I cannot pull my stare away from Mr. Andrew. He and the other man are deep in conversation. Mr. Andrew surprises me by gazing back in my direction. Appropriately, I look away and walk in the direction of the baker. I imagine Mr. Andrew’s smile, and for some silly reason, I cannot wipe away the one I now wear. This is completely ridiculous.
After I purchase three loaves of bread, some jelly tarts, and a few spools of ribbon, I visit my dear friend, Chelsea. She lives just up the lane, a few paces from where I am standing. She is one of my oldest friends, with whom I share all of my most intimate thoughts.
Unfortunately, she missed the party last evening because of a recent injury she sustained in a horse riding accident. Thank goodness, the impact of the injury focused primarily on her leg and not her neck. The careless girl is often too swift with her riding. I have warned her many times to slow down. Perhaps now, she will listen to my words of wisdom.
After I round the corner of a large brick building, I can see her quaint cottage just up ahead. It is white with black shutters and is surrounded by a gorgeous garden. I move past the flowers, admiring their soft petals.
When I reach the door, I am greeted formally by one of her servants and led through the charming home. Chelsea is sitting in a chair upholstered in a soft butter cream fabric. She is draped with a wrap, concealing her injured leg. Her blonde hair is lovely as ever, pulled off her face and settled at the nape of her neck.
When she sees me her face lights up. She attempts to stand, but I motion for her to remain as she is.
“Please, do not stand on my account,” I peer down toward her injured leg and grimace.
“Emma, please do not lecture me. I realize this accident could have been prevented if I had been riding at a slower pace, and if I had not insisted on taking that jump over the stream,” admits Chelsea.
“It would seem there is little need of scolding you after all.”
“Thank goodness for that! Emma, please do sit down. I am completely unprepared for a visit. What a wonderful surprise this is! I cannot begin to tell you how dull life has been these last few days,” she says, placing aside her embroidery.
“I thought you might enjoy some fresh tarts,” I say and set my basket on a table. “You might also like to hear about all you have missed.”
“I would!”
I sit on my favorite chair and am engulfed in comfort. I have always adored this chair. In fact, I do not recall my ever sitting anywhere else in this room. The design on the cushion is extraordinary. Most of the surface is silky and of the palest honey color. There is a pattern stitched in a deeper shade of gold throughout.
I reach into my basket and retrieve my new finery.
Chelsea’s face is bright with excitement, and a gasp escapes through my friend’s lips. “I simply adore the color of that ribbon! You must show me the drawings for your latest gowns!”
I describe the ideas I have for adding a band of small ruffles and explain how I will use the ribbon to help enhance the figure.
“You are a visionary, but I wonder what Mr. Grant would say. After all, your enhancements are a little shocking,” says Chelsea, blushing slightly.
“I recall our last conversation where you said you thought clothing should add to the allure of a woman and not hide it,” I remind her.
“I suppose I did,” she says and peers down at her hands, as they twiddle around some lace.
“You will be the very first to see my new dresses once I have completed them.”
“I am certain they will be lovely. I should very much like one for myself, if you don’t mind.”
“Why Chelsea, what will your mother say once she sees you wearing such a dress?” I tease and a large smile spreads over my face.
I inform her of last evening’s festivities and give detailed descriptions of the delicious desserts and dancing couples. After awhile, I run out of enthralling news and must inform her of my upcoming engagement to Mr. Grant.
“Well, you knew this day would eventually come,” she says.
“It is of no consequence.”
“How can you act as if it does not affect you? What are you not telling me?” Chelsea narrows her stare and leans forward.
“Edmund has returned home . . . and he arrived with an acquaintance, Mr. Andrew Stone from Charleston, South Carolina.”
“He is actually from America? How exciting it must be to have a foreigner stay as your guest! And what else has you on edge?”
“I have told you everything,” I say, but Chelsea does not respond. She is silent as if waiting for more information. I oblige by adding, “All right, if you insist. Mr. Andrew is moderately charming, he seems interested in my dress designing, and he often says exactly what is on his mind. I have never encountered such a man. Well, not including Edmund.” I stare out the window at the tree branches blowing in the wind.
“I see. That would be cause for your current state, would it not? What sort of things does he say?”
“Well, he asked me why I acted so strangely around him. In my opinion, he has been speaking far too freely with me!”
If Chelsea is attempting to muffle her laughter, she has failed. Since this is no laughing matter, I give her a look of exasperation. After all, she should take me seriously.
“Perhaps, Emma, it is fortunate he is only here for a visit. I would not care for my dearest friend to suffer in any way because a man actually catches her attention,” says Chelsea, tilting her head ever so slightly.
“Ha-ha, how amusing you are this morning. I am going to marry Mr. Grant. I cannot, in good conscience, fancy another man. Change of subject. Edmund has asked me to travel to London with him. I suppose that would give more time for . . .”
“You mean to say, more time to run away from your troubles? It is quite simple; if you do not wish to enter into matrimony with Mr. Grant, then you ought to say no to his offer of engagement. In fact, it would be best if you could find some way of discouraging him before he proposes. Actually, you were much better suited to marry Mr. Hamilton. He doted on you so. I believe he would be the sort to travel with you, although I agree he might have had a little gambling problem.”
“Gambling problem aside, I could never have married Mr. Hamilton. Mama would not have allowed it! Besides, I am certain I could be quite content living in Webshire. I would have everything my heart desires right there for me. After all, it is the only sensible thing to do,” I defend, and it does not go unnoticed by me that Chelsea is rolling her eyes in a most unladylike fashion.
“Emma, do you truly believe Mr. Grant is the most suitable man for you?”
“You know, as well as I do that Mr. Grant's mother and Mama have been planning our union for ages. Honestly, I could never consider a man other than Mr. Grant for a husband!”
“Besides, you feel safe with Mr. Grant. After all, you two were practically raised together.”
“I do not see there being any harm in feeling safe with him.”
“Agreed; however, I would like to see you open your heart to the possibility of actually finding someone who can match your zest for life. I am afraid Mr. Grant would cry to his mummy with even the smallest little scratch. Is that really the sort of man with whom you wish to spend your remaining days?”
“I suppose that is why I consider you a sister. Only a sister would be truly honest with her opinions, even if they are harsh,” I say.
“My words may be harsh, but they ring true. I would not be able to call myself a true friend if I did not honestly air my thoughts on the matter. I only hope you follow your heart and not your head.”
“I promise I shall take your words of advice. Thank you for speaking freely.”
“My dear friend, I am here to offer unsolicited advice, anytime,” Chelsea says, and we smile at each other. “What do you say to some tea and sharing in the treats you so kindly brought?”
~ * * * ~
Most of my morning is enjoyably spent in much the same way. Sometime after lunch, I notice Chelsea a
ppears sleepy. Promptly, I take my leave of her and find my way back home.
Sixteen
As I draw closer to my house, I hear laughter. A few steps more, and I am able to recognize the group ahead. Gathered on the lawn are Mr. Andrew and my family, playing a game of nine-pin. I quicken my steps, as I am eager to join them. What a grand way to spend the afternoon.
“I have been looking all over for you!” Victoria exclaims, as she swiftly glides over the grass. After reaching my side, she whispers, “Mr. Andrew and I have been set together as a team.”
“It would appear everyone is caught up in the festivities,” I say. “I notice you are in the middle of a break. Is it too late for me to join in the game?”
“Of course you may join us! Only, you will find Mr. Andrew and I are an unbeatable pair.” She smiles and saunters back towards her teammate.
My father interrupts his conversation with Mr. Andrew to offer up his place as
Edmund’s partner. Swiftly, Papa is relaxing next to Mama, enjoying a cup of tea.
I find my place next to Edmund. He leans close to me, seemingly about to whisper. Only instead of coming out in a hush, he exclaims his sentiments loud enough for our rivals to hear. “All right Emma, it is time we show these two what they are up against! After all, they are no match for us!”
I announce with vigor equal to his, “I agree and am looking forward to reigning victorious in this tournament!”
Victoria is the first to throw the ball down the grassy lane and . . . she does moderately well. Edmund follows her turn and does even better than she. Victoria’s voice becomes shrill with irritation. Edmund walks over to her, no doubt to gloat about his superior ability at the game. My brother beams with satisfaction while Victoria stands with her arms tensely crossed over her chest. There is a terse discussion about the rules, and I believe I hear Victoria mutter about how something is not fair. I cannot help but chuckle at the familiarity of the scene.
It is at this point, Mr. Andrew comes to stand at my side. “Did you have a nice day in town?” he inquires, still watching the drama between my brother and sister.
“I did, indeed. And what of your visit, did you accomplish your tasks?” My concentration narrows even closer on my siblings. They continue with their bantering, all the while, returning the pins to an upright position.
“I found my conversation with Mr. Jones most informative,” says Mr. Andrew.
“That is good to hear,” I reply and quickly shift our conversation. “Edmund and Victoria get on like this at every game. I am not entirely certain which I enjoy more; their ongoing debates over rules or the game itself.”
“I can see the entertainment of it,” says Mr. Andrew, peering down at me. “On my journey back, I came upon a most unsettling realization.”
“Oh, and of what realization did you come by, Mr. Andrew?” I look up, returning his powerful gaze.
“Are you in love with him?”
I catch my breath and glare.
“I assume it is Mr. Grant to whom you are referring.”
“If I may be so bold as to say, I do not believe you are,” suggests Mr. Andrew, and my face grows hot. I am not sure how to respond. After an uncomfortable silence, it is Mr. Andrew who finally speaks, “I will take that as a confirmation of my assumption.”
“You think me so shallow that I would become engaged to a man whom I am not in love! You are entirely too impertinent!” I say and am proud of the fierce intensity in my voice.
“You have not yet answered my question. That, in itself, speaks volumes.”
I am ready to slap him, when my brother returns to my side. After looking at my reddened cheeks, he begins to laugh. “Emma, it would appear as if you have entered into the spirit of the game. It is your turn. Make your throw count,” says Edmund, nudging me towards the end of the lane.
I am so completely outraged by Mr. Andrew, I can barely think straight. I take my hostility out on the ball and hurl it toward the pins. To my teammate’s delight and my surprise, I mow down the entire lot!
In that moment, I have forgotten my rage and celebrate by raising my arms into the air with a shriek. Edmund bounds over to me, we embrace, and jump up and down.
“Good show, Emma!” says Edmund, and then he turns toward Mr. Andrew. “Let us see you follow that!”
I, in turn, scowl in Mr. Andrew’s direction. Instead of appearing indignant by my outrage, the corners of his mouth turn up into an amused grin. This irritates me all the more. I stomp back to my previous position and wait for him to take his turn.
His eyes linger in my direction for longer than is necessary, and his twinkling smile makes me uncomfortable. I wish he would return his attention to the game. At last, he looks away from me and concentrates on the pins. He waits another moment before throwing. His strategy pays off, because he manages to hit all of the pins, as well. Surely, good fortune is with him. For a brief second, I see the joyful gleam in his eyes at his undeserved success. I wish, however, I were not aware of how brightly his eyes sparkle.
~ * * * ~
After dinner, my family retires to the library. The room is illuminated by light from the glowing fireplace, and all I can hear are crackling whispers from the hearth. Papa has pulled a book from the shelf and sits casually in his favorite chair. My siblings and I are eager for a spot close to him. It is quite common for our family to spend evenings in such a way. Most nights, my father will obligingly read a few pages from a book. I become carried away by his voice and am able to travel afar.
Edmund and Victoria are closest to Papa, and I find an empty place on the sofa. Thank goodness, Mr. Andrew has some business to which he must attend, and I will not have to endure his presence for the remainder of the evening. I sigh with contentment.
Beside me is a tray lined with sweet biscuits. I am easily able to ignore them and reach for my parchment. After showing Chelsea my latest drawings, I am anxious to design a new gown for her, and as I wait for Papa to begin his tale, I sketch my ideas.
My father’s animated story is about faraway kingdoms, and I am immediately swept away. He is reading from the fifth page, when an unwelcome interruption creeps into the room. Without looking away from my drawing, I am aware Mr. Andrew has joined us. His unnerving presence, however, has failed to dissolve the web of Papa’s story weaving, and I am grateful. The first available seat, of course, is situated next to me. Immediately, Mr. Andrew takes his place by my side. My body involuntarily edges away from him and I am pressed against the sofa’s arm. I reach for a biscuit and nibble at it. My concentration is locked on my sketches, but I can sense Mr. Andrew’s gaze on me.
“Ms. Emma, you seem to be out of sorts. Are you well?” he whispers in my direction.
“I am fine.”
“Your drawings are quite nice. I did not realize you were an artist,” he says, peering over my shoulder.
Protectively, I place my hand over my drawing. Again, I reach for a dessert. This time it is a raspberry tart, and juice from the berries sweetens my lips. I am lost for a moment in its splendor. In fact, I am barely aware that Mr. Andrew remains quiet for the rest of Papa’s reading.
“That will be all for now. I must retire to my quarters,” says my father, as he saves his page and shuts the book. I am utterly disappointed by the abrupt halt to his reading. I am quite certain I will not be able to rest my mind until I know the fate of the mighty heroine.
After the room clears, I find I am left alone. I approach the closed book and open it to the saved page. Secretively, I read what is to come. After flipping a few more pages, I am relieved to find the heroine will prevail through her hardships.
I return the book to its precise location and then pivot to leave the scene. All of a sudden, I notice Mr. Andrew. He is resting against the doorframe, obstructing my exit. I am aware that yet again, he is catching me at a most inconvenient moment.
“Goodness! You have managed to startle me once again. Is this your new favorite form of entertainment?” I sigh
in exasperation.
“On my word, it has not been my intention to upset you. It would seem, however, I have been frequently doing just that,” he says.
“It is of no consequence. The damage has already been done. Excuse me, for I wish to retire to my room.” I attempt to slip through the doorway but am blocked by him. He is close, too close, but I am still able to mutter, “Excuse me, sir.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. He extends his hand towards my face, gently wiping the soft fabric over my chin.
“Here, this may be of better use to you than me,” he offers, placing the cloth in my hand. I stare down at it and realize he must have just cleaned jam off my face!
“Excuse me, Mr. Andrew, I must get through.”
“Emma, earlier today I spoke too freely and insulted your integrity. I am truly sorry for my poor behavior and promise to make amends,” he says, and I glance up to see whether or not he is sincere. Perhaps he is . . . a little.
“I suppose I accept your apology, under the condition you will refrain from further insults. You may speak of the weather and little else.”
“I suppose that will be more than acceptable. May I also remark, my odd behavior is not entirely my fault,” says Mr. Andrew with a grin.
“Oh, and who is to share in the blame for your tactlessness?”
“You are, of course.”
“How do you suppose I am responsible for your ill manners?” I ask in surprise.
“It is difficult for me to remain silent when I believe you are too good for that pompous Percy Grant,” says Mr. Andrew, narrowing his stare. “Besides, I find your reactions unbelievably charming. My only regret is I anger you in the process. I suppose if only at our every encounter, I were not struck nearly witless by you, I might then be able to ponder my thoughts before speaking them.”
I look away and try to comprehend the words he has just spoken. I cannot for the life of me think of a single thing with which to reply. I open and shut my mouth, hoping for something to fill the empty void. To no avail, I remain mute in my response.
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