Vows to Save Her Reputation

by Christine Merrill

  And what was to be done with his weird superstition about the fate of the Gascoyne brides? Things had been going so well between them. But now, what should be the happiest of truths was likely to change everything. He had requested after the interlude on their ride that, if she thought she might be breeding, she tell him of it immediately. But what did he mean to do with the knowledge?

  The thought brought yet another new fear. Her mother had also told her that there were certain herbs that put an end to such things, if they were done early enough. Would he be so callous as to suggest that she take them, if she came to him with her news?

  That must not happen under any circumstances. Now that she had settled successfully into the role of wife, she was not nearly as afraid as she had been of becoming a mother. She wanted this baby, his baby, growing inside her. She wanted more than just a marriage, she wanted a family.

  Just as much, she wanted to prove to her husband that there was no merit in his fear that she was doomed to die. They would never be truly free until he had given up the last vestiges of his superstition. She knew she would be strong enough to bear him a child. She must find a way to make him believe it as well.

  But that might take time. It seemed the best way to manage the situation was to allow him his moods, gently encourage him to the truth and deny him knowledge that might affect her until it was too late to do anything but carry through with the pregnancy.

  ‘How long until others are aware of my condition?’ she asked Molly, who seemed to know more on the subject than she had ever learned.

  ‘Some months, I think. It is different, one woman to another. But you are...’ Molly paused, trying to find a polite way to say it, then didn’t bother. ‘You are a large woman and the baby is small. You might go five months with no change other than a loosening of the stays.’

  ‘That is good to know,’ she said, with a sigh of relief. ‘And you will not tell anyone, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘Not a single other servant. And certainly not the master.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  Now, there was nothing to do but trust that the secret could be kept until she could find a way to tell her husband the truth.

  Chapter Twenty

  When Emma finished breakfast the next morning, the butler announced that her mother was waiting for her in the receiving room. She went to her and could see the reason for the visit, even before her mother began to speak. Her invitation to the Gascoyne ball was clutched in her hand and she was tapping it nervously against her knee. Emma had been assuming this moment would come and was no more eager for this than she was to explain her condition to her husband.

  ‘Mother,’ she said, doing her best to offer a welcoming smile that did not betray her panic. ‘I see you have received the post. Have you come to accept in person?’

  ‘I have come to ask the meaning of this,’ she said, waving the paper in front of Emma’s face.

  ‘I thought you would be pleased,’ she said, pretending to be surprised. ‘After all, I am doing just as you wished me to do. We are having a celebration for Robert’s brother and of course you are invited to it.’

  ‘And how do you expect to plan such a major gathering without my help?’ her mother snapped. ‘You know you are not up to the challenge, Emma.’

  For a moment, Emma believed her. Then she remembered that most of the work had already been done. ‘Things have gone well, so far,’ she said. ‘And I have the help of Mrs Gascoyne, should I need it.’ But it had surprised her at how little help she had needed. ‘It is really coming together quite well.’

  ‘Let me see the guest list,’ her mother said, fluttering like an angry hen. ‘Let me see the menu.’

  ‘No.’ Emma had not realised how little she had used the word until it was out of her mouth. But apparently it was rare enough to send a shock through her mother and a thrill of independence through Emma. So, she repeated it. ‘No, Mother. I am quite capable of organising this without your help.’

  ‘But I had thought—’ her mother said.

  Emma interrupted her. ‘You had thought to run my life as you did before I was married. But I am a wife now, Mama, and not just a daughter. I must learn to think for myself.’

  For a moment, her mother’s jaw flapped like a gasping fish. She was not used to being refused by anyone, nor did she like being interrupted. She had never before accepted either of those things from her daughter. ‘You cannot talk to me that way,’ she said at last, too shocked to be angry.

  ‘I just did,’ Emma replied, amazed with herself. ‘And although I would prefer not to do it again, I shall if I need to.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean I have to listen to it,’ her mother said, standing up to go.

  ‘Does that mean that you will not be coming to the ball?’ Emma asked, her eyes wide and innocent.

  This stunned her mother to silence, yet again. As upset as she was with Emma’s rebellion, she would not respond to it by forfeiting an invitation to the social event of the year. She sank slowly back into her chair. ‘I am sorry if you think that I am trying to rule your life. It was never my intent.’

  That was probably true. Emma doubted that her mother had given so much thought to her behaviour as to intend the harm she created. Today’s admission was not quite a real apology, so it was rather hard to give a real acceptance. ‘I understand,’ Emma replied, for those words seemed to suit better than any.

  ‘And even if you do not want my help with the ball, you are going to need me sooner rather than later,’ her mother said, as a smile dawned on her face.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Emma said, afraid that she already knew the answer.

  Her mother gestured to her waist. ‘My dear, you are enceinte. Surely you knew.’

  ‘Mother,’ she said, struggling to think of what to say next.

  Her mother put her hands on her cheeks, her mouth forming in an O of surprise. ‘But it is still a secret.’

  Emma nodded, relieved. ‘I am waiting until I am sure.’

  ‘Then I shall not tell a soul,’ her mother said, rising to go and taking her hands. ‘And I promise, from now on, I shall not meddle until you ask me to.’

  ‘Of course not, Mother,’ Emma said with a smile, knowing that the promise was well intentioned, but would not be kept. But now that she had managed to refuse her mother’s help for the first time, it would become easier to do it again.

  * * *

  The night of the ball arrived and the house began to fill with people. It was not enough that it was the first big gathering of her life—if it did not go perfectly, it might be her last chance to entertain. If even the smallest thing went wrong, it might upset Robert to the point of having an attack. Then he might close the doors of the house for ever.

  Or perhaps not. When she looked to him, he seemed calmer than he ever had and far more at ease over the event than she was. Of course, he did not have a secret to keep, as she did, nor was he experiencing the drain in energy that came with nurturing a new life.

  Perhaps her maid thought it would be possible to hide a pregnancy for months on end, but Emma doubted she could manage it for much longer. Her mother had guessed it in a single glance and Robert had already noticed her fatigue and her occasional illness. In time, he would guess the reason for it. It would be better for all concerned if she explained herself before he figured it out on his own.

  But for the moment, she must put all that behind her and focus on the evening. As guests of honour, Major Gascoyne and Lucy were the first to arrive. The Major surveyed the room with a critical eye and looked at her with faint surprise. ‘You have had the room repainted, I see.’

  ‘Do you approve?’ she asked, holding her breath.

  He nodded, then looked to his wife, Lucy. ‘There was the most ghastly mural imaginable on the far wall. Cherubs dancing in a glade. Grandfather caught m
e bouncing a ball against it and caned me.’

  ‘Your brother was using it for tennis practice,’ she said, not bothering to disguise her smile.

  At this, he looked amazed. ‘Robert did something like that?’

  ‘As recently as last month,’ she assured him. ‘You will be pleased to know we are reopening the tennis court.’

  ‘Now that I have someone to play with, I have no reason to volley against a wall,’ Robert said, stepping forward to join them.

  ‘You were always good at sports,’ his brother said, as if it took effort to dredge up the memory from childhood.

  ‘And Emma has been a worthy opponent for any game I have chosen,’ Robert said with pride. ‘She is a good dancer as well.’

  ‘I am not,’ she insisted, blushing at the thought of leading off the first dance. But she needn’t have worried for he had made sure that it would be a waltz and they circled the floor together as if they had been born for each other’s arms.

  * * *

  Things were going well, but Emma could not ignore the seed of doubt that the evening would be a disaster in some way. She was not precisely expecting a problem, but she had gone out of her way to guard against it. She had called for more food than it was possible to eat. There was enough wine to drown an admiral.

  Her parents were embarrassing, talking freely to all the guests and careless of rank and proper introduction. But that was hardly a surprise, nor was it something she could prevent. She had but to endure it, as she had so many other interactions with them.

  Beyond that, the guests seemed to be having a pleasant time and gushed to her that they were pleased to have been invited. The honoured couple were happy as well. Lucy was a light-spirited girl who stood up for almost every dance. Major Gascoyne was in an excellent mood, smiling more often than she had seen him do in their previous interactions and dancing almost as much as his wife did.

  It was then that a pigeon flew in through one of the open windows.

  If she wished to think as Robert had done, she would have noted that birds were usually asleep at that hour and not fluttering around the terrace begging for crumbs. She might have remarked that it would be far more likely to have scared up a bat. She could blame the Gascoyne family curse for this ill omen.

  Or she could simply think as she always did and put it down to the fact that Emma Harris could change her name and her social set, but that did not mean she was gifted in the art of social grace. That explained what happened next.

  The bird made a few lazy circles around the room, swooping low over the guests and eliciting screams from some of the younger ladies, who covered their hair with their hands, as it passed, to protect against accidents.

  The footmen ran to get brooms. Some of the more inebriated gentleman stripped out of their evening coats and swung them at the bird, which escaped them easily.

  It was then that Emma decided she had to do something herself. Even as a voice inside her cried out that she was better off leaving the matter to the men, she could not help but notice that the men were not accomplishing very much. Worse yet, the bird was heading towards the buffet and she did not want it to ruin the food.

  So, she removed a slipper, took aim and hit the pigeon in mid-flight. The bird was stunned and dropped, along with the shoe, into the silver punchbowl at the end of the table.

  There was a moment of shocked silence, then several things happened at once. The footman manning the punchbowl scooped the bird and shoe out of the liquor and wrapped them both in a towel, hurrying for the nearest exit. Another grabbed the bowl and headed in the opposite direction, towards the kitchen.

  On the other side of the room, her mother let out a shriek of horror at her daughter’s latest social disaster, fell into a swoon and required hartshorn, furious fanning and several glasses of ratafia before she was in any condition to withdraw from the room.

  And Sir Robert Gascoyne and his brother the Major burst into simultaneous and unrestrained laughter.

  * * *

  ‘The evening was memorable,’ Robert said, after the guests were gone and they were walking to their rooms.

  ‘If by memorable, you mean disastrous,’ she said, closing her eyes against a vision of a wet pigeon begin carried from the ballroom.

  ‘I have some experience with disaster,’ he said in a mild tone. ‘Believe me, this was not as bad as I always feared it would be. You can console yourself that even I would not call it a cursed evening.’

  ‘That is because you were not the one who threw their shoe in the punchbowl,’ she replied.

  ‘That was an impressive shot, by the way,’ he replied. ‘My brother agreed that neither of us could bring down a bird on the wing like that.’

  ‘I am glad you could find common ground,’ she said, annoyed. ‘But I would be even more happy if it would have been on any subject other than my public embarrassment.’

  He put an arm around her and pulled her close, kissing her lightly on the cheek. ‘You will likely find that the post is full of thank-you notes, proclaiming it the event of the season. Even those who were not invited will be eager to have us as guests.’

  ‘Because they want to see what outlandish thing I will do next,’ she said with a moan.

  ‘Evenings with you are never dull,’ he agreed. ‘But that does not mean they will invite you just to gawk. I heard several ladies call you refreshing and that was after the incident with the pigeon.’

  ‘Refreshing,’ she repeated. ‘I am still not sure it is a compliment, but I suppose it will have to do.’

  They were standing in front of his door now and she placed a hand on his as he turned to open it.

  He smiled at her. ‘Are you waiting for an invitation?’

  ‘Are you willing to offer one?’ she responded.

  ‘Will this do?’ He leaned down to kiss her then, slowly, thoroughly, his tongue matching the dart and flutter of hers. Then he opened her door and pushed her through it. ‘You did wonderfully.’ His hand stroked her back until he found the closures of her gown.

  ‘And now do you believe that it is safe to entertain?’

  ‘Do you believe that you are a successful hostess?’ he asked.

  She flinched.

  ‘Let us not discuss such things now,’ he said, leaning in for another kiss and tracing the neckline of her bodice with his finger. He bit the side of her throat. ‘In fact, I do not want to talk at all.’

  She reached up and tugged at his cravat. ‘Neither do I.’

  They left a trail of his clothing from the door to the bed, as she stripped him, running her hands over his bare chest and kissing him open-mouthed while he fumbled with the buttons on his breeches.

  He struggled free of them and sat down on the bed, pulling her, still fully dressed, on to his lap. Her skirts billowed about his legs and she felt the touch of his hand and the slide of his member into her body. There was a pause, then, as the two of them adjusted to the contact. Then he reached behind her and undid her gown and stays, pushing her clothing over her head and away, until she was as naked as he was.

  Their coupling was quick and frenzied, over almost as quickly as it had begun. As usual, he withdrew before he was finished, so that he could finish alone.

  She would have to tell him soon, she thought, noticing the beginnings of a bulge on her normally flat stomach. But not tonight. At the thought, she shivered nervously.

  ‘Cold?’ he asked, reaching for a blanket.

  She nodded.

  ‘The chimneys in this house do not draw properly,’ he said. ‘Surely you have noticed the fact.’

  ‘On the contrary, my room is delightfully warm,’ she said.

  He looked surprised. ‘My room has always been cold, even in summer. So has my study.’

  ‘And are they both in the same corner of the house?’ she said.

  ‘One is beneath the
other,’ he admitted. ‘On the north-east corner of the house.’

  ‘Then your problem is with the single chimney on this side of the house,’ she said.

  He looked at her, surprised. ‘I always assumed...’

  ‘That it was the fault of your luck,’ she finished his sentence for him. ‘You probably felt even more depressed because you were cold. But it is a situation that is easily remedied. If you cannot fix the chimney, then you should move your rooms to the other side of the house.’

  ‘My room has always been on this side of the house,’ he said, confused.

  ‘Then suit yourself. But do not blame a family curse for something that is your own stubborn unwillingness to change.’

  ‘I am not stubborn,’ he said, but the jut of his jaw said otherwise.

  ‘Of course not, darling,’ she said, stretching her feet to tangle with his. ‘But you are cold. Next time, we will go to my bed, which is warmer.’

  Suddenly, there was a pounding on the door.

  Robert threw the blanket over her and grabbed for his dressing robe. ‘What the devil is anyone doing, interrupting us at this hour?’

  ‘Sir Robert?’ The butler’s voice was subdued as befitting the time, though it lost none of its urgency. ‘There has been carriage accident. It is the Major.’

  For a second Robert froze, as the information registered in his mind. Then his face went deathly white and his hands trembled as he called for his valet and began fishing through the clothing he’d so hastily removed a few moments before.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she said, watching as he paused to grip the back of a chair as if overcome by a sudden wave of weakness.

  ‘I am going to help,’ he said.

  She tried to remember what he had looked like, just before the spell at the festival. That time it had seemed that one minute he was normal, the next he could barely stand. And now, after weeks of peace, it was happening again. ‘You are in no condition...’