by Martha Keyes
She had to know if he felt it, and she looked into his eyes. They held affection and tenderness, and his warm, sweet breath filled the space between them. The air stilled in the room, making her thumping heart seem all the louder.
He leaned over slowly, and she closed her eyes, feeling his gentle lips meet hers and his hand cradle her cheek. Dizziness struck her, and she put an arm around his waist to steady her, her shawl dropping down to the floor. His own arm wrapped around her, bringing her close as the kiss became ardent and fervent, leaving them in a sort of reckless oblivion in the tree-lit room. There was nothing and no one but the two of them, no thoughts; nothing but the headiness and the breaking of tension that suddenly turned the kiss slow and sweet.
Emma broke away, pushing off his chest with her hands, stepping backward and blinking rapidly to set the world aright—to get a hold of herself.
She shook her head, slowly at first, then faster, avoiding the lieutenant’s eyes.
“No.” She shut her eyes. “This was a mistake.”
She allowed herself one glance at him, at the hands which had held her firmly in their grip but now hung empty and limp at his side; at the piece of hair which had dropped down over his forehead in those few impassioned moments; at the eyes which watched her with confusion and hurt.
She rushed from the room.
The temperatures rose rapidly the day after Christmas, melting the once-icy snow in less than a day, making rivulets in the dirt roads which prevented Emma’s departure until the following day.
She tried to focus on the relief that she felt upon seeing patches of grass appear on the lawns and hearing the drip of melting snow from the rooftop. She could go home!
She pushed aside the feeling of sadness that crept in around her relief, refusing to acknowledge it or the suspicion that it was centered around the lieutenant.
And the kiss she had shared with him? It was best not to think on it, as it brought on the strangest mix of giddiness and guilt and confusion—a combination that Emma felt wholly incapable of dealing with.
What had come over her? What had come over him?
She avoided him all day, taking her breakfast in her room and pleading the headache to avoid dinner with the family, even though her stomach growled with hunger as she waited for something to be brought to her room. She couldn’t look him in the eye—she was too afraid of what she might see there if she did.
Did he regret the kiss? Had it simply been gratitude that he hadn’t known how else to express? Or was there something behind it?
Truthfully, she didn’t know that she could bear the answer to any of those questions, and seeing him would undoubtedly make it clear.
Emma was not the only one showing signs of melancholy. It had only required passing Alfred in the corridor to note his sullen demeanor and the despondent civility of Miss Bolton. With the thawing of the ice outdoors, all the cracks that had developed during their snowing-in—the ones they had ignored while the world stopped—seemed to have split open into deep, irreversible fissures.
The departure from Norfield the following morning had been a nerve-wracking experience for Emma. She knew that the entire family would gather in the courtyard to bid her farewell—that she would be obligated to face the lieutenant there, despite having successfully avoided him the entire day before.
But he was not there. And Emma was conscious of a crushing feeling of disappointment, which she tried to persuade herself was actually relief.
Did he not care that she was leaving? Had he been avoiding her all day as well?
She smiled and embraced Lady Dayton, determined to put what had happened at Norfield behind her, as much as she could. The odds of success for such a goal were doubtful, as she left with an invitation in hand, inviting her family to dine at Norfield in just three days’ time.
Three days to decide how to act toward the lieutenant. Or would he absent himself from the dinner, too?
The roads were still muddy, but Emma’s coachman Rhodes managed to bring her to Marsdon House in safety, all the same. By the time the carriage pulled into the courtyard, Emma’s heart was pounding so forcefully that she wouldn’t have been surprised if Lucy had heard it from inside the house. She stepped down into the mud—the only remnant of the undisturbed snow that had blanketed everything just two days ago.
When she came into the entry hall, she was accosted by three of her younger siblings, all eager to tell her just how much she had missed in her absence.
Lucy and Mr. Pritchard stood against the wall, patiently waiting for the little ones’ attention to wane. Lucy’s hand was on her chest, evidence of her relief at seeing Emma, and it was clear from her alert gaze that she was eager to speak with her sister. No doubt she was wondering how Emma had fared at Norfield where conversation would naturally have included Lieutenant Warrilow—the man she abhorred.
Had abhorred.
Emma swallowed nervously as her siblings ran off down the corridor. She almost called them back, simply to avoid the conversation she knew she must have. What could she say when her own feelings were so confused? When she had last left Lucy, she had been bemoaning the lieutenant’s faulty character; she was returning now having gone so far in the opposite direction as to kiss the man? And to have enjoyed it? To have relived it a number of times, try as she might to forget it?
And Lucy still ignorant of the lieutenant’s presence in England—still thinking he might be dead.
“Come, Emma,” said Lucy, putting a hand out. “There is tea in the parlor.”
Emma took Lucy’s hand, and Mr. Pritchard bowed, allowing them to walk in front of him.
Emma hardly knew what they discussed as she sipped her tea. She only knew that Mr. Pritchard’s departure from the parlor signaled the opportunity she required.
Both Emma and Lucy’s eyes followed him out of the room.
Lucy set down her teacup, letting out a sigh. “I am so relieved to know that you are well, Emma. I have worried and prayed so. I had to trust that you arrived at Norfield before the storm, for I couldn’t bear the thought of you, stranded in some inn on the road home.” She grimaced at Emma. “Though I am sure it was far from ideal to be stranded at Norfield for days on end.”
Emma forced a smile. It had been ideal in many ways. But nothing like Emma thought it would be.
Lucy looked well. The blush in her cheeks was natural, and her eyes held a healthy glow. It gave Emma hope—hope that she wouldn’t be shaken by knowing of Lieutenant Warrilow’s return.
“How did you find Lord and Lady Dayt—”
“Lucy,” Emma said, shutting her eyes to summon her strength.
Lucy went quiet, her eyebrows up.
Emma couldn’t bear to postpone it any longer. If she did, she might lose her nerve. Lieutenant Warrilow’s face swam before her, looking down at her, full of intensity in the moment before he had kissed her. Before she had kissed him back. She blinked away the image.
“Hugh Warrilow is home.”
Lucy went still, staring at Emma uncomprehending. “What?”
Emma raised up her shoulders and exhaled through her nose. “He arrived home very unexpectedly the evening of my visit to Norfield.” She swallowed. “He is alive.”
Lucy swallowed. She said nothing, and Emma watched her sister with tension seizing her body. What was Lucy feeling? Relief? Hurt? Was she still in love with the lieutenant? Nausea swept over Emma as she waited.
Lucy’s eyes pooled with tears, and Emma’s heart sank.
A sob escaped Lucy, and her hand shot to her mouth as she rose from the couch. Turning on her heel, she ran from the room.
Emma sat, frozen in her chair. She took her top lip under her teeth. Should she follow?
No. How could she possibly comfort Lucy with the weight of all her own unspoken confusion pressing down on her conscience? If Lucy was overset by the knowledge that the lieutenant was home, what would be her reaction to discover all that had transpired during Emma’s time there? What would she say
to know that Emma had kissed the man that Lucy had yearned to marry?
Emma shuddered. She had made a terrible mistake. How in the world was she to face the lieutenant at dinner? And in the company of Lucy, no less?
Lucy had done a decent job of covering her shock and anguish by the time she dressed and descended the stairs to dinner. If Emma hadn’t been such a close observer of Lucy’s past pain, she might not have noticed anything was amiss. She was more somber than usual and quiet, even for her calm disposition. But overall, Lucy managed to smile and talk enough to prevent any questions about what was ailing her, all while Emma observed with a knot in the pit of her stomach.
When Emma managed to find a moment alone with her, Lucy had assured her that she shouldn’t worry over her at all. “It was a shock, no more,” she said, uninterested in further discussion. But her throat bobbed, and Emma didn’t know how to believe her.
What if she were masking deep feelings of regret beneath her blanched but otherwise placid façade?
Flashbacks of Emma’s time at Norfield intruded into her thoughts constantly—the truce, the snowball fight, the dejected lieutenant in need of comfort, the kiss.
The kiss.
How would she look at him without remembering the kiss? Without wondering what it meant to him? Without wondering what it would be like to repeat it?
And how would she ever explain to Lucy that she no longer hated the lieutenant but admired him, respected him, and cared for him—cared for him she knew not how much?
10
Hugh stood in the Seymours’ drawing room, his foot tapping nervously on the tattered rug below. His hand shot to his jacket to the distinctive lump where Seymour’s ring sat in his pocket.
Of course it was still there. He had checked more than once on the carriage ride to be sure he hadn’t forgotten it. The ring was the only thing keeping him from feeling brazen for even daring to set foot there, after all. His only consolation was that his anxiety had temporarily overtaken the incessant and overwhelming despondency which had been threatening to overtake him since Emma’s departure.
The door opened, and Mrs. Seymour walked in, holding a toddler on her hip and trailed by two other young children.
Hugh’s jaw shifted, and he suppressed the impulse to squeeze his eyes shut. There was something even more harrowing about seeing the widow and children Seymour left behind than there had been in watching Seymour draw his last breath.
Mrs. Seymour looked bone-weary. The shawl she wore over her arms was threadbare, and the children’s clothing pressed but stained. Hugh knew Robert had never been well-to-do—a country barrister, no more—but it was clear that his family was in difficult financial straits.
The children looked up at Hugh with large, wary eyes.
Not wanting to frighten the children, he winked at them. A responsive smile peeped at the corner of the oldest girl’s mouth before being swiftly hidden.
Mrs. Seymour smiled at him, as well, but it didn’t eliminate the sorrow in her eyes. “Hello, Lieutenant,” she said, motioning for him to take a seat. “Please have a seat.”
He sat down on the edge of the upholstered chair. “I am honored to meet you, Mrs. Seymour,” he said, clearing his throat. “I won’t take much of your valuable time, I assure you, but I couldn’t neglect to pay you a visit.”
She sat down. “I confess I was surprised when I received your note. But you served with Robert, didn’t you? I remember your name from some of his letters.”
Hugh nodded. “Robert was in my regiment. An exceptional soldier and a man I endeavor to emulate.” His voice broke slightly, and he cleared it again. “I think you cannot be aware that the fatal injury he sustained occurred in his efforts to protect me.” His jaw shifted from side to side as his mind returned to that day in Vitoria, their regiment lining the banks of the Zadorra river. He blinked to dispel the smell of gunfire, the sound of sabers clashing, and the image of blood-stained ground. “There was a soldier I hadn’t seen—a French one. If Robert hadn’t seen him…” He clenched his jaw, willing himself to look Mrs. Seymour in the eyes. She deserved that much, at least—that the man responsible for her husband’s death should meet her gaze. “He saved my life.”
Mrs. Seymour was rigid in her seat, the toddler she held in her arms moving constantly, as tears made little streams down her cheeks. She said nothing, only nodding with a trembling chin.
Hugh swallowed. “Before Robert’s body was taken for burial, I took the liberty of removing this”— he extracted the ring from his pocket and held it out to Mrs. Seymour —“from his finger. I know how proud Robert was of his name, and I stood in no doubt whatsoever of how well he loved you and your children. He spoke of you often.”
Mrs. Seymour took the ring from his hand and stared at it for a moment. A sob escaped her, and she stifled it with a hand as her oldest daughter—hardly seven years old, surely—came and took the toddler from her arms.
A little boy who Hugh judged to be about six years old walked over to his mother and peered at the ring she held between her thumb and forefinger. He looked up at Hugh.
“My papa gave it to you?”
Hugh pursed his lips in an effort to control his emotions and nodded. He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned toward the boy. “You look very much like your papa. He was a valiant man, and he saved me. Never forget that.”
A sniffle came from the girl holding the toddler. She bounced up and down as the boy whined, but there were tears on her cheeks. She looked at Hugh with anger and hurt. “But I didn’t want him to save you! I wanted him to come home!”
“Liza!” Mrs. Seymour said, her own voice shaky but chastising.
Hugh shook his head, glancing at Mrs. Seymour to convey his understanding. He waited a moment until the catch in his throat subsided. He looked Liza in the eye. “If I could trade places with your father and bring him back to you, I would do it in a heartbeat. He was a better man than I have ever been.”
The toddler began crying, and Mrs. Seymour motioned for Eliza to bring him back to her. Eliza handed him over and wiped at her tears with an impatient brush of her hand.
Her younger brother came to stand beside her, looked up at her watering eyes and began crying softly.
“Perhaps it would be best if you left, Lieutenant,” Mrs. Seymour said with a teary grimace. “We have many things to attend to today—we have had to let go all but two of the servants. I am sure you understand.” She sniffed and motioned for her children to gather in her arms. She wore the signet ring on her thumb.
Hugh nodded and stood. Bowing deeply, he took one last look at Mrs. Seymour, arms around her children, and let himself out of the house.
Hugh sat bleary-eyed in front of the Christmas tree, every other candle in the room extinguished. Only a few, sporadic flames were left speckling the Christmas tree. He had insisted that the tree be left up and at least partially lit until all the decorations were taken down on Epiphany.
The few lights looked fuzzy, and he watched as they reflected off the decanter of brandy in front of him—brandy from the same bottle they had used to play snapdragon a week ago.
What a fool he had been to come home—to think that he could somehow move beyond his past so easily and mend what he had broken. All he had managed to do was create more pain.
Hugh put a hand to his coat, feeling the absence of the signet ring. Young, tearful eyes hovered in his vision, as if he needed another reminder of the destruction he had caused. Those children didn’t want to hear how valiant their father was. They wanted him alive and well. They needed him.
No one needed Hugh.
He hadn’t missed the evidence of the straits the Seymour family was in. How would they fare without a father? How would Mrs. Seymour make do with several young children to feed and clothe? With hardly any help from servants?
And Hugh the reason for their hardship.
He set his glass of brandy down, rubbing his forehead harshly. There must be something more he could do for th
em than to simply return Robert’s ring, telling tales of his bravery. Hadn’t Emma said as much? He had a responsibility toward them, but he doubted that Mrs. Seymour wanted much to do with him. He would only be a reminder of what she had lost.
He sat up straight, his eyes wide and staring.
There was one thing he might do. Of course, it was paltry, all things considered. But surely something was better than nothing?
He would need to write to his uncle and request a meeting. It would only be right to get his permission first.
He leapt to his feet, putting a hand to his forehead and blinking rapidly as the dizziness set in from the drink. Once the room stabilized, he took a candle from the mantle above the fireplace and lit it using one from the tree before striding down the corridor to the library.
Flipping his coat tails out and seating himself, he grabbed for a sheet of paper and a quill, scratching away on the parchment, blinking to keep his eyes focused.
He doubted his uncle would deny his wish, but he needed to speak with him, all the same. Perhaps he would even have some words of wisdom regarding Alfred’s situation.
And heaven knew how much Hugh needed wisdom.
Emma had dressed for the dinner party at Norfield with trembling hands, unable to quench a wish to look her best—it was a silly inclination, but not one she could deny. She felt a little boost of confidence, wearing her favorite white crepe dress with its cascade of pale green spangles down the front, as she stepped up the stairs to Norfield, trailing behind her family.
The Warrilows were in the drawing room, and Emma’s heart skipped a beat as her eyes fell upon Lieutenant Warrilow.
He was there. And his brown eyes found her almost as quickly as her eyes found him. Did that mean something?
Her body stilled, but her heart raced as she met his gaze for a moment, wishing she could read his expression and know his thoughts.