by Stacy Henrie
Thinking fast about what to do next, he followed after Clare. She’d nearly reached the staircase landing, her steps nothing to her rapid ones earlier. The way the color had drained from her face right before she’d hurried upstairs had been unnerving. Had it only been shock at seeing him, or was something else wrong?
“Clare?” he called from where he stood at the bottom of the stairs. “May I come to Messina with you?”
She turned to face him, her hand on the banister, her eyebrows lifted. “You just came from there. Why would you want to go back?”
He didn’t want to, but repeating the two-hour train ride would afford him more time—both to spend with Clare and to come up with a plan for how he was going to convince her to leave Sicily sooner than she apparently wanted. Besides, he preferred the idea of attending a party than staying here alone.
Talking with Clare just now had served as a powerful reminder of how much Emmett had missed their conversations. Until today, he hadn’t seen or spoken to his wife in weeks, and he wasn’t keen on their brief time together ending so soon. And while he couldn’t forget that he had a job to do, he was also hoping that if he and Clare could reconnect, even tentatively, the transition to public life might go more smoothly once they were back in England.
“Vickley and I are friends,” he said, choosing to only give voice to the more logical reasons for accompanying Clare to Messina. “And I’d like to attend the party, if that is amenable to the viscount and to you. The train ride there would also give us time to talk.”
Her lips turned down at the corners. “If you want to talk more about returning to England, then no, I don’t want you to come.” She flinched as she spoke, as if she didn’t enjoy saying such a refusal out loud.
It was a small thing, but it gave Emmett hope—and another idea. He would get nowhere in convincing her if she felt backed into a corner. They did need to talk about his campaigning at some point, but he could be patient. Especially if it meant talking about the future without one or both of them getting frustrated. In the meantime, they could converse about other things.
“I promise, if I come with you, I will not speak of politics, campaigning, or returning to England.”
Clare eyed him silently for a moment. “All right.” The line of her shoulders relaxed slightly. “You may come, and I’ll speak with Helena tonight about you attending the party.” He opened his mouth to express his gratitude, but she wasn’t finished. “You and Rushford will have to stay in one of the hotels in Messina. It wouldn’t be polite to arrive after giving no notice and insist you stay at the viscount’s villa with me.”
Emmett nodded. “Agreed. Rushford and I will be quite comfortable in a hotel for two nights.” He offered her a grateful smile, which she didn’t reciprocate. But she didn’t look as upset or horrified as she had upon his arrival.
“I’ll be ready shortly,” Clare said, “then we can head to the train station.”
As she continued upstairs, he went in search of his valet to let Rushford know the change in plans. Emmett found him eating his own lunch in the kitchen. With typical patience, Rushford took the news of a return trip to Messina in stride and promised to gather the luggage from Emmett’s room, where it had been stowed earlier.
Signor Russo drove the four of them to the station. Emmett selected a seat beside the window in one of the train cars, and Rushford sat next to him. He half expected Clare to sit in a different car, but she surprised him. She and Miriam joined them in their car, settling themselves on the bench across from the two men. Clare even chose the spot nearest the window, which put her directly opposite Emmett. He hoped that meant she might be willing to converse some more with him.
As the train rolled away from the station, quiet settled over their car. Rushford leaned his head against the back of the seat and was soon dozing. Having removed a book from her satchel, Miriam began to read. Other society women likely wouldn’t condone their maid reading while in their presence, but Clare didn’t mind. In fact, Emmett had overheard her encouraging the girl to read whenever she could. It was another way his wife differed from the type of women he’d known all his life.
Clare had told him that her parents had always treated their servants more like members of the family than hired help. That way of interacting with the staff had been difficult for her to change when she’d needed to hire servants for their London townhouse. She’d adjusted somewhat to meet his family’s expectations of what was right and proper, but she still treated everyone, servant or gentry, with the same grace, poise, and kindness. It was a quality Emmett had come to secretly admire about his wife; it had even influenced his own interactions this last year with the servants at Hadwell House and the tenants at Barksley Hall.
“How is Bran?” Clare asked, once the train was steadily moving.
“Doing well. I would have brought him, but he would have hated the steamer.” Emmett cast a glance at her. “He misses you.”
A shadow of a smile appeared at her mouth. “I miss him too.”
And me? he nearly asked. Do you miss me, Clare?
He swallowed the words before they could spill out and turned to look at the Sicilian countryside rolling past. What if she hadn’t missed him? He wasn’t sure he could bear hearing her say it aloud.
“How is your family?” she inquired next.
He welcomed the change in topic and the fact that she was even talking to him at all. “They’re well. The house was full to the eaves with nieces and nephews the night before I left. Mother was enjoying every minute of it.”
Turning to face the window, Clare appeared to focus on the scenery outside the car. But Emmett hadn’t missed the mixture of sorrow, wistfulness, and what looked like resolve shining in her green eyes before she turned away. He felt a twist of guilt; he shouldn’t have mentioned his sisters’ children. Not when they hadn’t yet been able to have children of their own.
Hoping to redeem himself, he asked, “Have you done some painting while you’ve been here? I noticed your box of paints when you came in.” The same box that had tumbled from her hands when they’d first seen each other through the drawing-room doorway at the villa.
“I’ve finished three, actually, and I’m almost done with a fourth.”
Emmett raised his eyebrows in amazement. “That’s impressive, Clare.”
“Thank you. Apparently my muse just needed sun like I did.”
Or time away from her husband, a pessimistic thought argued.
Emmett cringed inwardly, then countered the accusation with the reminder that Clare had painted a portrait of him when they’d last been here, on their honeymoon. Before leaving for Sicily, he’d gone to view the painting one more time. But a different picture had been in its place. Neither his mother nor any of the servants knew where the portrait had gone. He’d felt a physical sense of loss at the thought of never again seeing Clare’s painting of him. It was almost as if the memory of that happy time was fading and would eventually disappear too.
Clare glanced at him again. “How goes the work at Barksley Hall?”
This was a subject he could happily talk about for hours. Not so long ago, he and Clare had done just that. “It’s going well,” he answered with a smile. “At least it was when I left for Hadwell House before Christmas. The bedrooms and kitchen are finished, and the bathrooms have likely been completed by now.”
Having a bathroom adjoining each of their bedrooms, complete with indoor plumbing and flush toilets similar to those in her home in New York, had been Clare’s idea. She’d also suggested putting in electricity and radiators, which Emmett had agreed would be nice. He’d liked the idea of modernizing the four-hundred-year-old house while preserving its history too.
“Will you be able to oversee the changes if you are campaigning for Parliament?”
Emmett nearly replied with his potential schedule of plans, then thought better of it. After all, he’d made a promise not to speak of politics or his campaign. In truth, he wasn’t sure how much ti
me he would be able to devote to Barksley Hall. Hopefully all of the updates and renovations would be finished sooner than later.
“Very clever, my dear,” he said, wagging his finger at her. “However, I won’t be so easily tricked into breaking my promise.”
“Breaking your promise . . .” Clare echoed, her tone full of confusion.
He was happy to hear she hadn’t purposely been baiting him with the way she’d phrased her question. And with her sharp mind, he knew she’d quickly realize what he was referring to. Sure enough, a moment later, she smiled. It wasn’t a full smile, but it was still aimed his way.
“Evading tricky questions is surely the first test of a true politician, my lord.”
Her witty reply made him laugh out loud. Rushford stirred in his sleep, and Miriam glanced up from her book to smile at them. Right then, Emmett could almost believe things hadn’t changed so much between him and his wife. Only in the next moment, Clare faced the window, and the connection between them faded.
Desperate to bring it back, Emmett searched for something else to say. “Are you feeling queasy at all?”
“What?” The horrified expression on Clare’s face when she turned to look at him made no sense. “Why would you ask that?”
Emmett frowned. “Because you sometimes feel queasy when you ride on trains or steamers.”
“Oh yes, of course.” She laughed, but the sound held little merriment. If Emmett didn’t know better, he would say she was nervous. “I have some peppermints with me if I feel sick.”
He nodded, still puzzled at her odd reaction but willing to let the matter drop since it seemed to upset her. “Have you enjoyed being here in Sicily again?”
“I have.” Her gaze returned to the countryside beyond the train. “I think I understand why your grandfather loved it so much. It’s beautiful and peaceful and still so green, even in winter.”
“He did love it here,” Emmett murmured.
Thoughts of his grandfather still invoked the painful memory of the man’s death. But the wonderful memories were there too. Like the long walks they’d taken around the estate, talking about everything from school, to the family, to Emmett’s current collection of rocks or bugs or glass bottles. With Grandfather, Emmett had been allowed to simply be a child—not just the future Marquess of Hadwell.
There had been plenty of conversations about God as well—about the world He’d created for them, about how He watched over and loved each person, old and young, and about how He heard every prayer. In this way, Grandfather had shared his deep, quiet faith, and in doing so, had awakened and solidified a similar faith in Emmett.
He’d once asked his grandfather if God loved the marquess. “He certainly does,” Grandfather had said without a moment’s hesitation. “Your father is as much God’s child as you or I, Emmett.”
“I don’t know that Father cares much for God in return.”
His grandfather had chuckled, then grown serious again. “Be that as it may, God still loves him. And because God can and does love your father, He’s asked us to do the same.”
Emmett looked at Clare. Her eyes were now closed, her hat slightly crushed as she rested her head against the section of wall next to the window. She looked tired. Was his presence the reason for her exhaustion? He hoped not, though things weren’t likely to be any less wearying for a long time to come, not with a political career potentially ahead of them.
What would his grandfather think of Emmett wanting to become an MP? He wasn’t sure, though he suspected Grandfather would have been supportive if this was what Emmett wanted to do. And he did, didn’t he? If he could be a force for good, for change, in England, then surely he would be the sort of man a father could be proud of.
But first he needed the help of another Father, One whom Emmett had forgotten to petition before coming to Sicily. It was time to change that. In the silence of the train car, he shut his eyes, but he didn’t sleep. Instead he silently asked God to give him the strength to do what he needed to here, to soften his wife’s heart, if possible, and to make more of Emmett’s future than he could on his own.
*
There was a carriage waiting in Messina to convey Clare and Miriam to the viscount’s villa. It was large enough to accommodate Emmett and his valet too, but since the recommended hotel where they’d be staying wasn’t far, they opted to walk.
“I’ll ask Helena about a party invitation for you,” she told Emmett, “and send word to the hotel in the morning.”
He nodded. “I hope to see you tomorrow then.”
Did she hope to see him as well? A large part of her did. After all, talking with him on the train hadn’t proved to be as unpleasant as she’d feared. And it was nice to see his face again and hear his voice.
She was still frustrated with him over his sudden arrival in Sicily and his plan to return her to England, but some of her ire had cooled in the past two hours. Especially since Emmett had kept his word to her. He hadn’t brought up his newest plan to run for Parliament, nor had he pressed her for why she wouldn’t go back to England with him straightaway. He’d even refrained from answering her innocent question about Barksley Hall because it would have meant talking, indirectly, about politics.
“Until tomorrow.” Clare stepped toward the carriage, but before the driver could help her, Emmett held out his hand.
“May I?”
She stared down at his hand, her pulse flitting faster. As her hesitation stretched longer, her cheeks began to heat. She must look silly debating something so simple as accepting her husband’s offer of help. Finally, she placed her gloved hand against his palm. A zing of feeling swept her head to toe. She shot a glance at Emmett’s face and found him watching her. Had he felt the same charge of sensation that she had? Or was the spark between them only on her side?
The warmth she’d felt at his touch wasn’t manufactured, though. And the growing look of surprise in his eyes told her she wasn’t the only one to experience a rush of emotion at their joined hands.
Confused, she lowered her gaze as Emmett assisted her into the open carriage. He helped Miriam in next, then shut the door. The vehicle rolled forward. Clare couldn’t help peering at her husband, who watched her as well until the carriage turned a corner. With a heavy sigh, she sat back against the seat.
“Are you well, my lady?”
Was she? Despite sleeping a little on the train, she felt fatigued—and hungry. But it was more than just physical tiredness. Right now she felt weary in heart too.
“I’ll be all right, thank you, especially once I have some dinner.”
Eating might help assuage her pregnancy sickness, but it wouldn’t cure everything. Clare still didn’t know what to do about Emmett’s request to return to England. She’d found little happiness living there, and she couldn’t go with him anyway, not if she wanted to prevent another miscarriage. Yet the longer he stayed in Sicily, attempting to convince her, the harder it would be to keep her pregnancy a secret.
She’d been terrified on the train when he’d asked if she was queasy, certain he’d somehow guessed her condition. Her relief that he hadn’t had been profound, but it also made Clare aware of how careful she had to be. Over the next few days, she would need to keep eating regularly to stay her nausea. Tomorrow night, she’d also be sure to drink some tea before the party, since Emmett would likely be in attendance.
The viscount’s villa rose before her a few minutes later. The driver helped her and Miriam alight from the carriage, and Clare led the way to the front door. Squaring her shoulders against her worries and exhaustion, she put on a smile and knocked firmly on the door. “I believe we have a party to help with.”
Miriam smiled back. “We do indeed, my lady.”
As they were ushered inside and Clare was greeted with an enthusiastic embrace from Helena, she held tightly to her resolve. She’d weathered difficult things before, especially in the last fourteen months since she’d been married. One party and a few days in Messina w
ith Emmett would surely prove to be an easy thing to manage.
London, May 1907: Nineteen months earlier
Up until a few weeks ago, Emmett hadn’t realized how his interactions with other young ladies were lacking. He had been tasked by his father to find and marry a suitable—meaning rich—woman before the year was out, and he’d decided the best way to do so was to meet as many of the young women in London as he could. Hopefully one of them would fit his father’s requirements but also his own. Emmett wanted a marriage with more laughter, affection, and closeness than he’d observed over the years in his parents’ relationship.
Lord Hadwell had let it be known around town that his son was looking for a bride, and Emmett had experienced no shortage of interested young ladies. But he’d begun to despair of finding one who saw him as more than his title. None of them seemed sincerely interested in coming to know him—and there wasn’t one who inspired a true interest in Emmett to know her.
Then he’d met Miss Clare Herschel. Her lovely laugh and clever banter had captivated him from the moment Emmett had turned and found her watching him with those bemused green eyes and an attractive blush on her cheeks.
Emmett nearly told his father later that night about the meeting but thought better of it. The immediate connection he’d felt with Miss Herschel still seemed too private to share with anyone. Besides, he wasn’t entirely certain what the marquess would think of his interest in an heiress from America. She had a fortune, to be sure, but she’d still been raised in a world of customs and obligations that differed from his.
Rather than risk his father asking him to find someone else, Emmett kept his growing admiration for Miss Herschel to himself. But he sought her out at every event of which they were both in attendance. He especially enjoyed dancing with her—that, and inspiring her laughter.
