Emma: There's No Turning Back

by Linda Mitchelmore

  A saleslady came towards them the second they stepped into the third floor sales hall. The woman ignored Ruby in her old felt hat and coat, which was now too short for her, and spoke to Emma. ‘How can I help you, madam? Something for your, er, lady’s—’

  ‘Ruby’s my friend,’ Emma said.

  If she could have turned right around and walked out again, then she would have done. But she couldn’t because the day of the wedding was getting closer and if they didn’t find something today, Ruby wouldn’t be able to have any more time off to go looking again. How dare the woman make assumptions about how Ruby was dressed, just because Emma was better dressed these days?

  ‘Yeah,’ Ruby said, ‘an’ she’s my friend an’ all and we want a dress for a dance that’s ’appening after a wedding, if it’s not too much trouble to you. Summat I can wear again afterwards, if I’m ever asked out anywhere to wear it.’

  The woman bowed her head slightly and walked over towards a rack of clothes hanging on highly polished wooden hangers.

  ‘That was rude,’ Emma said.

  ‘Wasn’t she?’ Ruby said, with a giggle. She linked her arm through Emma’s. ‘Only you don’t just mean Miss Uppity over there, do you?’

  ‘Ssh. She’ll hear you. Come on, we’d better follow.’

  Emma and Ruby spent a wonderful hour in Bobby’s. Ruby tried on just about every dress in her size. At last they settled on a sapphire-blue dress with marcasite brooches on the shoulders. And Emma insisted on buying Ruby shoes to match. No hat would be needed because Ruby wasn’t going to St Mary’s Church to see Mr Smythe and Miss Gillet make their vows.

  And neither were Emma and Seth. They hadn’t been asked.

  ‘Thank Seth for me, won’t you?’ Ruby said, when the taxi Emma had hired at the station stopped outside the entrance to Nase Head House. ‘I don’t see ’im much these days.’

  Both women got out, and Emma paid the taxi driver.

  ‘Thank Seth for what?’ Emma said, as the taxi pulled away.

  ‘’Ave you lost a few brains since you got married, Mrs Jago?’ Ruby laughed. ‘Thank ’im for payin’ for all this.’ Ruby lifted her parcels higher and waggled them all at Emma.

  ‘Seth hasn’t paid. I have.’

  ‘Oh,’ Ruby said.

  Emma could see that snippet of news had robbed Ruby of her usual flow of speech.

  ‘Surprised?’

  ‘Nothin’ you do would surprise me,’ Ruby said. ‘I just can’t imagine ever ’avin’ that sort of money myself.’

  ‘You could if you wanted to.’

  ‘Don’t talk wet, Emma Jago! ’Ow in the name of God is the likes of me goin’ to go about earnin’ enough money to buy cars and swank about and pay for stuff like this?’

  ‘Work for it. For yourself and not someone else.’

  ‘And you’ve forgotten, Mrs High and Mighty, that you married a man with money. You landed in a bed of roses when you married Seth Jago. ’E’s provided a nice little cushion for you to fall back on if your fancy tarts business don’t work out.’

  ‘Ruby! That’s not fair!’

  Her ‘fancy tarts’ business, as Ruby put it, not work out? The very thought. Of course it would work out.

  ‘Life ain’t fair, Em,’ Ruby said.

  They stood looking at one another for a few moments, as though each were seeing the other in a new light. Ruby looked, Emma thought, rather defiant. As if, should Emma choose to remonstrate with her for being ungrateful for all that had just been bought for her, she’d still argue that Emma had landed in a bed of roses.

  Money, and the positions they found themselves in society, were beginning to make cracks in their friendship, and Emma didn’t like it one little bit.

  ‘No home to go to?’ Olly said.

  ‘You know I have,’ Seth told him. ‘But I want to get this finished.’

  The this in question was the portrait of Emma he was rushing to finish for Valentine’s Day, just two days away now. Rather than risk her seeing it if he worked on it in the house, he’d been painting for an hour or two most days after finishing work for Olly. An hour or two in which he could disappear inside himself and just be him – not a father, not a husband, not an employee.

  For the past week he’d been working on the painting every day, for at least two hours at a time. Time in which he could forget he’d been presented with a fait accompli by Emma and Smythe and the fact he’d soon be up at Nase Head House against his will, although he’d go. But if Emma thought he was going to make a habit of being there, then she had another think coming.

  ‘You’re good,’ Olly said. ‘Not that I’m any sort of expert, you understand.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Seth continued mixing three different shades together – sienna and burnt umber and a chestnut – trying to get just the right colour of the highlights in Emma’s hair.

  ‘You could do it for a living,’ Olly said. ‘Must be all that varnishing I got you to do giving you the edge.’ He laughed and clapped Seth heartily on the shoulder.

  A globule of paint flicked off the brush in Seth’s hand and landed, mercifully, on the edge of the canvas, where he was able to wipe it off again quickly without damaging the painting.

  ‘Do you think so?’ Seth said.

  The thought had occurred to him. When Seth had been at school the art teacher, Mr Strutt, had urged him to go to art college. There was a place in London, at St Martin’s, where he could go. Mr Strutt had a friend there who was a tutor. He could put in a good word.

  Seth’s pa, when he’d told him what Mr Strutt had said, had laughed the idea down and said that no son of his was going to be a pansy artist.

  ‘Know so,’ Olly said now. ‘Of course, you’d need to starve in your garret for a bit while you made your name. Drink absinthe, maybe? Cut an ear off? Have a naked muse or three draped over a chaise longue? Go—’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ Seth laughed.

  And the laugh felt good.

  He’d done his best to forget the letters thing from Caunter, tried his best – in front of Emma at least – to pretend that it hadn’t happened. But he sensed an uneasiness at times between them. And now more uneasiness coming up with the Smythe wedding waiting in the wings. Emma was getting more excited by the day about what she was going to cook, how she was going to present it, all the possibilities that she was sure were going to open up for after everyone had seen what a good job she’d made of the buffet.

  He’d eaten more bûche de Noël than a man could reasonably be expected to eat in a lifetime while she perfected the recipe. He only hoped Smythe would appreciate her efforts and pay Emma well for her services.

  ‘Better go,’ Olly said. ‘The day nurse’ll be standing by the door with her coat on and her bag in her hand waiting to be relieved of her duties and Ma will be wondering who the hell I am when I serve up her dinner. If she eats it.’

  There was a catch in Olly’s voice both men did their best to ignore.

  Olly’s ma was getting thinner by the day, more confused by the hour, more frail by the minute. It would be a happy release all round if she went quietly in her sleep, but she seemed to be hanging on – defying all the doctor’s predictions. Sometimes Seth wondered why.

  Seth had agreed not to leave the boatyard until either Olly’s ma died, after which Olly could run it with a clear head again, or someone came along to buy it. Canada, for now, was on the proverbial back burner.

  But it hadn’t escaped Seth’s notice that the card offering Olly’s business for sale had been taken out of Bettesworth’s window. Not that he was going to mention that to Olly. God no, the man had enough to worry about.

  As, Seth thought, do I.

  Emma hadn’t become pregnant yet, not even a false alarm. And she wasn’t the only one concerned as to why that might be.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It felt like decades, rather than just a couple of years, since Emma had been all dressed up at Nase Head House. She was no longer that gauche girl, unaware until it was alm
ost too late that Rupert Smythe had been grooming her to be his wife. Thank goodness she’d realised in time.

  ‘Oh, Emma,’ Ruby said, rushing up to her. ‘You look beautiful. I wish I could do my ’air like that.’

  ‘I’ll show you how, if you like.’ She’d twisted her hair into a chignon of sorts and had pinned it up with a diamanté clip that she hadn’t been able to resist in Rossiters.

  ‘It makes your neck look longer. You look better than the bride, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Ssh,’ Emma said, putting a finger to her friend’s lips. ‘That’s not a nice thing to say. Every bride looks beautiful on their wedding day.’

  She pulled Ruby down to sit beside her at the far edge of the dance floor. Most of the guests were either standing talking with a drink in their hands, or dancing. A few older women seemed to have strayed in from an earlier age, wearing bonnets and gloves and holding lorgnettes at affected angles as they watched the dancing.

  ‘Well, if that’s so with Madam Smythe over there, then the beauty’s rubbed off a bit since ’er walked out of St Mary’s a few ’ours ago. Like plated silver rubs off when I’m cleanin’ the blasted stuff.’

  ‘You do say the naughtiest things, Ruby,’ Emma said. ‘Anyway, you look beautiful, too.’

  ‘And thanks to you.’

  Ruby was just back from taking the Smythe children upstairs to bed, leaving them in the care of a chambermaid because Emma had asked – no insisted – that Ruby be allowed a little longer at the dance. With Tom, who at that moment was talking to Marie Gillet on the other side of the room, and was looking incredibly handsome in a suit of Seth’s that he’d worn for his pa’s funeral and hadn’t been inclined to wear since.

  ‘I was happy to do it.’

  But for how much longer? Emma wondered. Their travel documents had arrived by registered post, for goodness’ sake. She hadn’t even known that Seth had even sent off for them. When she’d remonstrated with him that she didn’t like the fact he’d gone behind her back in doing it, he said he’d done it so as to be ready should there be an emergency – should his uncle die suddenly and his aunt need him. Or any other emergency that might come along, he’d added, not looking at her and Emma had wondered if there was something Seth knew that he wasn’t telling her about.

  Like Miles.

  ‘What time is Seth gettin’ ’ere?’ Ruby asked. ‘’Ere you ’aven’t ’ad a row, ’ave you? Only you’re a bit quiet if you ask me.’

  ‘I’m not asking you,’ Emma said. ‘And we haven’t had a row.’

  Just a little chilling of the usual warmth of their relationship.

  Emma looked around for him now. He was late. He’d said he’d be at Nase Head House by eight o’clock and it was already a quarter past. He’d said he’d wait until Fleur was well and truly settled for the night. And he wouldn’t be leaving then unless he was positive Lily could cope should Fleur wake.

  Tom came over. ‘Mrs Jago,’ he said, with a nod to Emma.

  ‘Emma,’ she corrected him. ‘Hello, Tom. You do look smart.’

  And the second the words were out of her mouth she realised how condescending that must have sounded.

  But it seemed Tom wasn’t offended. ‘For once!’ he said. And then he placed an arm around the back of Ruby’s waist and they were gone.

  And Emma was alone. She felt empty inside without Seth beside her. She hoped he wouldn’t be long. He hadn’t seen her in her finery yet. She’d been at Nase Head House most of the day preparing and cooking, and she’d used Ruby’s room to change into her clothes for the evening.

  The buffet was laid out on long trestles in the dining room ready for the guests at nine o’clock. Emma was pleased the way her crab tarts and other savoury pastries had turned out. She’d made them into fancy shapes especially for the bride and groom. Each tart edge had a tiny R and J for the couple’s initials, all glazed in egg wash that was glistening like gold under the chandeliers.

  She had suggested, because the day was cold, that she make some soup. Lobster soup. It was sitting, just below a simmer, on the hob and she would have to go and check on it in a minute. The specially hired-in staff had been told they could go and relax in one of the rooms in the staff quarters until they were sent for to do the clearing away and the washing up after the buffet. Emma would manage to carry the soup into the dining room on her own when the time came.

  Oh, Seth, where are you?

  There was ice on the roads and many of the guests had had to leave their carriages at the bottom of the hill because it would have been too dangerous for the horses to tackle the steep climb in such treacherous conditions. Only those few guests who had cars had been able to make it up the hill, and then not easily, so she’d heard.

  The dance came to an end and the violinist and the cellist placed their instruments on the floor, taking a break.

  Ruby – without Tom in tow – came rushing back to Emma.

  ‘Who’s that Mr Smythe’s talkin’ to?’ Ruby asked, grasping Emma by the elbow, her fingers catching in the lace of Emma’s bolero. ‘Oooh, sorry.’

  Ruby extricated her fingers from the navy-blue lace, which had cost Emma far more than she’d ever paid for anything before.

  ‘Where?’ Emma said. ‘I can’t see Mr Smythe.’

  Ruby looked back over her shoulder.

  ‘Oh, they’ve gone now. A late guest whoever it were. I ’spect us’ll find out later.’

  But not as late as Seth. Emma was becoming anxious now. She’d made such an effort to look as good as she possibly could and really she would have liked Seth to see her before anyone else did, but that hadn’t been possible. She considered, just for a moment, asking Mr Smythe if she might telephone Mulberry House to see if Seth was still there. She decided against it. The ringing telephone might wake Fleur. And, besides, Lily hadn’t been taught how to use the telephone yet, should Seth already have left.

  ‘I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, Mrs Jago, but you’m the most beautiful woman in this room tonight. I’ve seen men lookin’ at you, I ’ave.’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ Emma said.

  ‘Now when do I ever do that?’ Ruby giggled. She glanced over at the clock on the marble mantelpiece. ‘Aw, gawd, Cinderella’s goin’ to have to leave this bleedin’ ball soon.’

  ‘Well, seeing as Mr Smythe’s not here at the moment to give you the nod to go, you can stop until he does come back, can’t you?’

  ‘You devious little minx,’ Ruby said. ‘But you’m right. I’ll go and claim Tom. ’Onest, Em, who’d have thought that us servants’d be ’ere chattin’ with the gentry and encouraged to do so?’

  ‘Mr Smythe knows when he has good staff,’ Emma said.

  ‘Well, the stupid bugger didn’t realise it when you was ’ere, did ’e? Orderin’ you off.’

  ‘Go!’ Emma said. ‘Go and claim Tom. Go and …’

  Ruby hurried off.

  ‘ … and steal a kiss or two under the chandeliers,’ she whispered, finishing her sentence.

  One of the specially hired waiters came up to her with a tray of champagne, and Emma took one.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll take two if I may. My husband will be here very soon.’

  ‘As you wish, ma’am,’ the waiter said. ‘I hope you won’t have long to wait.’

  But Seth was a long time coming. The clock ticked slowly around to half past eight and still no sign of him.

  Emma was sipping cautiously from the glass of champagne in her left hand when she felt fingers lightly brush the back of her neck.

  She froze.

  Those fingers certainly weren’t Seth’s. But she knew that touch. She tried to gulp in air, but it was as though she’d forgotten how to breathe.

  ‘Is that extra glass of champagne for me, Emma?’

  Matthew Caunter. Why hadn’t anyone told her he’d be here?

  Emma knew she should say, ‘No it most definitely isn’t for you, it’s for my husband,’ but as Matthew came to sit besid
e her, the words wouldn’t come.

  ‘Goodness, Emma,’ Matthew said, taking the spare glass of champagne and holding it out towards Emma for a toast, ‘I guessed you’d mature beautifully, but not quite so exquisitely as you have.’

  And I had no idea you’d look more handsome, more rugged, than you’ve been in my memory either, Emma thought. But wild horses wouldn’t drag the words from her tongue. She was a married woman – or the world thought she was. And she loved Seth.

  ‘I think you know what comes next, Emma?’

  ‘What?’ she said, fear making her skin prickle, her blood run cold in her veins yet at the same time, her cheeks flushed.

  ‘I’m going to steal a kiss.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’ Emma tried to edge along the seat away from him, but there was nowhere to go.

  ‘One good reason why not,’ Matthew said.

  ‘You’re married.’

  ‘Not any more. I’m divorced now. Divorce is easier and quicker in America, the degree absolute came last week.’

  Emma cleared her throat, tried to speak. Matthew had made it sound as though he was very pleased divorce was easier and quicker in America than it was in England.

  ‘Oh,’ Emma managed to croak out at last. How surreal this conversation was. ‘Is it?’

  ‘You make that sound as though you can’t wait to get there so you can get one, too!’ Matthew said.

  ‘I want no such thing,’ Emma said. ‘You’re imagining things.’

  ‘Am I?’ Matthew said, and it was as though he was looking into her soul.

  She lifted her champagne flute to her lips. Her mouth had suddenly gone dry. She couldn’t swallow. Matthew had known her so well when she’d lived with him; when he’d given her refuge after Reuben Jago had made her homeless. He’d always known then if she was lying – he’d been able to tell by her eyes. And he’d always been able to get the truth from her.

  Best not to look directly at him, Emma decided. Instead, she stared into the middle distance. ‘You know I’m married,’ she said. ‘I wrote and told you. And if you didn’t get that letter, then I’m sure Mr Smythe would have mentioned it. I’ve been here all day cooking for the buffet. I’m sure someone must have mentioned my name.’