by Joyce Alec
“I am sorry to interrupt,” the footman said apologetically, his eyes lingering on her tear-stained cheeks. “I did knock a few times, but—”
“It does not matter,” Emily replied, a little embarrassed to have been found crying by one of the servants. “What is it?”
The footman cleared his throat and stepped back towards the door. He opened it wide and beckoned someone inside—and much to Emily’s surprise, there came not one, not two, but three footmen, each bearing a large bouquet of roses. The first was a gentle pink, the second a delicate yellow, and the third a deep, beautiful red. Emily stared at them in utter astonishment as they were set before her, each in an exquisite glass vase that she presumed had come with the flowers, since they were all the same. Her astonishment grew all the more when a single, white rose was placed before her by a fourth footman whom she had not seen enter the room.
“Wh—what is the meaning of this?” she asked hoarsely, looking up at the first footman who was now holding a tray with a small note in the center. “Did this all come from the same person?”
“The very same, I believe,” the footman replied, bowing. “This note came with them.”
With cold fingers, Emily reached out and picked up the note from the tray, hardly daring to believe these gifts were all for her. From the grief of last evening to the shock of this morning, her mind was confused and her body felt stiff and sore, to the point that it was a trifle painful to break the seal. Just as swiftly and as silently as they had come, the footmen quit the room and left her alone as she unfolded the note and began to read.
‘My darling Miss Smythe,’ the note read. ‘How wrong I was to spurn you so last evening. Can you ever forgive me for my cruel actions? The truth is that I was caught up by the suddenness of Lady Josephine’s request and was quite overcome with her presence and her standing within society. I should not have treated you so. Say that you will forgive me, my dear lady. Write to me and let me know when I might see your beautiful countenance once more.’
It was signed with a large ‘D’ which Emily knew to be Lord Davenport. There were no other gentlemen who had treated her so and certainly no gentlemen from whom she might expect large bouquets of flowers. Her heart immediately leapt in her chest, but Emily dismissed the delightful emotion in a moment. She was not as stupid as Lord Davenport clearly expected her to be. She would not simply forgive him because he asked it of her! She was not as easily inclined towards forgiving the ‘spurn’, as he had so delicately put it, finding that his explanations were somewhat lacking as far as she was concerned. Despite his insistence that he had simply been overcome by the sight and presence of Lady Josephine, she did not think that a gentleman who supposedly cared for her in the way he had stated would have been so easily turned from his initial promises. If he did care for her, if he did want to court her, then she would have been his first thought. He would not have given in to Lady Josephine simply because she surprised him.
“What is all the noise this morning, Emily?”
Emily jumped in her seat as her father threw open the door and stormed into the dining room, his face rather red. She rose hurriedly, having not expected to see him at all that day since he usually slept late and then only rose to attend whatever occasion he was to go to next.
“I—I am sorry if they disturbed you, Father,” she said quickly, gesturing to the vases. “It is only that I have received… a gift.” She did not quite know what else to call the flowers, looking at them with a sinking heart before returning her eyes to her father. Much to her surprise, the redness was disappearing from his face and he now appeared to be almost jovial.
“My, my,” he said, his small, green eyes narrowing all the more as his double chin wobbled. “So my daughter has finally found herself a suitor, has she?” He grinned at her, his crooked teeth showing as he ran one hand over his balding head, sending up wisps of grey and white hair. “I did wonder if that fellow was going to come through for you in the end. I could not tell whether or not he was just toying with you.”
Emily swallowed hard, seeing the lack of concern for her in her father’s eyes and hearing the disregard in his voice.
“I cannot be certain that there is anything of permanence between us, Father,” she said carefully, knowing that if she told her father about the contents of the note, he would insist upon allowing Lord Davenport to call upon her that very afternoon and would make her promise to forgive the fellow so that she might find a contented future by his side.
Her father shrugged, lifting the white rose from the table and bringing it to his nose in what was a very delicate gesture for a man of his girth. “Well, at least you have a chance, Emily. It will either be him or being the companion of Mrs. Fitzgerald.” He chuckled at her surprised look. “It is all arranged. Once this Season is at an end, if you are still unwed, then to Mrs. Fitzgerald you shall go. She is a distant relative—old and spindly and requires someone to aid her in her later years.”
Emily swallowed hard, her hands now tight behind her back as she took in this news. She had thought that her father would give her a little longer to find a match, but it seemed that he was determined to be rid of her. “Where does Mrs. Fitzgerald live, Father?”
He waved an arm. “Somewhere in Scotland,” he said, shrugging as though it did not matter very much where she went. “As I have said, it may be that you will not have to go now that this Dinklage chap—”
“Davenport, Father.”
Rolling his eyes, her father’s mouth set into a thin line. He did not much like being corrected. “Davenport, then. It may be that he will be the only thing that prevents you from going to Scotland.” He laughed uproariously at this, as though it were some matter of great mirth, and the sound left Emily feeling hollow.
“I do not think that I am inclined towards him, Father,” she whispered, not looking up at him. “He has—”
“Nonsense!” her father exclaimed, the smile leaving his face and a dark expression now beginning to form. “You will find yourself inclined towards him no matter what you believe yourself to feel. Do I make myself clear?”
Emily dropped her eyes to her lap, her hands now tightening in her lap. There was nothing she could say by way of argument, for her father would not allow her to so much as speak a word in defiance. Besides which, she thought, her eyes closing tightly, would Lord Davenport be the better choice than serving as a companion for a spinster in Scotland? He had been attentive, yes, even though he clearly expected her to just forgive him for his lack of consideration towards her last evening.
“Emily.”
Her father’s voice was low and hard and Emily knew she could not remain silent.
“Yes, Father. I understand,” she said hoarsely, not able to find anything else to say. “I shall consider him.”
A gruff clearing of his throat was his only response. Her eyes still fixed on her lap, she heard her father’s footsteps as he walked to the door, wincing slightly as it slammed closed. She knew precisely what was expected of her now and there could be no other choice but to return to Lord Davenport and allow him to court her. It did not matter about her feelings, it seemed, even though she was disinclined towards forgiving Lord Davenport, accepting his apologies and continuing with their acquaintance just as it had been before. She had no other choice. Her father would expect nothing but her immediate obedience. He cared nothing for her, of course, as well she knew, but to have her married would improve his reputation, whereas her remaining a spinster would do nothing for him. She would continue to be a burden until his last days. It was better for his sake for her to marry, no matter how much she did not wish to.
“Wickton.”
The word escaped from her mouth before she could prevent it, just as a single tear fell from her eye and landed on her joined hands. Why did her heart still yearn for the one gentleman who had never shown her any particular interest? Yes, he had been charming and polite and genteel, but he had never sought her out in order to take her to the floor for a
quadrille, nor called upon her one afternoon. There was no interest there, it seemed. Why, then, was her mind still caught up with him?
Closing her eyes tightly, Emily took in a shuddering breath and let it shake through her. Her hands were tight now, her breath coming out in a long sigh. She had no choice. There was no reason to allow herself to think about him. She would have to put him from her mind completely and utterly. Lord Davenport would have to become the only one she thought of now. There was nothing for her to do but to accept his pretty apologies and allow him to continue to court her. Marriage was now something she would have to consider. Marriage to Lord Davenport.
Despite her efforts to contain her tears, Emily felt them slip down her cheeks. She was not at all certain now that Lord Davenport was the gentleman she had thought him, for she was unable to remove from her mind the way he had looked at her last evening before turning towards Lady Josephine. Was this to be the only time he would treat her in such a way? Or was it to be a warning of what would be in her future?
Emily could not contain her emotions any longer. The pain of last evening, the shock of the roses, the stern demands of her father, and the knowledge that she still cared for Lord Wickton weighed down heavily on her shoulders, sinking through her and breaking her heart into pieces. Tears began to pour down her cheeks unabated and she did not even have the strength to lift her hands and wipe them away. Her world seemed to be shrinking around her, the sea seeming to lap at her toes as it rose up in a torrent on every side. There was nothing she could do, no other choice she could make. Lord Davenport was to be her future. He was all that was waiting for her and she had no other choice but to accept.
5
Arthur tried to open his eyes but, for whatever reason, his eyelids appeared to be weighted and heavy. There was a low noise that seemed to reverberate around him and for some minutes, he could not quite understand what it was or where it came from. It was only as he struggled to open his eyes that he realized the noise was coming from him.
He was the one groaning. Groaning with pain. The pain in his head was slamming through his forehead, forcing him to bend his head low as he blinked rapidly in an attempt to force his eyes to remain open. The moaning stopped as he lowered his head to his hands, realizing that he was sitting on the floor with his knees raised up to his chest. He had no knowledge of what had occurred, of where he was or why he was in so much pain.
His eyes squeezed shut as Arthur let out a long breath, trying to recall something—anything—that would help him remember what had occurred. Why was it all so very dark? Why was he in so much pain?
The last thing he recalled was running from the hackney. Someone had attempted to shoot him, had they not? The poor driver had been killed in his place, slumping to the ground as blood pooled beneath him. What had happened thereafter? Arthur could not remember.
As he lifted his head, his whole body seemed to jolt with pain. An anguished cry left his lips as he leaned back, suddenly realizing that his head was now resting against something solid. There was a wall behind him.
Keeping his eyes closed tightly, Arthur tried to straighten out, aware that his legs were still pulled up close to his chest. It took a tremendous effort to settle one leg out straight in front of him, followed by the other, but as he did so, a feeling of relief settled over his frame. His hands rose to press to his forehead, as though the pressure would ease the pain somewhat.
I have been attacked.
The realization whipped across his face as though someone had slapped him with an open hand. That was what had occurred. Someone had attacked him as he had been running from the hackney. There had been that voice, the voice of someone shouting in his direction. Arthur remembered that he had not wanted to stop, that he had been filled with a sudden and overwhelming dread that if he did not remove himself from the scene, then he might find himself in a rather difficult situation. Mayhap running away had been the wrong thing to do. Mayhap he ought to have remained, or to have found someone to aid him. Either way, he had not chosen to do such a thing. Instead, he had run away from the hackney with the intention of returning home and considering the matter there. It seemed, now, that he had never made it.
If I am not at home, then where am I?
Questions began to burn in Arthur’s mind as he finally managed to open his eyes and keep them so. Darkness was the only thing to meet his gaze. There was very little light other than a narrow chink of daylight that came from what appeared to be a very small window to his left.
Gritting his teeth, Arthur drew his legs back up to his chest and then attempted to rise. The pain seemed to split his head in two, but his jaw set hard as he tried to find something to lean on. His hand pressed hard against the wall as he steadied himself, wishing that he did not feel so weak. Drawing in some long breaths, Arthur found his eyes fluttering closed again as he felt himself sway. He could not faint, not now. He had already lapsed into unconsciousness, it seemed, and he certainly did not want to return there, even though its arms seemed welcoming enough. His jaw worked as he forced his eyes back open, trying desperately to find a strength within himself that he did not feel.
Finally, he stopped swaying. His eyes opened again and he found himself staring at the small fissure of light as though it was the answer to all of his questions. Pushing himself away from the wall, he reached forward and took a few stumbling steps until his hand grasped the cloth that covered the window.
He tugged at it hard, bringing a cloud of dust down upon his head. Coughing and spluttering, Arthur wiped at his eyes with his other hand, setting his jaw tight as the pain in his head began to stab at him once more. The cloth came away in his hand as he tugged it again, finally revealing the small, rectangular window that was cut into the wall.
A light draft began to play across his face as Arthur peered out of the tiny window. There was not a good deal to be seen. The window appeared to overlook some gardens, which he did not recognize. There was no one about, no one walking through them to whom he might try and call for help. He had no idea where he was, for the gardens did not reveal anything particular to him. This was someone’s property, that was for certain, but why he was now being kept within it, he could not say. He was, apparently, quite high up within the house. The gardens were small and he could just see over the top of one of the stone walls, although there was nothing but plants and shrubbery there also. He did not recognize anything, which meant that he was not at the home of someone he knew.
Arthur’s eyes drank in the light greedily and he found, much to his surprise, that the pain in his head began to diminish as though all he had needed to do was remove himself from the darkness. Swallowing hard, Arthur realized just how parched his throat was, how hungry he now appeared to be. Whatever was going on? Why had he been taken from his home and placed here?
The questions filled his head and, to his horror, Arthur felt his forehead begin to bead with sweat. His hands clenched into fists as he struggled to maintain his composure, not wanting to become lost in a panic as he held on to the threads of self-control. Hungrily, he looked out of the window again, trying to find a way to maintain his steady breathing so that he would not lose himself in terrifying thoughts.
Turning around slowly, Arthur surveyed the small room in which he found himself. It was bigger than he had first thought, although not at all large enough for him to live in. There was a bed in the corner, very close to where he had been sitting. It was a miracle he had not walked into the edge of it as he had come to the window, he realized, a frown etching itself between his brows. Directly across from him was a small table and a single chair, although both looked as rickety as the other. That was all. There appeared to be nothing else of note.
His frown deepened. It appeared as though this were intended to be some sort of prison, for it was apparent that he was meant to sleep in this room—although for how long, Arthur could not even begin to guess.
“Why am I here?” he murmured, as though the person responsible could hear
him. “What is it that you want?”
As though he were about to get the answer to his question, there was a sound at the door to his right. A heavy key scraped in the lock and then, as it was pushed back, Arthur saw a small, white-faced maid walking into the room.
Had it not been for his surprise, Arthur might have thought to push past her and out into the house to find his way out, but he was so astonished that he could do nothing but look at her.
“You’re awake,” she said, not looking at him as her voice drifted towards him. “The master says—I mean, you’re to have some food and refreshments.” Her skin paled all the more, making her pallor grey as she set the tray on the small table and began to back towards the door.
“Wait,” Arthur said, reaching out towards her, but the maid shook her head and continued to move away.
“Please,” Arthur continued, feeling almost desperate in his urgency to know more about what had happened to him. “Where am I? What is the reason for this?”
The maid swallowed hard, one hand on the door handle. She was small and very thin, with an oval face and the largest brown eyes that Arthur thought he had ever seen. Her hair was carefully pulled back into a bun and not even a single tendril escaped to bounce around her forehead. She was, it seemed, just as she ought to be, although she had obviously made a mistake in referring to ‘the master’. Perhaps he should exploit that.
“Lord Davenport does not want me to know that I am in his house, does he?” he said boldly, relieved and emboldened as the maid’s eyes widened still further, her mouth now a little ajar. “You have just confirmed that it is he who has done this terrible thing.”
The maid said nothing, her hand frozen on the door handle, her feet fixed in place. Arthur felt a small sense of triumph growing within him and, despite the agony still burning through his head, took a step or two towards her. “Why has he captured me like this? It cannot be because of Miss Smythe, surely?” He eyed the maid closely but saw no flicker of recognition in her eyes. It had been a foolish idea to mention Miss Smythe. Of course, the maid would not know who she was.
