Emma spoke slowly as she put together ideas which had been merely conceptual until now. “I will not have you marry me for something I chose to do, Morgan. It is unfair.”
“It will protect you,” he ground out.
“I have spent weeks arguing that women should be able to make their own decisions and control their own lives. If you marry me, then won’t you be losing control of your life? For something which wasn’t your decision in the first place?”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “I was not coerced into this against my will. It was my decision, too, Emma.”
“It will still be forcing your hand.”
Morgan shook his head. “How dare you turn this around so…so neatly!” he ground out.
“How can I not consider you?” she cried. “What would it say of my character if I insist upon liberty for myself, yet withhold it from you? I have many, many sins and flaws, Morgan, but I hope never to add hypocrite to that roster.”
Morgan dropped his hands to his sides. “No, you have never been that,” he said heavily. He spun to look through the dormer window, where the sun simmered at the rim of the peaks to the east. “You had best leave, while I have the strength to let you.”
Emma hated that the matter must be left as it laid between them, with hurt and misunderstandings. Only, the building dawn chorus and the rising sun warned her that time had run out. Soon the house would stir. She could not linger here.
She wanted to kiss him once last time but did not dare, for Morgan was rigid with unspoken hurt or anger. He had pulled all his emotions back inside, to brood over.
Finally, Emma picked up her hem, which was far too long at the front without petticoats and flounces to lift it up. She turned and left. There was nothing else left for her to do.
MORGAN HAD SUPPOSED THAT A night with Emma in his arms would let him sleep once more yet sleep remained elusive. There was no relaxation in his mind or his body. It was both a relief and a painful prod to his conscience when Emma went back to ignoring him.
The strength of her will! The clarity of her thinking! He could not help but admire both, even though they were the reason why he now tossed in his lonely bed every night, his body an aching, unfulfilled morass of quivering flesh.
As he always had, Morgan returned to his work to distract himself during the day. Evenings were a trial and nights impossible to bear.
Then, four days after that night, Konstantin received an overseas letter which he exclaimed happily over at the breakfast table, then requested to speak to Will and Morgan.
Will took the prince through to the library. Morgan trailed after them, coming up with and discarding a dozen different reasons he could use to excuse himself from any confidences Konstantin was about to share.
Konstantin turned back and shepherded Morgan into the room, with a sunny smile and shut the door behind the three of them and leaned against it. He was beaming, the foreign letter with the massive red seal in his hand.
“I received word last night from the Emperor himself,” Konstantin said. “He has approved the matter. Now, all that remains is for you to give your permission, William.”
Will rubbed his chin, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.
Something squeezed Morgan’s throat, closing down his breath, making his heart hurt.
Konstantin nodded, as if they had both demanded to know what he was speaking about, even though neither of them had spoken. “As the head of the household, Will, I seek your permission to ask Miss Emma to marry me.”
MORGAN REALIZED HE HAD FAILED to lock the office door only when Will stepped through, shut the door behind him and turned the key.
“Time to talk,” Will said, his tone kind.
“I am busy.” Morgan waved to the piles of letters and the big stack of ledgers on his desk. It was the first week of July and last month’s accounts should be reviewed, so it wasn’t a lie.
“I don’t care,” Will said. He pulled out one of the upright chairs in front of the desk and dropped onto it with heavy grace. His gaze was steady.
Morgan cleared his throat and picked up his pen and blotted it carefully.
“Are you really that blind, Morgan?”
Morgan threw down the pen. “If I had any idea what you were talking about, I would tell you it is a private matter and none of your concern.”
“I spent years telling people who cared about me it was none of their business,” Will said. “As it happens, they were right, and I was a complete and utter idiot.”
Morgan closed his eyes and squeezed the flesh over his nose. Will would not leave it alone. Morgan’s heart thudded. “Very well. Why am I blind?”
“You observed me skate to the edge of utter ruin and disaster,” Will said. “I thought you would have learned from that. Only, now you’re making the same mistake.”
Morgan picked up the pen once more. “Is there any way we can end this conversation right now?”
“You’ve seen just about every man in the family make a fool of himself through sheer idiocy and stubbornness.”
Morgan gripped the pen in his fist. “And they all brought near disaster upon everyone standing too close to them,” he shot back.
“You completely fail to see the whole point of it!” Will said, thumping the arm of the chair with the side of his fist.
Morgan stared at him, puzzled.
Will hissed. “That madness, that disaster we’ve all skirted…it brought us happiness.”
Morgan recoiled. “I really am busy…”
Will shook his head. “No. Just this once, I am the one with the good advice, so just this once you will listen to me. You’ve spent far too many years hiding in this office, in this far-off corner of the world. You’ve been afraid to live, Morgan. You’ve been afraid of courting your own disaster, and now one is swirling around your ankles and you need to step into it and embrace it.”
Morgan shot to his feet, anger clawing at his chest and his mind. “Get out of my office,” he ground out.
Will got to his feet. “Aye, well, you’ve heard me,” he said. “Or you’d not be so filled with fury.” He walked over and unlocked the door and rested his hand on the handle. “Emma is a whirlwind. You’ve never learned how to deal with the chaos she brings with her. Maybe that’s exactly why you need her.”
Morgan looked down at the crowded desktop and waited, his heart hurting.
When the door clicked shut once more, he sank down into the chair, trembling.
BECAUSE SHE WAS NOT SLEEPING well, Emma descended the stairs each morning at a later hour than the previous day. She didn’t mind missing breakfast, for it meant avoiding the three men who gathered at the table.
Instead, she would take tea with Bridget in the morning room, before Bridget set off on her round of the mills. There, Emma would eat a scone or slice of cake to tide her over until the noon meal. She had no appetite, anyway.
It was in the morning room where Kosta found her. He apologized to Bridget for interrupting her morning, then turned to Emma. “May I speak to you in the drawing room? Alone? If you have no objections, Lady Rothmere?”
Bridget’s smile was sunny. Her eyes danced. “Not in the least.”
Emma put her cup of tea aside and rose to her feet as Kosta stepped back, waiting for her to lead the way. Her heart knocked painfully. It leapt even higher when Kosta closed the drawing room doors behind them.
He turned to face her. He wasn’t smiling, yet warmth shone in his eyes, which made her heart hurt even more.
Emma held up her hand. “I believe I know why you wish to speak to me, Kosta, but—”
“Good. Then what I ask will not shock you. You and I are such good friends, Emma. I, like you, have enjoyed this summer very much. It is an excellent weathervane, that friendship. It tells me we would do well together—”
“You cannot marry me, Kosta.” She shook her head.
He touched his hand to his breast. Paper crinkled in his inner pocket. “On the contrary. You must forgive me the indel
icacy of speaking to others before I spoke to you, but as a Prince of the Ottoman Empire, I must smooth such matters over with courtiers and politicians first. The Emperor has given his blessing, Emma. I am free to marry you.”
Horror spilled through her. “I am a commoner, Kosta! Worse, I am—”
Kosta held up his hand. “We both know you are neither of those things, not in truth. It is that truth which the Emperor considered.” Kosta moved closer to her. “Do you not see the…the symmetry of this, Emma? You are—we both believe you are, at least—a daughter of my extended family. And you are the daughter of another great family. You are not even remotely a commoner, although that is a fact which will remain between us forever.”
Coldness replaced her horror. “You know…” she whispered.
Kosta’s smile was small and reassuring. “I guessed. And having guessed, I understood why the truth has been repressed. It is too delicate a matter to be spoken of openly.” His smile faded. “Do you not see why marrying me would be such a fine thing?” His expression sobered. “In this way, I would redress any harm delivered to your family by Albus Thorburn. And through you, the title you should have inherited in the first place can be passed on to your son, who will be a prince, too.”
Emma sank onto the edge of the sofa, quite without meaning to.
Children!
The thought should have delighted her. She should be swooning with joy. This moment was one she had planned and dreamed about through four Seasons, until the ton had made it quite clear she would never be considered one of them.
Kosta was a prince. Royalty. He wanted to marry her.
She would be a princess, or perhaps a royal consort. No matter what, she would no longer be the nameless adopted girl who could not be presented at court because of her grubby lack of a family tree.
Kosta didn’t drop to one knee, as was traditional. He pulled over the armchair and sat on the edge of it, his knee nearly brushing hers. He leaned forward earnestly. “You are beautiful and graceful and gay, Emma Wardell. You have made my summer a joy. Let me make the rest of your life a pleasure in return. Will you marry me?”
Her breath, what she had left of it, escaped in a hard little rush.
Say yes. Say ‘I will’. Say the words, then it is done.
She couldn’t part her lips. They would not cooperate.
Kosta picked up her hand, which laid limp on her lap. “I have disconcerted you. That was not my intention.”
Emma cleared her throat. “I never thought…I did not consider for a moment that you might ever…I am not the type of lady a prince…” She shook her head. “This is coming out all wrong, I am afraid. I’m sorry, Kosta. I just…my head is reeling.”
He nodded. “Would you prefer to consider my proposal for awhile? You will come to see how greatly it makes sense, given time. We compliment one another, Emma. I think we would be happy together.”
Emma met his gaze, startled into it. “Yes,” she said softly. “I think we actually could be happy together,” she admitted. She managed a small smile. “That is something I never thought I would say about you, of all people. You terrified me and my family last October, in Cornwall.”
Kosta nodded. “And now I can make the sweeping gesture and make up for every ill and hurt my family has ever brought upon yours. This will erase the blackness of the past which haunts both our families. Do you see that?”
“I do.” She got to her feet. “Thank you, Kosta. I am deeply moved by your generous proposal and your patience while I consider my answer. You have honored me.”
He stood, too. “The honor is mine.” He bowed.
Oddly, she believed him.
Yet she still felt cold and stiff as she moved to the door, opened it and slipped out into the front hall, which was suspiciously clear of everyone. Not even a footman lingered nearby.
Emma made her way to the stairs, walking slowly. Her room was the only place where she would find any privacy and time to think. As she passed the big library doors, which were left open during the day, movement from within caught her eye. She looked through the doors.
Morgan stood at the sideboard, a heavy crystal glass in his big hand. It was half-full with brandy. As she watched, he lifted the glass to his mouth and drained it.
His face was bleak.
It took all her strength to keep moving, to reach the stairs and climb to the next floor. She reached the safety of her room and locked the door, then curled up underneath the heavy eiderdown, still fully clothed and shivering.
Chapter Sixteen
In the second week of July, talk of the upcoming local elections surfaced once more. Emma’s spirits had not recovered since Kosta had proposed the previous week. Now, though, she found her interest in things thawing a degree at a time.
Emma wrote to Lydia Becker, to inform her she intended to take up her right to vote and present herself at the town hall on the fourteenth to place her ballot.
Accordingly, the special issue of the Women’s Suffrage Journal published the week before the election was to take place ran a full editorial analyzing the candidates in the local election. It also featured Emma’s letter.
Swiftly, the Inverness Courier picked up the thread of the topic and countered with observations from Lord Shelby on the inability of women to withstand mental stimulation.
Bridget read the article at the breakfast table even before Will had a chance to scan the newspaper. She batted away his hand when he tried to claim his newspaper for himself.
“I cannot believe Lord Shelby could be so narrowminded,” Bridget said at last, as she closed the broadsheet and handed it to Will.
Emma knew she would have to wait her turn to read the newspaper, so she raised her brow at Bridget as she buttered her toast. “Let me guess. Women are incapable of independent thought and should remain in their domestic spheres, where they belong.”
“And more,” Bridget said. “Women who venture beyond their natural borders are embarrassing themselves and the world, upsetting the natural order of the family structure. They should be bought to heel by their husbands and fathers.”
Emma’s jaw dropped. “He really said that?”
“It is right there in black and white,” Bridget said, pointing to the newspaper which Will now held up by his nose, scanning each line slowly.
“Who is this ‘he’?” Kosta asked. He had eaten only a little. Now he sat back with his precious jug of coffee, his legs crossed and the snowy linen napkin over the knee of his elegant striped trousers.
“Lord Shelby, the current representative for the town of Inverness upon the district council,” Emma replied. She bit into her toast.
“A rather narrowminded old fellow with quaint ideas about womanhood,” Morgan murmured, not lifting his gaze from The Times in front of him.
Emma was startled. She had believed Morgan was not paying attention to anything but his newspaper. For more than a week, she had barely seen him since she had spotted him in the library with brandy in his hand.
“Who do you intend to vote for, Emma?” Bridget asked, as she reached for the teapot to refill her cup.
“Vote?” Kosta repeated, sitting up. “You are to vote?”
Emma laughed. “It happened quite by accident. They added me to the voting roll because they thought I was a man. Now I am officially on the roll, though, I intend to vote on behalf of all women who cannot.” She smiled at Bridget, who smiled back.
Kosta returned his cup to the saucer with a sharp click. “You will go through with this…lunacy?”
Emma put the crust of toast back on her plate and brushed off her fingers, caution touching her. “Lunacy, Kosta? It is madness for a woman to vote?”
Morgan lifted his head and sat back, his newspaper forgotten. He watched Kosta, too.
Kosta glanced at Morgan, then at Will, who had lowered the Courier enough to stare at Kosta over the top of it. Kosta cleared his throat. “Perhaps I do not understand. Is it not against the law for women to vote? Even here?�
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“The English government has ruled so,” Morgan said, his tone dry. “This is a local election, under the jurisdiction of the District of Inverness. They are free to arrange their local elections in whatever way they choose.”
“And they chose to let me vote,” Emma added. Her voice came out flat, even though she did not mean it to emerge quite so forcefully.
Kosta smoothed down his tie. “This is very…irregular,” he muttered. He pointed at Will’s newspaper. “This Lord Shelby. He disapproves of Emma voting?”
“With vehemence,” Will said from behind the sheet. “Even I have trouble swallowing some of what he claims are the weaknesses of womanhood, though.”
Kosta cleared his throat. “That is not a good sign.”
“No?” Emma said, her tone cool.
He glanced at her across the table and gave a tiny smile, almost a grimace. “I have some familiarity with newspapers and the perception of the public. I am a public figure—at least in Constantinople, I am. This Lord Shelby would not have spoken so loudly and publicly if he did not think the majority of people agreed with him.”
Emma got to her feet. “I think you may be as surprised as Lord Shelby, come next Monday.”
Kosta stood quickly. “You do not understand, Emma. He will not be surprised. He knows exactly what he can say and be believed.”
Emma’s heart squeezed. “I thought…I believed you were a forward-thinker, Konstantin. You disappoint me.”
“You misunderstand,” Kosta said quickly.
Emma left the room, her heart thudding unhappily.
“Emma, please wait!” Kosta called from the door.
She waited with her hand on the newel post, one foot upon the first step.
Kosta hurried to where she stood. “I wish…I would request that you reconsider your decision in this matter.”
“I have, Kosta. Many times. Even yesterday I wondered if I should go through with it. Only this morning…just now, in fact, your reaction reminded me of why I must do this. Women are not chattels. We have a right to determine our own lives. You have spent the summer watching Bridget run businesses. How can you side with Shelby?”
Year of Folly Page 17