“So, it’s true?” She said, stamping her cane onto the floor. “They were love letters.”
Still unaware of why this should bother the lady, Emma could only nod. She wasn’t comfortable sharing George Fiske’s story with Lady M.
“And that’s all he ever said about me?”
Emma nodded. “I don’t’ understand—pardon me, my lady, but I’m not sure what you’re looking for, or why George Fiske’s letters to Caralyn should be of interest to you?” Even as she believed she’d recognized some affection for George Fiske from Lady M when she’d observed their brief encounter at the ball, she couldn’t imagine why the woman had driven an hour to put these vague questions to her.
Drawing a deep breath, which lifted both her shoulders and her chin, Lady M announced, “I was in love with him myself.” She set her cane aside, leaning it on the side of the chair, and retrieved a handkerchief from some unseen pockets in her voluminous gray skirts.
Emma admitted, “I gathered as much,” which returned the frown to the matron’s face, prompting Emma to explain, “I saw your reaction to him at the ball.”
“You are very clever, indeed.”
“But...but what do you want to know?” Emma persisted.
“I wondered if he truly did love her.”
“He did,” this, without hesitation, having read those letters, having borne witness to George Fiske’s grief over the loss of his Caralyn. “This still doesn’t answer why—”
Lady M cut her off, her voice thin as she murmured, “I won’t take it to my grave. I cannot. It has eaten me alive for forty years.”
It was a calamitous prelude, uttered with such anguish as to beg from Emma, “What did you do?”
The gray crepe of the veil that hung down over her hat swayed on her drooped shoulders. “I told her—Caralyn—that he loved me. I told her we’d been...intimate, that she was only a toy to him—”
“That was not true!” Emma argued, instantly outraged.
Lady M tossed her head back, worrying the handkerchief in her hands. “No,” she fairly hissed “it was not.” And then her black eyes misted, and her chin quivered. “I was right there,” she whispered brokenly, right in front of his eyes. He never saw me. And I was so in love with him.”
“But you had taken up with Lord Marston.”
The hankie waved in front of her face. “I did that to make him jealous, when I thought I was losing him to her. My God, he never noticed. He couldn’t care less. He saw only her.” And then, with some disgust, “She was naught but a servant.”
Emma sat back, gaping at the old, suddenly very frail woman. It was indefensible, what she had done. Emma could feel no sympathy for her.
Seemingly of a need to exorcise the entire circumstance from her memory, Lady M continued, “I told Caralyn he’d been only amusing himself, that she and Marston meant nothing, was just a little game we played before we settled down. She was... distraught. Lindsey’s mother, believing my lies as well though I think later she might have suspected, helped me find Caralyn a position with some family—Baron Grantham, if I recall. He was the ambassador to Spain. We sent her there. I—I never heard from her again, not until just a few years ago, when I happened upon news of her death. She’d stayed in Spain, had married I believe. Lived there for thirty years.”
Emma’s lips twisted while her hands fisted. She felt a rage engulf her, for what this selfish woman had done. It occurred to her that mayhap the woman had come today seeking a certain acquittal of her crimes. “I’m glad to hear it has given you no rest. I hope it never does.”
Lady M glanced sharply at Emma, but then quickly melted with renewed weakness. “You are right. I don’t deserve it.”
“If this were my house, I would kick you out,” Emma said, her voice tight. “As it is—”
“Miss Ainsley!”
Emma jumped and turned to face the door, finding the earl standing there.
She squared her shoulders against his clearly displeased expression.
Her breath caught, two calamitous events in one day nearly unraveling her—the matron’s unforgiveable folly and now the return of Zachary. If she’d questioned at all if she’d missed him, if she’d wondered if she might have become starved for only a glimpse of him, if she’d forgotten how impossibly handsome he was, all these things were resolved just now, at the sight of him. The air was thick with outrage and sorrow, but Emma found herself irrationally, inopportunely pondering if any circumstance in their lives would see her running to him, throwing herself happily in his arms after so long an absence.
He strode across the room, stood beside Lady M, his brow furrowed in such a way that at one time would have alarmed her.
“Apologize at once, Miss Ainsley. We cannot have Lady Marston believing you to be—”
Emma gave Lady M a humorless smirk. “I do not care what she thinks of me. And as I cannot have her removed, I shall take my leave.” She swiped her hat off the floor, where it had fallen, and left the room.
“Miss Ainsley!” The earl called after her. “Emma!”
Emma left the drawing room and ran down the stairs, sailing through the door that Thurman pulled open for her.
A fine day for a walk, she decided, with little other choice, and marched across the drive and onto the lane. She plopped the hat upon her head and tied the strings under her chin.
She’d not thought he’d have chased after her. She thought he’d not leave Lady M unattended. But he did. She heard him call her name, heard his boots tearing up the gravel of the drive.
“Emma!”
She continued walking.
He yanked on her arm from behind, spinning her around.
“What has gotten into you? Whatever would possess you to alienate and infuriate Lady—”
Emma shoved at his chest, used both hands to push him back, bringing him to a jaw-gaping standstill.
“What has gotten into me? Me? I’ll tell you what has gotten into me. The bloody nobility! In your fine homes with your fine manners and your rules about everything, and not one of you have any idea how to practice a little human decency, or—do you know what that woman did?”
At his blank stare, she informed him, “She is the reason George Fiske and Caralyn Withers are not together. She lied, to both of them, had Caralyn sent away, because she, herself, was in love with George and couldn’t imagine that he could possibly be in love with a servant.”
“But that was years ago—”
“She ruined the lives of two people!” Emma raged. “Who cares if it were yesterday or a hundred years ago? She’s awful, looking down her nose at me, telling me that you would never lower yourself to marry a chambermaid. Give me ten chambermaids, I’ll bet they’re each and every one of them a better human being than her.”
“Emma, calm yourself. Let’s put this into perspective.”
Emma stared at him. He didn’t get it, either. “Oh, you’re a fine one to talk. You’re as bad as she! Running around, thinking everything rightfully belongs to you, having no care for all those left weeping in your wake when you’re done with them. But you’ll wind up alone and lonely, just like George Fiske. At least he tried. He didn’t let so absurd a notion as class distinctions imperil his heart. But for her—” she thrust her hand back toward Benedict House, “—he would have been happy rather than miserable, all these years.” A wave of grief overtook her, the complete impact of Leticia Marston’s vindictive betrayal crashing around her. That poor man, believing all these years that Caralyn had never loved him, having married another whom he could never love, having born that idiot of a son. All because Lady M wanted it her way, thought she was more deserving than a lowly servant. Emma began to sob. How could that woman live with herself? “She’s so rotten,” she murmured through her tears.
Zachary reached out a hand, mayhap meant to be soothing.
Emma slapped it away. Anger overran her tears. “Get away from me.” She began walking again, stomping actually, swiping angrily at her tears.
He caught up with her once more. Perhaps fearful any touch might be rebuffed harshly again, he came around in front of her, and stopped suddenly. Emma was forced then to stop as well, lest she crash into him. She stepped left, and he did, too. Giving him a warning look, her lips curled with the height of her anger, she delivered through clenched teeth, “Let me pass.”
“Marry me.”
Emma went completely still, her startled gaze fixed on his face, seeing nothing but her own amazement. She ignored him, and whatever that was meant to be, and tried again to move around him. He shifted accordingly.
“Let me by,” she ground out slower, with more force.
“Marry me,” he demanded again, his own tenor rising.
Planting her hands on her hips, she faced him, squinting up at him, “Why? So you can prove you are above your lot, that you are a better person than you actually are? Show the poor, pitiful Miss Ainsley that you’re just a regular bloke so she’ll let you...plow her again?” The most disbelieving jolt overtook his features. She had never seen his eyes so huge. Her use of plow might have been the cause, she supposed. She ignored this, keeping her anger close. “Pardon my disbelief, my sincere doubtfulness. Now, move.”
“Marry me,” he insisted again, recovering himself. “Because I love you. Because I want you. Because you belong to me.”
Admittedly, this weakened her. Weren’t they just the words every girl dreamed of hearing one day from the man they loved? Certainly in that tone. Truly, he must practice this often to hit that very sincere note so adeptly.
“Because I don’t want to be George Fiske,” he continued, “pining away for forty years. I can’t...not love you.”
Luckily, the mention of George Fiske compelled further resentment.
“Very pretty, my lord.”
“You are in love with me as well,” he accused with a growl. “I know you are. I know you wouldn’t have made love with me, if you were not.”
Emma ignored the emphasis attached to his words. She ignored the fact that he was right; she was insanely and irrationally in love with him. Yet, she staunchly refused to consider even the possibility that he might be genuine.
He was just like Lady M. They only wanted their way. They expected it, with little regard to the consequences. He would only break her heart. He wasn’t sincere. He just couldn’t be.
He’ll say he will, or would, wed with you, of course; that’s part of the game.
“You are afraid, and I get it. Your sister, Caralyn Withers, George Fiske, your very own heart. But Emma, I promise you, I—”
“Good day, my lord.” She finally stepped around him, fairly concerned the pain in her chest might be fatal.
He allowed her to walk away from him.
It was incredibly difficult that evening to pretend nothing at all troubled her. Yet, she had no choice, seated at the dining room table, surrounded by all her friends, their usual merriment in stark contrast to the hollowness of her heart. But she smiled, even if she did not participate so freely in the conversation, her mind overtaken still with the events of the day. Naturally, her altercation with the earl led the charge across her mind. She certainly hadn’t dismissed Lady M’s confession, but to some degree, the earl had been right: it was years ago, too late to fix it now. She could do naught but write to George Fiske, at least give him this news, finally cure his heart of the pain of unrequited love. She only prayed that anger, which most certainly must accompany the receipt of such bitter news, would not then prey upon him.
But the earl....
“You’re frightfully quiet this evening, miss.”
Emma glanced up, instinctively widening her false smile as she looked to her left at Callum MacKenzie.
“Apologies, Callum,” she said, laying her hand over his, but only briefly. She glanced next to him, where sat his new love, Miss Fiona Gall, who, ironically, had recently found employment at Madam Carriere’s, and who had quite obviously stolen Callum’s big heart. “And to you, Fiona. We are thrilled to have you join us, do not let my wandering mind tell you otherwise.”
“Been quiet since she returned from the big house,” said Mr. Smythe, at the head of the table. He lifted a worried brow to her. He was so much softer and lovelier since he’d come to the Daisies. She absolutely adored him.
Shaking off her melancholy, which had proved debilitating for most of the afternoon, she said, “Mrs. Conklin insists we can only use glass jars, and when I told her we were unable to find any in Perry Green, she said of course that I must return tomorrow and collect whatever spares she might find by then.”
“Then we’ll start the picking right away,” Mr. Smythe decided, enlivened.
“But what do you think about the grocer’s notion of adding cinnamon to the apples?” Mrs. Smythe, seated next to her husband, wondered.
“My mum doesn’t do aught with her apples, but with cinnamon,” Fiona mentioned, her heavy Irish accent the prettiest thing Emma was sure she’d ever heard. Her lovely green eyes and how clearly besotted she was with Callum only added to her beauty.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had cinnamon,” Langdon admitted, taking peas off his plate—the ones Bethany had deposited there—and returning them to the child’s plate. This was a nightly occurrence, for which darling Langdon showed infinite patience. No one, not one person, could cajole Bethany to eat her vegetables as Langdon eventually did, every night.
“I say we try it, maybe in half the stock?” Emma suggested.
The room went silent. Emma followed the direction of their unnerved gazes, and found Zachary Benedict standing at the door to the dining room. She wouldn’t have said his expression brimmed with disfavor, perhaps only showed a bafflement to match the faces of her friends.
Bethany broke the prolonged silence with a shrill but happy cry of, “Zach’ry!”
“Hello, moppet,” he said, and a smile came readily to him then.
With his words, everyone at the table, as one, jumped to their feet. Save for Emma, who drew a weary breath before she stood as well. While the men bowed their heads to the earl and the women bobbed brief and nervous curtsies, Emma faced the earl, showing him no such deference.
“My lord, I wasn’t expecting you. You have caught us in the middle of dinner, en famille,” she said, with some emphasis, lest he think to instruct her on how she should go about managing her own home.
She was surprised by Bethany, who must have scooted from her chair, dashing between them to throw herself at Zachary. His smile grew, scooping Bethany into his arms. She could think whatever she liked about the earl, but she could not deny his sublime pleasure at seeing Bethany again. He hugged her tight and kissed her rosy cheeks several times. “I’ve missed you, Bethany.”
“Missed you,” Bethany parroted.
“Oh, but you must join us, milord,” cooed Mrs. Smythe, likely swayed by the earl’s unmistakable fondness for one of her favorite persons.
It was inconceivable, of course, to think that the earl would accept, more baffling indeed, than Mrs. Smythe’s inexplicable invitation.
Apparently, this was to be a day chock full of surprising turns.
“Would it be too much trouble?” The earl asked, while Emma stared now with steadfast concentration at Bethany, and not at him.
Mrs. Smythe tittered happily and dashed into the kitchen.
Zachary stepped around Emma and returned Bethany to her seat, taking a moment to marvel over the smaller seat upon the dining room chair, which Langdon had fashioned so that she needn’t sit upon stacks of books.
Emma turned back to the table, stood near her own chair.
“That’s some fine craftsmanship,” the earl was saying, before moving Bethany’s chair forward a bit.
He shook Langdon’s hand and then further shocked Emma by reaching his hand across the table to Callum. “Good to see you again, Mr. MacKenzie.” If Callum were surprised by this, he gave no indication, stretching his hand under the chandelier to meet with the earl’s.
&nb
sp; “Likewise,” he said evenly, and then recalled, “This is Fiona. Fiona, this is Lord Lindsey.”
“Oh, gracious,” squeaked Fiona, and then giggled as she curtsied again.
Mrs. Smythe returned to the dining room, setting a place beside Langdon, and near her husband at the end of the table. The earl moved to where she set him up and struck his hand at the old innkeep. “Mr. Smythe, Emma tells me you’re making great progress out in the orchard.”
Not many things surprised old Mr. Smythe, but this clearly did. His eyes lit up, and then came a rare merriment about his face, shown so beautifully in his jowly grin. He slapped his hand into the earl’s, pumping enthusiastically, before proclaiming, “I am indeed. Emma said I’ve you to thank for the fine beginning. Oh, but you’ve got to see the fruit that’s come!” Emma had never seen the man so animated in all the years she’d known him.
“I should like that,” said the earl.
Soon, everyone was seated again, save for Mrs. Smythe, who still scurried around, adding glassware, and another utensil and finally a steaming plate of her lamb stew to the setting before the earl.
And all was quiet, the housemates and regular guests seemingly struck dumb by the earl’s presence. He appeared unperturbed, or pretended ignorance of this, lifting his gaze, scanning the table, inquiring of Fiona if that linen covered basket contained bread.
Fiona, having no history with the man, this being her first dinner at the Daisies as well, nodded eagerly and passed the basket to him.
Zachary lifted the linen, his brows rising happily at the steam that rushed out, and said to Langdon, “Do you have formal training as a carpenter? Those seams are well-joined and the entire chair itself, so smooth.”
The lad blushed a bit at this fine praise. “No, milord. My da worked wood before he died, is all I know. Guess I recall a few things he might have taught me.”
These few words put the table, and the dinner, back to rights. Mr. Smythe joined in that discussion with the earl and the lad. Mrs. Smythe engaged Fiona, next to her, with some question about a frock she had seen in the window at the modiste’s, while Callum said in a low voice to Emma, who had quite a time of it trying to keep her gaze off Zachary, “You said, not one week ago, how pleased you were that all your favorite people were gathered ‘round your table. Would it be true still if you said those words now?”
If I Loved You (Regency Rogues: Redemption Book 2) Page 25