worried that she might be failing as the child’s mother. And talked to portraits in the night. Glancing sideways, he looked at the picture of his father, who at this very moment, from this angle, looked as if he were smiling upon her, as if only satisfied to be watching her sleep.
Ah, but she was stubborn, even while calling him intractable. But she’d given the why of this: she was afraid. Frightened by kindness?
It was late. He was weary. And he considered that he had much to contemplate about everything she’d revealed to him, by way of her conversation with his sire.
Loath as he was to disturb her, he knew it needed to be done. As gently as possible, he shimmied his hands under her legs and around her back and lifted her into his arms. The doll settled perfectly against her chest, and he strode from his study and through the dark hall to the wide staircase. He knew when she roused and realized her circumstance by the stiffening of her form in his arms. He climbed the stairs, and murmured, “Shh.” Though she said nothing, she remained fairly rigid in his grasp now.
Zach debated if any words from him now might put her at ease, decided it was unlikely and so extended none. He reached the top of the stairs and turned right to find her rooms. The door was ajar, allowing him to give a nudge with his foot to push it fully open. He set her on to the bed, and spared her only a glance and a murmured, “Good night,” lest she think him only some mute monster, an intractable one perhaps. He supposed he was glad for the total darkness of her borrowed chamber, that he might not see what expression might have accompanied her severe posture in his arms.
He pulled the door closed as he left, closing his eyes for the space of a moment, trying to imagine what, if anything, he hoped might come of their very brief but icy relationship. Would he simply deposit her at the Daisies Cottage and be done with her? His immediate internal response to this was, it seemed most prudent. But why? Why was it prudent not to know her?
Therein, he supposed, was the real answer, that he didn’t want to not know her.
Maybe that was all he needed to understand right now.
The last thing Emma wanted to do was accept charity from the Earl of Lindsey, even if it were originally conceived by that greater man, Michael Benedict. But fact was fact, and she hadn’t a home, or an income, or a family, and so then had no choice but to accept that he had indeed purchased the Daisies Cottage for her and Bethany.
This morning, she was plagued by that decidedly uncomfortable remembrance of last night, when she’d woken to find herself in the earl’s arms. God’s wounds, but how could she have allowed for something so unbearably tortuous to have occurred? Never mind that his embrace, for all its utilitarian purpose, had been perceived as warm and safe and...not wholly unpleasant. Ugh.
She could not take up residence at the Daisies Cottage soon enough.
But she had a few things to take care of first. She approached Thurman bright and early one morning, holding Bethany’s hand as the babe walked in yet another pair of new shoes, courtesy of the Earl. Emma had stopped refusing, had stopped insisting, and had stopped complaining about any purchases for Bethany. There simply was no point.
The butler waited expectantly.
“I wonder if I might have use of a buggy to take into town,” she inquired of the aged man. She didn’t tell him which town, so didn’t therefore consider that she lied to the man.
“You can, perhaps, write down any items you were in need of, Miss,” he answered quite solicitously, his bushy gray brows raising a bit at this offering. “Mrs. Conklin regularly sends a footman or such to town for shopping—fresh goods, and wardrobe items, and other sundries....”
“This is to be more of a visiting nature, making calls,” she told him, while Bethany now uncurled her little fingers from Emma’s hand, plopping down on her bottom on the immaculate tile floor to look at her new shoes again.
“I see,” intoned Thurman, raising and lowering his head in a manner which Emma imagined only butlers managed to employ. “Peter would be available to drive you to your appointments, Miss.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t want to put someone out, Mr. Thurman. I’m certainly capable of handling a small buggy, pulled by any agreeable nag,” she countered with a sweet smile.
“Be that as it may, Miss, Peter will take you in to town.”
Emma considered arguing further, but judged the argument was perhaps more likely to succeed with a goat, rather than the almost formidable Mr. Thurman. “Thank you, sir.” She scooped up Bethany. “We will ready ourselves and return momentarily.”
Within the hour, Emma sat beside Peter, a man only slightly older than herself, with a pleasing personality. She held Bethany in her lap, not of a mind to further disturb the Earl’s household by once again asking Mrs. Conklin to watch after the child. She had directed Peter to the King’s Arms Inn—rather assertively, she’d thought—and if he was surprised by her destination, he gave no indication. She didn’t know what she expected to find of her old home and workplace, but she n
eeded to see the Smythe’s and make sure they were well. Peter was indeed pleasant but not much for small talk, so Emma occupied herself with Bethany, as the trip took almost an hour. When they’d crested the last hill that would show the inn to them, Emma found herself holding her breath. But it was as she had feared, the inn was indeed still gone, only the burnt-out shell still remained; obviously no rebuilding had begun, or perhaps wasn’t intended. But how would she find the Smythes?
“Miss,” Peter said, when they’d stopped still a distance from the ruins, “did ye know this was gone?”
“I did,” she answered, almost forlornly. “But I don’t know how to find my friends—my family, really—and thought I should at least start here.”
“Little Hadham would be the closest town,” Peter said after a moment. “Might they have moved there?”
Emma shrugged sadly. “I just don’t know.” She took her eyes from the King’s Arms Inn and looked at the young footman. “Would you mind driving there?”
Peter had snapped the reins over the lone horse in answer, and the gig moved again, now away from the inn. “We’ll find ‘em, miss. Never you fear.”
Little Hadham boasted not much more than a lone mercantile, a few pubs, and only one inn, all lying in the village just south of Hadham Hall, ancient seat of the Capells, and the Earl of Essex. Emma suggested they begin their search at the inn. But only a moment after making this suggestion, while Peter maneuvered the gig through the narrow road and sparse traffic, Emma spied the young stable hand, Langdon, walking down the road, heading to the pier down at the River Ash.
Excitedly, she raised herself on the seat and called happily, “Langdon!”
The young man looked left and right upon hearing his name but saw no one familiar and so continued walking. “Langdon!” she called out again. This time, he turned, and finally saw Emma—her arm flailing wildly in the air—and company bearing down on him. He squinted but quickly recognized her. She’d not much recalled that he ever smiled, but he did now.
Langdon approached the gig just as Peter pulled up at the side of the road.
“Miss Emma! What are ye about? Are you coming back with us?” He wanted to know, his eyes hopeful.
His question enlivened Emma. “Are you all still together? Are you with the Smythes? And Alice, too?” She hoped it were true. She was encouraged by Langdon’s excitement over seeing her.
“Sure, Miss—was cheaper to share one room than have to find one yerself,” he told her. “We did stay at the stables those first few days, but it were rough. Alice never stopped crying. But Mr. Smythe and me, we came into town here to see what could be had. We all pooled our money—well those who had any—and well, at least got a real roof now. But we may have to go to another town, maybe a bigger one, to find some work... for any one of us. There’s nothing here.” And then he smiled and nodded at the three of them in the gig, having delivered all his news.
Emma was amazed, staring rather dumbstruck for a moment. Firstly, Langdon had never strung so many words together in her presence, or to anyone, as far as she knew. Next, she was surprised, though pleasantly so, that the four of them had stayed together. They really were a little family. Her eyes welled. “Where are they?”
Within minutes, Emma was following a still chatty Langdon into a cottage at the edge of the small town, having asked Peter to remain with the gig. It had a rough and ramshackle exterior, and even before entering there was an odor about the air that was decidedly unpleasant. Inside, Emma hugged Bethany tighter, her eyes adjusting to the dimness of the interior. She heard, before she saw Mrs. Smythe. The old woman let out a howl of glee upon spying Emma and the child, coming straight at her from what Emma imagined must be the kitchen, when her eyes finally settled.
“Oh, my dear,” Mrs. Smythe cried, “never have I been happier to see a soul! So worried about ye, we’ve been.” She stole Bethany abruptly but cheerfully out of Emma’s arms, crying and fussing over the little girl. “And look at ye, dressed in your finery—the both of ye!—oh, I pray he’s been good to ye. Seems as much, I daresay.”
Emma glanced around the house, wondering at their arrangement here, as it appeared only a single dwelling, and one of improbable character.
“What have you—?” She began but was interrupted by the appearance of the innkeeper himself, Mr. Smythe. She smiled expectantly at him as he entered the front room. He’d never been a warm and fuzzy person, but Emma did decide that he looked rather pleased to see her. “Good afternoon, sir,” she said.
“Emma, girl,” he acknowledged. “You’re well, then?”
“Oh, yes, sir!” She was quick to assure him. “I’m so very pleased to find you all. I’ve worried so!”
“Won’t have an inn no more,” Mr. Smythe said, with a bit of a shrug to his shoulders, and a pursing of his lips. “But we’ve a roof for now—until Mrs. Coombs returns from London next month and again takes up her residence here. So we’ve time still to figure out where best to land.” And he nodded. He looked to Langdon, who nodded along with his boss—former boss, now housemate.
“But that’s why I’m so happy to find you!” Emma said. She touched Mrs. Smythe’s arm next to her. “What are your plans? Will you rebuild? Will you find another inn to buy? Have you other property or...even monies to see you through?”
Mrs. Smythe lowered her eyes, offering only a weak smile. Mr. Smythe shuffled his feet a bit.
“Never did ‘ave much for savings. And what we did was burned up in there,” he said roughly, tossing his head in the general direction of the King’s Arms Inn. “But I’ve a mind to head south, more toward London. We’re thinking there might be a need of a good and experienced manager—if you will—for all those fancier public houses down there. Maybe have need of a cook and stablehand,” he finished, but it was quite apparent from his lackluster tone that he hadn’t really any hope of this. “Maybe another barmaid,” he added when the light from one of the doorways was briefly blocked.
Emma turned to find Alice staring at her. The young woman did not look entirely happy to see Emma, but her moods were ever mercurial, and her face—when not serving in the taproom, hoping for coin—was often hard. She was different somehow, though, Emma realized instantly, her shoulders wilted, her eyes rather lifeless. She wore a gown of somber brown—dreary was more apt—with threads that looked to have seen better days, and Emma knew this to be a huge embarrassment to the girl; ever did she love her vivid colors and loud combinations.
“Hullo, Alice,” she offered hesitantly, never quite sure of her reception.
Alice only nodded, her gaze raking over Emma’s finery. If she did try to smile, it appeared only as a grimace. Awkwardly, she shoved her hands into the flap pockets of her borrowed, pilfered, or scrounged-for dress.
Emma turned back to the Smythes. She looked from one to the other. She guessed they’d aged about twenty years since the fire had taken everything they had in the world. Perhaps she’d never thought so much about their specific ages but guessed Smythe, with his balding, craggy head and long face, having once been tall and thick-chested though those days were long behind him now, to have seen about 60 years by now. And his wife, that dear Mrs. Smythe, with her short and stout form, and her wiry hair and kind eyes, might have seen just a few less than that.
She approached Mr. Smythe, putting her hand on the rough fabric of his sleeve. Momentarily, she wondered if she had ever touched him at all before. She’d known him almost a decade, had worked side by side with him, knew he truly did care for her, but this felt new.
“Come with me,” she said shortly. “The old earl—Michael—truly did make provisions for me. Well, likely for Bethany really.” She turned to look at Mrs. Smythe, who seemed to be waiting, interested, but not yet willing to be hopeful, it seemed. “His lordship—the new earl, that is—has purchased a house for us.” Emma watched as Mrs. Smythe slapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes crinkling with her upset. “No, Mistress, not like that at all, I promise. The house is for Bethany
and me. Just us. I truly didn’t want his money, or his help. But...but I’ve Bethany to think of. And Michael, well, he wanted this for us.” Emma turned, and looked at an expressionless Alice, and Langdon who was nodding again, apparently in agreement, and then to Mr. Smythe, who was frowning, seemingly not in annoyance but with consideration. She continued, talking quickly to convince them, to assure them, it could work, “The house is big enough. It’s close to Perry Green—likely we can find work there, though I think Mr. and Mistress, you wouldn’t need to work if you’d not mind helping to take care of the house,” she said, hopefully. To Langdon, “There’s space for you, too. An entire floor of bedrooms I’d not know what to do with. And there’s a small barn, a stable, maybe we can find a horse and gig eventually.” She turned to Alice, “Perry Green has a handful of pubs—there’s even a modiste, and a milliner. We can find work, I’m sure.” No one said a word. Emma turned to Mrs. Smythe, “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind looking after Bethany if I’m to find a job.”
When they remained silent, Emma spun around to Mr. Smythe again. “Our own house again,” she imagined.
His eyes lifted over her to settle on his wife. After a moment of worrying the inside of his cheek, he asked, “What say ye, missus?”
When Emma turned back again, she found Mrs. Smythe crying into a squirming Bethany, who’d thus far had been intent enough on the people and the atmosphere of this room to have been quiet, but now was reaching for Emma with a whine.
“Shh,” Emma cooed, and stroked her daughter’s hair but did not take her. Emma kept her eyes on Mrs. Smythe. “Won’t you come with me?”
Mrs. Smythe began to nod her head against a warm but still fussing Bethany. Emma let out a happy cry. Eventually Mrs. Smythe raised her wet and red eyes to Emma. “Oh, but ye always were the sweetest thing, Emma,” she said through tears. “And here ye are, still thinking of everyone but yerself. Oh, but we thank ye!” And she leaned forward, kissing Emma’s cheek, and Emma squeezed her tightly in a happy embrace. “We needn’t fret no more, husband,” she said to Mr. Smythe.
If I Loved You (Regency Rogues: Redemption Book 2) Page 8