by Trisha Telep
But that’s what she thought of, and what made her smile, safely hidden on her side of the brick wall. The Captain would never know.
“When did you encounter a hurricane?” she asked, as much to hear him talk as to know the story. “Are they really as terrible as the stories say?”
“They are worse, and yet magnificent. The ocean itself seems to turn on you, as if it would swallow you up, tear you to pieces and fling you to the corners of the world. A man discovers his true feelings about life and death when faced by a hurricane, since he is balanced perfectly between the two, and only the storm can decide which will be his lot . . .”
Emma settled back into her chair and closed her eyes.
Two
Number 14, George Street was a grim little house, with narrow stairs and low ceilings and all sorts of things meant to be conveniences, which were never very convenient. After a neat, efficient ship’s interior, Phineas Quentin could hardly believe the carelessness that obviously had gone into building this row of terraced houses in the growing city of London, for all that it was almost new. He had bought it upon his retirement from the Navy five months ago, thinking he would soon get used to being settled ashore, and instead found himself missing the ocean more than ever. He missed the wide-open sky above him, and the rolling expanse of ocean below him. He missed the camaraderie of officers aboard ship, and the regimented routine of life on a frigate. Now he found himself living mostly alone, in a dark little house, crowded right up close to its neighbours, penned in from the sun and wind like an invalid.
In fact, one thing alone had kept him from selling the house. Number 14 was directly beside Number 12, and Number 12 happened to house the loveliest woman Phineas had ever laid eyes on. Two days after he’d moved in, when crates and boxes still filled the house and he couldn’t even find the strop for his razor, she’d knocked on the door, bearing a large jar of gooseberry preserves and smiling in welcome. Phineas had opened the door in his shirtsleeves, unshaven and impatient, and been rendered speechless by the sight of her. From the top of her golden brown curls to the tips of her slippers, Lady Bowen was dazzling in the morning sun, and simply perfect in Phin’s eyes. No matter how many times he cracked his head on the too-short doorway at the end of the hall or stubbed his toe on the narrow tread where the stairs turned, he wouldn’t have sold the house for any amount of money.
With the calculation of an admiral, he had set out to learn all he could about his beautiful neighbour. Lady Bowen was the widow of a baronet, a much older man who died of a weak heart. She was too genteel to say anything against her stepson, but her maid was not, and Phin’s man Godfrey had gotten every last scrap of gossip about the new baronet. Tight with money and critical of his stepmother, Sir William Bowen had not wanted her to leave Sussex. The maid was of the opinion that the Baronet had thought to keep her under his thumb as an unpaid housekeeper and hold on to her widow’s jointure. Phin was heartily glad the man was an ogre, for it kept Lady Bowen in London, right next door to him. He liked her humour. He admired her optimistic spirit. He loved the sound of her voice and the way her hair would escape her bonnet and curl madly around her temples when she worked in the garden and he wanted to get her into his bed like he had never wanted anything else in his life.
He had known that last bit since the moment she stood on his front steps and smiled up at him with those velvet brown eyes, but he had waited these last five months to be sure he liked the rest of her. He needed to choose the right approach. If she were one sort of lady, it might be only an affair. If she were another sort, he might do well to run the other way immediately, no matter how badly he wanted to have her. But everything about Lady Bowen indicated she was another sort of lady entirely, and somewhat to Phin’s surprise, he was rather pleased when he realized it. She wasn’t the sort a man trifled with, or the sort who squeezed a man by the ballocks for fun; she was the sort a man fell in love with and married.
That was all well and good by Phineas, except that he didn’t know how to court a woman. He had flirted with many and had had a few agreeable affairs, but never had he approached a woman with such serious intent. It was daunting. Every time they talked in the garden, divided by a brick wall that came to his head, he wished he could see her face to know if she really were as interested as she sounded, or if she listened out of politeness. Even as he fell a little bit more every time he spoke to Lady Bowen, he felt less and less sure of what she thought of him.
Did she really want to know about hurricanes, he wondered now, or was it just an extension of that dreadful polite conversation about the weather? He tried his best to make his accounts of life at sea interesting, and left out all the bad parts. But he was describing a storm that had killed five members of his crew and broken his mizzenmast, and left them run aground on a sandbar for a week before they could coax their wounded ship into port. Twice he found himself straying into unpleasant details, and had to stop abruptly. The last thing he wanted to do was to shock and alarm her. If only he could see her face . . .
Then and there, Phineas decided it was time to stop talking over a garden wall. He would have to call on Lady Bowen and discover her true feelings, and what – if any – chance he had.
Three
Emma never enjoyed her mother’s visits.
Mrs Hayton arrived late that morning, just as Emma finished cleaning the parlour. She was hot and dusty when her mother appeared in the parlour door, looking as cool and dignified as ever.
“Dusting, Emma dear?” she asked with a trace of disdain.
“Yes, Mother. Someone must dust, and Jane is busy upstairs airing the beds.”
“You need more servants.”
“I have all the servants I need.” Emma pulled off her cap and grimaced as dust settled on her dress.
“No,” her mother corrected her, “you have all the servants you can afford. There is a vast difference.”
She shrugged. “Not in this case.” She set aside her cap and dusting cloth, and made herself smile. “How are you, Mother? You’re looking very well.”
“I do not have to dust my own parlour. It is far easier to look well when you haven’t got—” She tsked in dismay. “Emma, you have cobwebs in your hair.”
“They don’t hurt.” She brushed one hand over her head. “Will you take some tea?”
“Yes,” murmured her mother, a jaundiced eye still fixed on Emma’s dusty, cobwebbed hair. “Please.”
The real reason for her mother’s appearance became clear as they sat and sipped their tea in the newly cleaned parlour. “I saw Lord Norton the other day,” she remarked. “He asked me to give you his regards.”
“Thank you,” murmured Emma, steeling herself. She had heard this introduction too many times in the last two years not to know what was coming next.
“His wife died over a year ago,” Mrs Hayton went on relentlessly. “I shouldn’t think he’ll wait much longer to wed again, what with a pair of daughters in his nursery.”
“I wish him very happy.” Emma, too, could be relentless, in ignoring her mother’s hints.
“Darling, you must know he would be a fine match for you.” Mother abandoned subtlety. “He is a viscount – not an old title, ’tis true, nor the wealthiest, but a good step up from a baronet.”
“I don’t need to marry a viscount. I don’t want to marry Lord Norton.” Mrs Hayton drew breath to respond, and Emma tried to forestall her. “I am happy as I am.”
“Happy?” Her mother looked her up and down. “Dusting your own parlour and wearing last year’s fashions?”
Independent, thought Emma. Free. “Yes. I shall wear this dress until it falls apart, and I adore dusting.”
Her mother wrinkled her nose. “Nobody adores dusting, and that dress is horrid.”
“Nevertheless, I like it. And I wouldn’t marry Lord Norton if he were to show up and prostrate himself before me.” Which he wouldn’t, because Viscount Norton thought himself a great deal better than any of Emma’s family. Her moth
er was scheming above herself again, unflagging in her quest for better connections at any cost.
Thankfully, Jane interrupted whatever her mother might have said next. The maid tapped at the door and came in. “You’ve a caller, ma’am,” she said. “A gentleman.”
Emma blinked in surprise. Gentlemen never came to call on her. Across from her, Mother’s head came up and her eyes sharpened, like a hound scenting a fox. “Indeed,” Emma said quickly. “Who is it?”
Jane hurried over to hand her the card.
“Oh!” She gave a little relieved laugh as she read it. “Captain Quentin! Jane, you gave me such a start, when it’s only my neighbour.”
“But I never seen him in uniform,” said Jane mulishly. “He looks much finer than a neighbour ought . . .”
Mrs Hayton turned to look at Emma, eyebrows arched in enquiry. “I did not know you had a new neighbour.”
“Oh, yes. He bought Number 14 a few months ago.” Emma kept her expression placid. “A retired naval officer.”
“Is he . . .?” Mama paused, eying Emma expectantly. “Amiable?”
“Perfectly, the few times I’ve spoken to him.” She got to her feet. “I wonder why he’s come to call. Mama, would you mind—?”
“Oh yes, I really must be going.” Mrs Hayton rose with a smile. “Will you walk me out, dear?”
Emma took a deep breath. “Of course.”
They met Captain Quentin in the hall. Jane was right; he did look finer than a neighbour ought. Finer than she had expected him to look, Emma realized. He wore his uniform, which made him look very tall and impressive in her narrow hall. Although, to be honest, she had only met him a handful of times outside of their garden chats. Even though she felt fairly well acquainted with him, she had almost never seen him so clearly or so close, with his dark hair brushed neatly back, his shoulders broad in his dark-blue coat, his legs long and powerful in his white breeches. He looked overwhelmingly male, and Emma had to consciously divert her mind from that fact.
She introduced her mother to him, and then Mother left, acting suspiciously uninterested in the Captain. Emma said a quick prayer that was so, and ushered her guest into the parlour. Jane had hastily whisked away the tea tray, and Emma asked her to bring a fresh one. She didn’t know if the Captain would like tea, but she didn’t have much spirits in the house. Not that she knew he drank spirits, either. She had some port; perhaps she should offer that? But it wasn’t even noon yet . . .
She gathered her scattered thoughts. “How nice of you to call, Captain,” she said as they sat down.
“I ought to have done so much sooner.” He sat in the chair by the window, where the sun fell full and warm on him, and smiled at her. Emma felt the room tilt around her. He had blue eyes, the same blue as her heavenly bedroom walls. Her neighbour was a handsome, impressive figure of a man, much more so than she had realized. For a moment she stared, transfixed.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
She jerked her gaze away from his and smiled. “Not at all! It just seems odd to speak to you face to face. We have talked so much over the fence, and so rarely called on each other.”
“The failing is mine,” he said with a rueful laugh, “and one I mean to correct.”
Still cringing from being caught staring, Emma barely heard him. “Of course,” she said, then blushed in realization as speculative surprise lit his face. And his eyes. “I m-mean,” she stammered, “that would be lovely. Of course we should feel free to call on each other more, as neighbours.”
“Yes.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “As neighbours.”
She took a deep breath. “And as more, I hope. I do so enjoy our conversations in the garden.”
“I do, Lady Bowen.” Again he smiled at her. Fine lines crinkled around his eyes. “Very much so.”
Well. Her heart skipped a beat. Why had he called on her today? She found herself smiling back. How silly she would feel if he had merely come to tell her Jane dumped the dishwater too near his steps.
But before she could hear why he had come, the door opened. “Dear me, I seem to have forgotten my gloves,” announced Mother. Her eyes darted between the two of them. “Please forgive me.”
“Not at all, Mrs Hayton.” Captain Quentin was on his feet already.
“I was some distance down the street when I realized I didn’t have them.” She smiled prettily at the Captain. “I am so sorry to disturb your visit.”
“Of course not,” said the Captain.
“Where did you leave them?” Emma asked, trying not to glare at her mother. She should have expected this. “I didn’t see them after you left.”
“Well, let me see . . .” Mother turned her head from side to side, her eyes large and limpid. “I don’t see them – oh dear, they are my favourites, I shall be so distressed to lose them . . .”
“Nonsense,” said Captain Quentin gallantly. “They are sure to be here somewhere. Let us look for them.”
Emma, who knew very well her mother hadn’t gone anywhere other than the chair where the Captain now sat, set to work, checking the table and looking behind the chair. Under Mother’s direction, the captain looked under all the furniture and behind all the cushions. When Mrs Hayton exclaimed happily that she had found the gloves, Emma was sure Mother had slipped them out of her reticule. Then she thanked the Captain profusely, and before long she was sitting around the tea tray with them. Just as Emma knew she had intended, when she came back on such a flimsy pretence.
She didn’t waste any time getting around to her purpose, either. “How nice of you to pay a neighbourly call, Captain,” she said, smiling at him with an almost adoring air. “I’d no idea my daughter had a new neighbour.”
“Not so new,” he said, returning her smile. “I’ve lived in George Street since early spring.”
“Oh, dear!” Mother glanced at Emma with wide eyes. “And you are just now becoming acquainted?”
Emma opened her mouth to reply, but the Captain didn’t notice and spoke first. “We have spoken often, Mrs Hayton. I hold Lady Bowen in very high regard.”
Emma closed her mouth. Her mother slowly turned her head to look Emma squarely in the face, her expression slightly victorious.
“Mother, the Captain will hardly wish to sit and chatter all day with two women,” Emma said in warning. “I am sure he is a very busy man.” Her mother was at it again, and if the Captain hadn’t been present, Emma would have asked her mother to leave at once.
“Of course, dear, of course.” Mother patted her hand. “But he came to call; that must indicate some desire to converse, surely?”
Emma flushed. Too late the Captain seemed to recognize the presence of a trap; his expression grew more closed and cautious. Mrs Hayton turned to him and smiled again. “Are you enjoying this fine weather, Captain?”
The grey clouds that had alarmed Jane were just visible through the window, although sun still streamed in. Emma glanced at the Captain just in time to meet his eyes, glimmering with wry humour.
“Very much so,” he murmured.
“Until the rain comes,” said Emma.
“Thunderstorms,” added the Captain.
“Fierce ones, I understand.”
“Really, Emma, you needn’t sound so gleeful,” exclaimed her mother, and Emma almost choked on a laugh. The Captain coughed.
“I had come to issue an invitation,” he said. “My sister and her husband have secured a box for a performance of Shakespeare next week. I wondered if you would care to accompany us, Lady Bowen?”
“Well, that is a lovely invitation,” said Mrs Hayton before Emma could speak. “But I do worry that Shakespeare is too clamorous for a lady. This Mr Kean has wrought such a change on the public, with his dramatic, violent portrayals of all those tragic heroes.”
Emma gaped at her, then jerked her eyes back to her cup of tea. Oh no. Please, dear heavens, no . . .
The Captain’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Indeed.”
“I find nothing t
o be so enjoyable as a dinner party among friends,” Mother went on. “There one can enjoy the society of the company and not be distracted by an unruly crowd in the pit.”
“Er . . . yes,” murmured the captain, staring at her in fascination.
Emma was almost quivering with fury. “I quite enjoy the theatre as well.”
Her mother laughed, her tinkling light laugh that had enthralled so many men. “Nonsense, dear! You had dinner parties all the time in Sussex; she is the perfect hostess, Captain. Emma dear, it’s certainly time you began going about again, but discreetly. You’ve been out of society so long.”
The Captain’s smile was a bit stiff. “Of course,” he said. “A dinner party.”
“Mother,” whispered Emma between gritted teeth. “Please.”
“Just a small one would be perfectly acceptable,” Mother said, ignoring Emma. “Don’t you agree, sir?”
The Captain blinked. “Yes,” he said cautiously.
She beamed at him. “I am certain Emma would be delighted to attend.”
Emma wished she had locked the door when her mother had left. Now she had no choice but to raise apologetic eyes to the Captain, who looked almost desperate. He cleared his throat. “Would you honour us with your company, Lady Bowen? On this upcoming Saturday evening?”
She would try to explain to him tomorrow, across the garden wall. For now she just wanted to help him escape, so she could tear into her mother. “You are too kind, sir,” she murmured. “Thank you.” He turned to her mother. “And you, Mrs Hayton?” Mother cast one twinkling glance at Emma as she laughed. “Thank you, but I must decline. I am engaged at the Powells’ that evening.” Emma was sure she didn’t imagine his shoulders easing in relief. “Well.” He shuffled his feet then rose. “I should leave you to your conversation. Mrs Hayton, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Lady Bowen.” He bowed as Emma and her mother made their farewells, then left.
Four
“How dare you!” Emma whispered furiously the moment the door closed behind him. “Mother, that was unpardonably rude!”
