by Lela Bay
He pulled it from his head and gripped it between his hands. A rueful smile spread over his lips. “I sometimes forget, but the weather in England is working hard to remind me to wear my hat and coat.”
Her eyes widened slightly, shocked he’d mention not wearing his coat as well.
He wiped at the moisture on his forehead. “We aren’t as formal on expedition, and certainly not aboard ship. Don’t fear, I’m sure old habits will soon return.”
“Is that why you walk the way you do? All bent forward?”
His eyebrows rose. “You are observant. Yes, I’m too tall for below deck so I learned to hunch, for the good of my forehead. I suppose that’s another habit I’ll have to break.”
He straightened to his full height, looking dashing. It was fortunate she was tall, and could still meet his gaze. His eyebrows descended, indicating he wished to speak, so she stowed the additional questions clamoring at her lips and waited. He’d be wishing to apologize and inquire after Catherine. It would be rude to throw him off track.
“I wondered whether you might assist me. I understand that you are Miss Connersfield’s cousin.”
“I am,” she agreed, wiping a dribble of water from the rim of her bonnet. The rains were increasing. “Emmaline Connersfield. I live with my aunt, uncle, and cousin.”
“Yes, you see, I stopped by there this morning but was turned away. I needed to inquire—”
“Miss Connersfield is fine,” she interjected, wishing to get past the awkward apologies. In case that seemed too forgiving, she added with a censorious frown, “You have much to make up for.”
“I’ve already gotten a lecture from my best friend Viscount Durrant, and my valet both, on that topic. I’m a little turned around sometimes, and I don’t always understand what’s important in this world, nor how ladies think. That’s what I’m told.” He shrugged, a bit of a lost boy. His hair plastered to his forehead in dark rings.
“A lesson for us all,” she agreed noncommittally. He didn’t sound quite as apologetic as she’d have liked, but it was good he’d been told off by someone with sense.
“Yes, but I wondered, about the hat. You see, it had those long feathers on top.” He lifted his hand in a sweeping gesture. “Do you know where she got it?”
She bit her lip. She’d never known a gentleman to be so interested in hats. The reason came to her. “Oh, do you wish to replace it?”
“Do I want…?” His face brightened. “That’s a fine idea. Do you know where I can get another one?”
Reluctantly, she pointed across the street. “We are supplied here in town.”
He glanced at the shop and frowned. “I’ve been in already, but they weren’t helpful.”
Emmaline glanced between him and Mrs. Lohan’s shop. She could well imagine his greeting. Mrs. Lohan didn’t like men in her shop to begin with, and word of his treatment of Catherine would certainly have spread.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She nodded her head and turned to go. She’d already spent too long speaking to him on the boardwalk.
“Miss.”
This was her moment to escape. She could pretend not to hear and be away, if she wanted. Reluctantly, she faced him.
He smiled down at her, dimples appearing in the tan skin around his mouth. Damn him.
“Perhaps you could assist me? It is for your cousin, after all.”
She bit her lip. She was a good girl and not too soft at all. Certainly not.
“It’s for a good cause.” He seemed to be studying her reaction. “Loneliness can be a terrible thing.”
Even if he was a bit rough around the edges, this wasn’t a man who would ever need to be lonely if he didn’t want to be. Perhaps he meant lonely for one person in particular, though; he wasn’t some indiscriminate lover, but had formed an attachment to Catherine. This seemed both noble and pitiable at the same time. She wished someone was lonely for her. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, still debating.
Emmaline had never pined for someone, but it sounded most uncomfortable.
“Surely you realize I cannot go shopping with you,” she pointed out, lifting her chin.
His mouth straightened to a controlled line, and his dimple disappeared. Damn.
He wiped his damp hair back off his forehead and replaced his beaver, looking the proper Englishman. That alone made his disappointment clear to her. Poor dear was absolutely lost.
She sighed. “However, I was headed there next. This hat wasn’t made for the rain, and I’ve spoiled it standing here talking to you.”
She threw a small scowl in at the end, but he was too pleased to be quelled by a tacked-on look.
He beamed at her, causing her breath to catch heavily in her throat and her heart to pound. She tucked her head to hide burning cheeks, reminding herself his joy came from being one step closer to delivering an apology to Catherine. His delight almost made the pain circling her heart worthwhile.
She raised her skirts high enough to avoid the worst of the mud and puddles and dashed across, entering Mrs. Lohan’s familiar shop. A variety of hats with dried and silk flowers adorned the front window. Within, rolls of ribbons, bows, feathers and jeweled pieces lay in rows and bins. Entering always felt like a treasure hunt. Buckles and buttons lay among jewels and stick pins. Bits of lace sat among large shawls with fringe. Pastel parasols dangled from racks along the back wall.
Mrs. Lohan greeted her warmly. Emmaline and Catherine were frequent customers.
The bell jingled again, and Mrs. Lohan’s expression froze in a grimace. Mr. Aarons swept his hat from his head, shaking away shining drops of rain.
Emmaline lifted her hand from a strange medallion in the shape of a shiny beetle, brushing her fingers over a favorite roll of ribbon.
“May I help you, Miss Emmaline Connersfield?” Mrs. Lohan asked loudly.
Emmaline jumped and pursed her lips. How best to proceed? She could confront Mrs. Lohan about not serving Mr. Aarons, or work around the problem.
She broke into a wide smile. “I wondered if you had a hat like the one Miss Connersfield purchased on our last visit?”
She felt like an idiot, speaking at such a loud volume, but she wanted Mr. Aarons to hear.
Fortunately, Mrs. Lohan continued to nearly shout her very proper service at Emmaline, as an excuse to ignore her newest customer. “I have the very thing.”
Their audience, the tall and handsome Mr. Aarons, ignored both of them to poke among the bins.
“Here it is, just as lovely.”
Emmaline admired the triple ribbon and thick bow at the crown. She allowed Mrs. Lohan to remove her damp bonnet. The shopkeeper set it aside on a stand with exaggerated care and returned to place the new hat atop her head with a jaunty tilt. The bow took a matter of seconds, leaving Emmaline to admire herself in the three-way mirror. The hat had a similar brim to the one Catherine had worn, though it was more simply adorned. It was lovely.
“That’s not the hat.”
Mrs. Lohan and Emmaline looked to Mr. Aarons with varying degrees of dismay.
“Yes, the brim is the same, and the shape of the crown,” Emmaline interjected before Mrs. Lohan could let loose the voluble disagreement brewing in her stout bosom.
“It’s a different hat. There are no feathers.”
She’d almost have pitied his ignorance if he didn’t look so stubborn.
“Miss Connersfield has an eye,” intoned Mrs. Lohan, whipping the hat off Emmaline’s head. “She adds embellissement.”
Caught between them, Emmaline rolled her eyes. Now Mrs. Lohan was adding French words just to scare him, and Mrs. Lohan didn’t even speak more than one or two words of French. She only did that with people from out of town.
Muttering to herself, Emmaline grabbed a hat she’d been eyeing for a month and plopped it over her curls, ramming a hatpin home to hold it in place. The brim curled becomingly across her forehead just as she’d known it would. She pursed her lips and stroked the pale feathers the
burst along the side, dancing even when she held still.
“What do you think? I love it,” she interrupted their extended glare, “but I will think on it for my next allowance. Thank you, Mrs. Lohan.”
She reached for the hatpin, irritated she’d brought Mr. Aarons inside if he couldn’t behave himself.
“Leave it on. I’ll buy it.”
Emmaline’s hand halted in her confusion. “If it’s for Miss Connersfield, you’ll want it boxed.”
Seeing a sale, Mrs. Lohan’s mood improved considerably. “I can box that right up.”
“No, it’s for you. You look beautiful in it.” He looked away from them. “I do believe the rain has stopped, so it’s safe for you to wear it out.”
Emmaline caught her breath, appalled.
Mrs. Lohan eyes narrowed and moved between them speculatively.
“I’d like another to be sent to Miss Connersfield. Can you arrange it?” Mr. Aarons asked evenly.
The storekeeper’s eyebrows shot into her hairline. The prospect of two such easy sales improved her mood. His compliment to Emmaline, seen in a different light, pleased her. They’d always had an easy rapport.
“You wish to send the first one, for it is the most similar to the one Miss Connersfield lost. I also have one in the back she has admired,” the shopkeeper said solicitously.
“I defer to your superior knowledge,” said Mr. Aarons, and Emmaline would swear his charm made Mrs. Lohan blush.
The shopkeeper left to write up the sales ticket, her step considerably more cheerful.
“You said you loved it. Don’t you?” he asked quietly.
“I do, but…”
“It’s much better than those bedecked things. Keep it simple. You were doing me a favor, and I appreciate that. Anyway, you said I ruined your last one.”
“I’d already walked here in the rain. It wasn’t you.” The present made her feel good and bad at the same time. “Are you sure you don’t want to just get the one for Catherine?”
“I like you. In this one. Miss Connersfield will be fine with whatever Mrs. Lohan picks. It doesn’t matter to me.”
This was most confusing, since she’d been under the impression they were there for just that reason. She puzzled over it while he paid at the counter, his deep tones and Mrs. Lohan’s giggles showing their relationship considerably improved. When he finally finished, Emmaline followed him out of the shop.
She paused awkwardly outside the door, wondering if this was where they parted, her mind racing.
“Miss Connersfield adds her own embellishments,” Emmaline reiterated suddenly, her mind settling on a point that might interest him. “Including the feathers.”
Mr. Aarons nodded approvingly and waved her into the tea shop, conveniently located next to Mrs. Lohan’s, which wasn’t all that miraculous since there were barely two dozen shops lining the small main street. She noted a hat box hung in his other hand from fingers hooked into twined string.
He’d definitely asked for Catherine’s hat to be delivered. Had he made a third purchase? How many girls could he buy hats for?
They seated themselves and ordered tea and pastries. The shop was empty of patrons, and the cheerful baker wore an apron with a generous dusting of flour. He brought them a teapot and two cups, then left to get the tea cookies Emmaline ordered. She sighed with happiness.
“So, you’ve figured me out,” Mr. Aarons said without preamble.
“Oh, I doubt anyone could aim so high as that,” Emmaline said tartly. “But I am putting a few pieces together.”
Mr. Aarons pulled a long feather from inside his vest and lay it on the table between them. She picked the quill up and twirled it, remembering Catherine’s shocked He plucked me! and giggled. “I assume there’s some significance to this feather?”
“I’m seeking the bird to which it belongs. See the color and the faint iridescence? Obviously, it’s a tail feather.” He pointed, describing the shape of the quill at the bottom and the quality of the feather. His finger brushed gently against the soft spikes along the base of it and upward along the crisp and brightly colored plumage.
Emmaline leaned onto her elbow and listened to him talk, for the first time seeing him comfortable and happy. He described the tall trees of the South American rainforest, then gave a quick sharp whistle that made her jump in her seat and laugh.
“So, that’s what it sounds like?”
Mr. Aarons grinned back then sobered. “Most of the time, but they’re meant to travel in flocks. When they’re alone—”
He released a lower melody, sorrowful in a way.
As if awakening from a dream, she returned to the quietly filling tea shop and saw she’d emptied the tray of biscuits and another beside that. He must have ordered while she was lost in his talk. Had she eaten two entire plates? His plate had a light dusting of sugar, while hers sat in a blizzard.
“I’m sorry. Did I eat them all? They are my favorite.”
She played with the gloves in her lap, which she’d removed to eat the messy baked goods.
“Shipboard, we sometimes went weeks without fresh food, and that’s when things went well. It is very possible to get entirely sick of turtle soup. I’m trying to regain weight I lost. It’s given me an appreciation for food, and those who enhance a shared meal.”
He delivered this speech like a compliment. Knowing him a little better now, she found his attention to be uncalculated. She nodded faintly, enjoying the sensation.
He was unlike any gentleman she’d met. Of flirts, she knew many, but they barely listened for replies, merely seeking the next opening to astound her with their wit. Mr. Aarons truly listened, and so she had to mean what she said, just as he did.
She dropped her gaze to the floor, inadvertently spying the box at his feet. “Did you buy another hat?”
“That’s just your old one. I thought you might like to repair it or reuse the embellishments.”
“Embellissement,” she repeated with a laugh, then sobered. A warm feeling resided in her chest. Salvaging her old hat was thoughtful.
Her time with him would soon be over. A plan hatched, and she bit her lip. “I thought my new hat might need a few trimmings. Do you agree?”
“No.”
Thick-skulled, that’s what he was.
She tried again. “If it did, there’s another shop, further out, that I’d need to visit.”
She could see he hadn’t caught on. She left off the last of her cookie and reached out a finger to tap his hand.
Like lightening, his hand twisted and caught hers. Their eyes met, and a frisson of energy moved through her, leaving her breathless.
She’d wanted his attention. She had it.
“You, and the hat, don’t need another thing,” he said. He’d heard what she was driving at, but wasn’t playing a game of subterfuge.
She reluctantly withdrew her hand.
“I could use the name of the shop, though,” he added.
“Rossman’s,” she admitted, breathless. “In London.”
“I’ll drive you there, now,” he offered, rising.
“You certainly won’t.” She laughed, flattered and fluttering. She hardly recognized herself. A rush of fever swept through her beneath his warm gaze. “Uncle wouldn’t even let you in the door. I can’t go haring off to London with you.”
He sighed. So did she, in a strange shudder. This wouldn’t do at all. The urge to flee before losing all common sense brought her to her feet.
She brushed powdered sugar off her fingertips. “Thank you for today. I had a wonderful time. I’ll explain to Catherine. I hope you find what you seek at Rossman’s.”
Mr. Aarons studied her, but she gathered her gloves, fastened her redingote, and was nearly out the door when he offered her the hat box. She rushed back and accepted it by its tied string, feeling as if she should say something more. What was it that held her, making her want to stay in his presence when, really, there was nothing more to be said?
&n
bsp; She shook off her strange longing and opened the door with the jangle of a bell. Behind her, she thought she heard a low, mournful whistle.
The sound rocked her resolve. She bit her lip, swallowed, and pressed her hands together atop the hatbox. “Please let me know whether you succeed.”
She ran out and left the door open behind her.
Chapter 3
Emmaline took the long way home. The weather had indeed cleared, and the sky hung deep blue above her. Was the grass greener and the spots of early spring flowers brighter? A breeze flirted with the flaps of her open redingote.
She stopped atop a hill, heaved a soul-deep sigh, and perched delicately on a damp fallen trunk. It had barely struck noon, but it would require weeks to pick apart every detail and savor the memories of her morning. Nothing like this, like Mr. Aarons, had ever happened to her before.
Birdsong interrupted her musings. She smiled, wondering whether Mr. Aarons could tell her the owner of each call. Did he know the local birds or only the exotic ones he’d studied so far from home? Could he be content with black birds, swallows, and canaries when he’d seen love birds, macaws, and toucans?
He’d described birds with such affection while his long fingers stroked the iridescent feather. His mind had little space for everyday glibness, but somehow he’d made time for her. His compliments were awkward and genuine, and consequently worth twice that of other men’s. Was she foolish to think he’d enjoyed their time together as much as she had? From his treatment, she’d think he was interested, but his manners might be affected by his travels. She wouldn’t open herself up to scandal—open Aunt and Uncle up to scorn after all they’d done for her.
She couldn’t throw herself at him without knowing what type of man he was. Troubled romantic, as her heart insisted, or man of the world single-minded in his studies, even if it meant entertaining a foolish female to find the source of a single feather?
Descending the hill toward home, she debated how to explain to her family about her morning adventure, but her long delay had allowed Catherine’s new hat to be delivered. Aunt and Catherine were therefore less surprised to see the cheerful confection of felt and feathers adorning her head when she arrived indoors, breathless and heart pounding.
