by Anna Bradley
It looked as if he’d won the dog over by playing with him in the snow. Too bad people weren’t so easily satisfied.
“It was lovely to be outside in the fresh air,” Emma replied. “I arranged for refreshments, Lady Markham.”
“Are we going to finish the decorations, Emma?” Rose asked.
Emma nodded. “I hope you and your aunt will help me make table arrangements for the entry hall and the dining room. Our guests will be here in just a few days.”
The tea and chocolate arrived. Rose and Emma opted for chocolate while he and Lady Markham chose tea. The scent of cinnamon and cloves from the chocolate wafted in the air. He realized he didn’t smell Lady Markham’s pungent perfume today.
Rose dropped a sugar cube into her cup. He smiled when he caught her eye but made no comment. The lady was fashionably slim, so her fondness for sweets didn’t appear to be a problem.
“Do you want my assistance with flower arranging?” he asked his sister from his tall hardbacked chair near her side.
“I will excuse you just this once,” Emma replied with a wink. “You were a good sport yesterday.”
“Do you have a Yule log for the Christmas fire?” Lady Markham asked him, her brows raised.
He shook his head. “We didn’t have one last year.”
“We must have one this year, Thomas,” Emma said.
“It’s tradition,” Lady Markham added.
Rose nodded her agreement. He was heavily outnumbered.
“I will find the biggest branch I can for our Christmas fire.” He set his teacup and saucer on the tea tray. “Along with making sure the forecourt is shoveled before the snow hardens.”
He stood up and bade the ladies best wishes with their Christmas arrangements. While he took care of his errands he would think about what he should say to reassure Lady Markham that he would no longer take advantage of Lady Rose’s kindness.
CHAPTER SIX
Rose was equal parts relieved and disappointed not to be sharing the close quarters of the still room with Sir Thomas again. Whenever she’d looked at him today she thought about their kiss, remembered the warmth of his lips, the smell of him.
She had been obsessed with the baronet when she was twelve years old. He’d always been kind to her, especially on the day she told him she was in love with him.
“Lady Rose, you are just a girl. You will meet many men in your life, and the infatuation you feel for me will become a distant memory.”
He hadn’t laughed at her. Hadn’t told anyone about her declaration as far as she knew. To hide her embarrassment over being rejected, she promptly pretended to have a tendre for her brother’s friend Lord Peake. Over the next few years, she feigned many an interest in other men until the whole charade got out of hand. Although her family teased her about her flightiness, she sensed her brother Ambrose was concerned about her many infatuations.
When Ambrose married Camellia in the spring of 1824, Rose was nearly fifteen years old. In two years she and Emma would make their debut. There would be time to think about young men then. She was done with pretending. Fiction belonged in books.
Rose had concentrated on writing stories about the adventures of a fox family who lived in the forest outside the imaginary village of Weasel Town.
Ambrose read her early efforts and encouraged her to revise them and send them to publishers. She used the pseudonym R. J. Blevins. When a publisher asked to meet her, she went to London with Ambrose. Some preliminary sketches Emma completed of the fox family went with her. Although the publisher was taken aback to find she was a woman he still wanted to publish her first three stories in a single volume. She would sign a contract only if Emma’s illustrations were included. The two ladies would share the proceeds from the book. She was to be published!
The young women collaborated at Wickling Manor in Emma’s art studio. Sir Thomas was often in Suffolk or Cambridgeshire attending archeological digs, so she ran into him at the manor very rarely. She still cared for the baronet after a fashion but did her best to convince herself she didn’t love him anymore.
The two ladies had just sold another volume of stories when Emma had her accident.
“Rose, do you think I should add laurel to this arrangement?” Emma asked.
She blinked. “Sorry, Emma. I was woolgathering.”
“The laurel?” Emma held up a piece of the branch.
“I think it will be perfect,” she replied.
Aunt Abigail sat on a stool across from Rose at the long table, seemingly lost in her own musings. Her aunt was deaf in one ear due to a childhood fever. Her brother Ambrose maintained that their aunt could hear what she wanted to hear. She simply ignored conversations she wasn’t interested in.
Rose was used to her aunt’s peculiarities. Sometimes Abigail was a chatterbox, other times she could remain silent for hours.
Rose selected a large shallow porcelain bowl from the tall cabinet to make her arrangement. The pattern of the china included green and gold, which would look very nice with red holly berries. Several minutes later she was satisfied with her project. She wasn’t surprised to find her aunt had fallen asleep.
“That is beautiful,” Emma said and clapped her hands. “Your arrangement will look splendid on the entry hall table.”
The sound of Emma’s clapping awakened Aunt Abigail. Her aunt she sat up straighter and yawned.
A maid knocked at the open door, entered, and handed a folded piece of paper to Abigail.
“How odd,” she said as she read the note. “It is from Sir Thomas. He would like to speak with me in his study.”
* * * * *
“Thank you for meeting with me, Lady Markham.” Thomas stood up from his chair behind the mahogany desk. He walked in front of the desk, where two plush armchairs were placed at an angle to each other. He motioned for the lady to take one.
“I cannot account for why you’ve requested a private meeting with me, Sir Thomas. Is something wrong at Marcourt? Are my nieces and nephews well?”
The lady took a seat, and he closed the door to his study before following suit. “As far as I know, all is well at Marcourt. I wished to speak to you on another matter.”
Lady Markham didn’t reply but merely stared at him patiently.
“Are you comfortable, my lady? Would you like refreshment?”
“I am comfortable, and we’ve just had tea, Sir Thomas.” She frowned. “Perhaps you could tell me what you want to speak about?”
He cleared his throat. “I did overhear your conversation with Lady Rose in the drawing room yesterday.”
The lady inclined her head but remained silent. Her piercing gaze didn’t make speaking with her the most comfortable activity. He felt as if she could see his every thought.
“I wanted to let you know I agree that I have presumed too much on your niece’s kindness. I plan on remaining at Wickling Manor for some time. If I am not at home, I will discourage Emma from imposing on Lady Rose. Your niece is our neighbor and a family friend. She is not my sister’s nurse or paid companion.”
“I see. What has caused this recent desire to stay in Norfolk?” she asked in reply.
It never crossed his mind not to tell the lady the truth. Her strong personality had the opposite effect on him.
“While it is true that I still pursue some activities in the field of antiquities, the purpose of most of my absences from home have been to discover whether I could find some medical assistance for Emma’s condition.”
Lady Markham frowned. “Her condition? Sir Thomas, the young woman cannot walk. That is not something that can be reversed.”
He nodded. “My motives were not altogether unselfish. If I could find a way to help my sister walk again it might alleviate some of the guilt I feel over the accident.”
There was silence in the room. He’d surprised himself by speaking those thoughts aloud.
“What’s done is done, Sir Thomas,” Lady Markham said kindly. “You couldn’t know your sister wou
ld fall down the stairs. You wanted to protect Emma. There is at least one more thing you haven’t told her. It just so happens my late husband had many friends in the Foreign Office.”
“Then you know the truth about my father’s death?” he asked with some hesitation.
“I know your father took his own life in India after your mother told him she was leaving him. Sir Thomas, your mother’s transgressions outside her marriage are not a secret to society.” She paused. “Your father was well thought of in diplomatic circles so the circumstances surrounding his death were concealed from the public.”
Someone else knew. It was almost a relief. “I don’t know what purpose it would serve to tell Emma.”
“I cannot advise you on what to do. Because of your family’s wealth and status, it was decided the scandal of suicide was to be avoided at all costs. Also, I have an idea you believe your sister to be illegitimate. There is no proof of that, Sir Thomas.”
His mother had provided all the proof he needed but he merely nodded in reply. “Emma knows her father is dead. She doesn’t need to know he committed suicide.”
“It sounds as if you have made your decision.” Lady Markham rose to her feet. “I should like to take a turn in the upper gallery. I have been sitting down far too much today.”
“Thank you for your time, Lady Markham,” he replied. He stood and opened the door to the room. “It goes without saying that I appreciate your discretion about the truth of my father’s death. Few people know he committed suicide, and I would like it to remain that way.”
Lady Markham walked out of the doorway and came to a sudden halt. In front of her was Emma in her wheeled chair.
“How could you?” his sister gasped when their gazes met, her eyes wide. “You lie to me over and over, Thomas. I’ll never trust you ever again.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
After Lady Markham left them in the still room, Emma had decided they were done with flower arranging for the moment. She wished to paint a while. Rose returned to her bedchamber to write, Livingston by her side.
Rose was seated at a small rosewood writing desk in her bedchamber. When she heard a knock at her door, she didn’t look up from her notebook but merely said, “Come!”
“Rose, something has happened,” her aunt said in urgent tones from behind her. “I need you to see to Emma.”
She looked up. Her aunt stood just inside the room, lines of worry etched on her face. “What is it, Aunt Abigail?”
“Emma can explain the situation to you. She is very upset, and neither I nor her brother can calm her.”
The expression on her aunt’s face was blank. Rose would get no answer from that quarter. She put down her quill, stood, and hurried from the room.
Rose heard sobbing as she approached Emma’s bedchamber. The crying sounded as if it was coming from the room next door, Emma’s studio. She tried the door to find it locked.
“Go away! I don’t want to talk to anyone!” Emma’s voice sounded hoarse.
She knocked several times and said, “It’s me, Emma. It’s Rose.”
There was a moment of silence before she heard the scrape of a key in the lock.
“Are you alone?” Emma asked.
“Yes.”
“You may come in.”
Janet opened the door to her, Emma was seated in her chair across the room.
“Please leave us for now, Janet. Give the key to Rose,” Emma said, her voice sounding almost normal.
Once she took the key and locked the door behind Janet, Rose walked a few steps into the center of the room. Nothing was amiss; art supplies were in their usual place. The canvas on the easel was a recent illustration.
“Would you like to tell me what has upset you?” she asked as she perched on a nearby stool.
“My brother is a liar,” Emma replied savagely. “He has lied about everything my entire life.”
Her friend’s eyes were red from crying, her face streaked with tears. She had never heard Emma speak with venom in her voice. It was unsettling, reminding her of the fits of anger her friend experienced soon after her accident.
“Emma, you are distraught. Tell me what has happened,” she said in a soothing voice.
“I heard Thomas speaking with your aunt. My father didn’t die of a fever. He committed suicide.” She paused to blow her nose on a piece of linen. “I demanded Thomas tell me the truth about Mother and Father. The whole truth.”
Emma began to cry again, her shoulders shaking.
Rose got up and went over to kneel by Emma’s chair. “If it is too painful to tell me, I understand. It is up to you, Emma. I will not pry.”
After a few hiccups, Emma said, “My father took my mother to India to separate her from her many lovers. Mother hated India. One day she told him she was leaving him. Father was so distressed he killed himself.”
“Oh no! I am so sorry, Emma.” The words sounded inadequate to her own ears.
“And the Foreign Office covered it up. Everyone was told my father died of a fever in India. His body was shipped back to England, he was buried in the family cemetery on the estate, and my mother never told us the truth. Thomas only discovered how our father died when Mother left. She used the knowledge to ask for a bigger allowance from my brother.”
“Thomas tried to protect you,” was all she could think to say.
“I pressed him to tell me everything.” She shook her head sadly. “My mother doesn’t know who my father is. After she gave birth to Thomas, she barred her husband from her bed. My real father could be one of several men.”
She patted her friend’s hands. “I am so sorry. It doesn’t change the way I see you, Emma.”
“Mother’s husband, the baronet, wanted me,” she replied. “He acknowledged me. Mother thought he was weak for doing so. He loved her, you see, but she didn’t love him. He killed himself rather than face a life without her.”
“At least the baronet wanted you,” she replied lamely.
“He loved me, Rose.” She teared up again. “And my own mother left us in the middle of the night because she was afraid I would make a scene when she abandoned me.”
Rose squeezed Emma’s hands. Lady Childs’ sins were many.
“And you cannot forgive Thomas for not telling you all of this?” she asked softly. “For not wanting you hurt again?”
Emma let out a rude noise. “He even lied about why he took all those trips around the countryside.”
“He did?” she asked, intrigued.
“Thomas was trying to discover a cure for me. He hoped to find someone or something that could help me walk again.”
Rose never expected that explanation for Thomas’s absences. Although his heart might have been in the right place she couldn’t help but wonder if it might have been better to tell his sister about his quest.
Emma sniffled for a short while; Rose still beside her. “I’m not as angry with Thomas as I was.”
“Thank goodness for that,” she replied softly. “I think you need time to come to terms with all you’ve learned today.”
“The worst part is knowing my mother isn’t sure who my father is.” Emma’s voice broke, but this time tears did not follow.
“Would you like to contact her?” she asked with some hesitation.
“No!” Emma shook her head emphatically. “I never want to see or hear from her again. She didn’t want children. Thomas always looked after me. Always took care of me.”
Rose remained silent. It was not for her to point out that the brother who had repeatedly lied to her loved her very much.
Emma took several deep breaths before she said, “I will not be joining everyone for dinner tonight. Please see that a tray is sent to my room.”
“What about Christmas? Tomorrow is Christmas Eve.” She stood up, holding onto the wheeled chair to keep her balance.
“I had completely forgotten.” Emme frowned. “Let me think on it tonight, Rose. We will talk about it in the morning. Now I wish to go to my ro
om. I want to be alone.”
Rose unlocked the studio and pushed her friend’s chair to her bedchamber. Janet was inside, standing by the hearth, her face reflecting concern for her mistress.
Emma held up a hand. “No questions, Janet. I merely desire some time alone. Please make sure I am disturbed by no one.”
Rose turned to go and heard her friend say, “Thank you, Rose. We will speak tomorrow.”
When she asked a footman in the entry hall where she might find Sir Thomas, he directed her to the upstairs gallery in the east wing. She would speak to the baronet although she didn’t know what she might say. He’d lied to her too, after all. He’d let her think his work was more important than Emma.
“You’re being unfair,” she said aloud. Thomas’s motives had been good. He wanted to protect his sister. He’d done the best he could in a very difficult situation.
It was time for her to go home. Emma and Thomas needed to decide how to go forward. She wasn’t a part of their family, no matter how much she might wish to be.
* * * * *
Emma had wanted to know the truth. She instructed him to push her chair to her studio at the end of the east wing away from the main rooms of the house.
Thomas told her everything he knew. No more secrets. No more lies. When he was finished, she was silent for a moment before the tears came.
“Leave me, Thomas,” she sobbed when he reached out to take her hands.
His attempts to comfort her were rebuffed several times.
She wouldn’t look at him. “Go away. Just go away.”
After he left the room, he sent Janet to her. He would walk the gallery. It was his place to think.
The lengthy walkway contained family portraits along one long wall, several tall windows were on the other side, their curtains pulled aside. He could see the sky was brighter than earlier in the day. It appeared there wouldn’t be more snow for Christmas.
Christmas. This time of the year was for joy, not pain and sadness.
