Mercedes shook her head. “Perhaps, but I sense that it is something more, something she’s not telling us. Of course, I may be wrong, since one can only discern so much from a letter. But still, she seems… despondent.”
Ariadne’s forehead drew into lines; she extended her hand. “Let me see that again.”
Quietly, quickly, she read her friend’s words, seeing what they said as well as everything they did not.
Mercedes was right.
Emma gave a faithful report, but that is all it was—a report without life or vibrancy. Had she not signed her name, Emma’s letter could have been written by a stranger.
More disturbed than she cared to admit, Ariadne walked across the room and sat down at her desk. Opening a drawer, she extracted a sheet of paper, then reached for her quill pen and bottle of ink.
“What are you doing?” Mercedes asked curiously.
“Writing to her brother. Surely even Prince Rupert cannot be so cruel as to deny his sister the comfort of her friends.”
“But what about our classes and the rest of term?”
“Term will be over soon enough, and I can see no great difficulty if we leave a few days early. In the meantime, we shall finish our lessons while arrangements are made. You and I are going to England to see Emma. Then we shall discover exactly what is amiss.”
“If you would indulge me yet again, Your Highness, might I ask you to raise your arm another inch?”
Emma shifted, the faint jab of a pin startling her out of her reverie. She sent a blank stare toward the diminutive dressmaker, only then truly taking note of her.
Despite the woman’s frantic activity over the past forty-five minutes and the continuous hum of conversation between her and her assistants, Emma had managed to drown out most of that day’s dress fitting. It was a skill she’d honed to near perfection over the last month, since her return to the estate. She had become quite adept at being physically present for an event yet able to divorce herself mentally from the proceedings.
Generally, no one seemed to mind; her attendance was often all that was required at the small gatherings and intimate dinner parties given in honor of her brother.
“What do you require?” she said, looking directly at the modiste.
The tiny woman paused, a piece of chalk and a tape measure clutched inside her small hands, a long paper filled with straight pins draped like a boa constrictor over her neck. Offering a slight smile of apology, the older woman looked away. “Only a few more minutes of your time, Princess. We are very nearly finished.”
Emma resisted the urge to shrug, scarcely caring either way. What she did—or did not do—made little difference to her lately. She bathed and dressed, ate and slept, letting her ladies-in-waiting advise her where she ought to be next and exactly what she should be doing. At moments she felt as if someone else were living her life and she was observing it all from afar. Often she did not feel like herself—or feel at all, for that matter.
She supposed she ought to take a more active interest in her life, but each time she cracked open the door on her emotions, the pain would come rushing back—a pain that was nearly unendurable. And so she slammed the door closed again and let the distraction take hold once more.
She did not think of him—at least never deliberately, since that was something else she could not bear. Only at night, when her defenses were at their weakest, did the memories creep upon her, leaving her to wake with wet, tearstained cheeks, his name a forbidden whisper on her lips.
But he was in her past, and whatever it took, that was where he must stay.
Dutifully, she raised her arm.
The dressmaker resumed her pinning.
Emma had just begun to drift away again when the great double doors to her dressing room flew open and a slim woman with silvery blond hair strode inside. The elegant skirts of her cerulean satin gown swished around her trim ankles, a set of matching sapphires glinting at her throat and wrist. An equally exquisite pearl that looked big enough to have cracked the shell of the oyster that had borne it rode on her right hand. A plain gold band that signified her once married, but now widowed, state, adorned her left.
In spite of her being a widow and the mother of two young daughters, she was still young herself, only seven-and-twenty. Her ivory skin was smooth as a debutante’s, her features undeniably beautiful. The shape of her deep-set blue eyes and pert nose were similar to Emma’s, enough so that there could be no mistaking the fact that they were sisters.
Walking briskly forward, Sigrid, Duchesa d’Tuscani, halted a few feet in front of her and conducted a head-to-toe inspection of the dressmaker’s work before clasping her hands against the healthy curve of her bosom.
“Stunning,” she declared. “No one attending this Saturday’s ball will be able to take their eyes off you. The English prince we are to meet may stumble over his own feet in his haste to make your acquaintance.”
This time Emma did not restrain the urge to shrug; the reward for her impertinence was a new jab from the sharp end of one of the many pins holding the dress together. She scowled, wishing suddenly that she could return to her bedchamber and sleep.
“The gown will be ready in time?” Sigrid questioned, ignoring Emma’s little display of rebellion in order to consult with the modiste.
“Oh yes, Your Highness,” the woman assured. “My girls and I shall work day and night to ensure the prompt delivery of Princess Emmaline’s wardrobe.”
Sigrid gave a regal tilt of her head. “And mine as well, I presume? I can wait on a few pieces, if necessary, but I must have the ruby satin for the ball. Nothing else will suffice, you understand.”
The dressmaker nodded deferentially. “That gown is a top priority as well. I have hired five new seamstresses to work on your commission and no other.”
Sigrid sniffed as if she expected no less, then brushed a hand along her skirt—one of several new gowns she’d already had made since her arrival in England.
Emma might find the selection and fitting process for her new wardrobe tedious, but her sister was in heaven. She loved nothing more than acquiring new clothes—well, perhaps there was one thing she loved more, and that was jewelry. Luckily, the late duke’s family had not objected to Sigrid taking more than two dozen highly expensive pieces with her when she left her former home in Italy.
“Every one of the gemstones in my possession was a personal gift from Carlo,” she had explained. “I mean, what would I want with his family’s ancient medieval heirlooms anyway? The ugliest monstrosities I’ve ever had the misfortune to see. Why do you think I made him buy me new ones after we were married?”
As for her new wardrobe, Sigrid had convinced Rupert that she could not possibly make her introduction to the British crown in her shabby old gowns. All she had were widow’s weeds, which surely he would be embarrassed to see her wear now that she was out of mourning.
Once Rupert’s temper had cooled over not finding Emma at the estate as planned, he had been more than happy to placate Sigrid and her request for new clothes. He had forgiven Emma as well, assuming she would be as delighted as her older sister at the prospect of receiving her own elegant new wardrobe. Emma had thanked him, but as for being delighted, she hadn’t been able to drum up any more enthusiastic an emotion than boredom. Instead, she had let Sigrid be excited for them both.
Nor had she been as excited as she surely ought to have been by the news that Duchess Weissmuller had been dismissed. When Rupert learned that Emma’s former chaperone had made her so miserable she’d felt the need to run away, he had been furious. Emma heard that the usually unflappable duchess had emerged ashen-faced and on the verge of tears after her interview with Rupert. The following morning, her bags had been packed and a coach made ready for her return trip to Rosewald. Sunk deep in disgrace, none of the household, most particularly Rupert and Sigrid, had gone to wish her good-bye.
Considering her past encounters with the woman, Emma knew she had reason to be grateful f
or her former chaperone’s departure. Yet even that tiny spark of relief had done little to intrude on the abject misery of those first days after her return. She supposed her pallor and silence had gone a long way toward convincing Rupert that she was truly repentant for her unauthorized escape to London.
Of Nick and his aunt, she made no reference. Instead, she’d told her brother that she had spent the entire time in residence with Mrs. Brown-Jones. There was no reason why he need ever know otherwise. Once she and her siblings left England in a few weeks’ time, there would be no chance of her ever meeting Nick or his aunt again. In many ways, it would be as if those weeks in his home—in his arms—had never happened. As if he were no more than a stranger, someone whose life never had, and never would, intersect with hers.
A crushing pain radiated through her at the thought, squeezing the air from her lungs as if she had taken a killing blow. Only by sheer strength of will did she keep from wrapping her arms around herself and giving in to the cry trapped inside her.
No! she ordered herself. Do not think of him.
Not here.
Not now.
Not ever, if you know what’s good for you.
Tugging desperately at the edges of the comforting quilt of numbness in which she’d lately taken to shrouding herself, she closed her eyes and wished the world away.
“Et voilà!” the modiste stated in a pleased voice not long afterward. Emma opened her eyes, watching dully as the woman stepped back to admire her work one final time. “Finished at last.” She sent Emma a wide smile. “Would you care to take a look in the pier glass, Your Highness? Just to make sure everything is to your liking.”
Emma said nothing, grateful when Sigrid came forward to offer several effusive words of praise and the promise of a generous delivery bonus that put a twinkle in the dressmaker’s eye.
The modiste clapped her hands dramatically. “Girls, assist Princess Emmaline into her own gown, then we shall be on our way. We have much to do!”
Emma retreated to her bedchamber, standing pliable and silent as she let the two dressmaker’s assistants extract her from the ball gown and button her back into a day dress of pale peach silk. She paid scant attention to them as they gathered up the heavily pinned gown and bade her good day.
Crossing to one of the tall casement windows that lined the expansive room, she contemplated pulling the drapes and climbing into bed. An afternoon nap wouldn’t elicit much comment. Many ladies rested before rising to dress for dinner. The fact that she had never been one of those ladies, at least not before she’d returned to the estate, was of no moment.
She was reaching out to ring for one of her ladies to inform her that she did not wish to be disturbed for the remainder of the afternoon when a soft knock came at the door. Without waiting for permission, her sister strolled inside.
Emma restrained a sigh.
“Your gowns truly are magnificent,” Sigrid stated conversationally as she moved deeper into the room. “I cannot wait to see you made ready for the ball. I have a diamond and pearl diadem I think would look splendid with your hair. You shall have to come to my rooms to try it on.”
“Hmm, that sounds lovely,” Emma told her in an absent tone.
“Wonderful. Then what about now?”
Now?
She almost shook her head. She was going to take a nap now.
She loved her sister, but at the moment she really wished Sigrid would figure out that she wished to be alone and would leave. She desperately wanted to sleep, longing for a couple hours’ escape into nothingness with an ache that was almost physical.
“Perhaps later.” She offered a placating smile. “I want to rest before dinner.”
Sigrid sent her a look that was half exasperated, half concerned. “You are eighteen years old. You shouldn’t need any rest. When I was your age, I raced from one entertainment to the next during the day, then danced every evening away. I don’t think I got more than a night’s sleep each week.”
“How lucky for you,” Emma said, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice.
The exasperation eased from her sister’s face, leaving only concern behind. “What is it, Emma? What is wrong? You haven’t… Well, you haven’t seemed yourself since your excursion to London. Did something happen there to make you unhappy?”
Emma froze, her pulse racing in alarm at what Sigrid might know or have guessed. Could she possibly have found out about Nick? She was certain Mrs. Brown-Jones would never betray her confidence, and there was no one else who could have told her sister anything. No, she decided, feeling her pulse slow again, she didn’t know anything about him. Sigrid must simply be fishing for information and explanations.
“No,” Emma told her calmly. “Nothing happened. I had a very enjoyable time in the city. If I seem different, perhaps it is because I am eighteen years old now. You haven’t seen me for years—not since I was a child.”
Sigrid frowned. “I wanted to come see you, but that dreadful war prevented it. Carlo refused to let me travel, and of course, I had the girls. I couldn’t leave them. They were only babies.”
“Of course you could not,” Emma said softly, thinking of her nieces with their dark ringlets, clear olive skin, and winning smiles. “I understood why you couldn’t visit and I have no bruised feelings over the matter. But we are both older and much has happened since we lived together in Rosewald.”
Sigrid bent her blond head, staring for a moment at her hands. “Yes, much has changed. You are right.” She lifted her gaze again. “But that is no reason why you should rest in the afternoon when you should be out having fun.”
“Having fun where? Here at the estate? If you must know, the place bores me to tears.”
Sigrid laughed. “It isn’t the city, is it?”
“No.”
“Well, we shall be leaving for London soon, and once we do, I expect you to be more engaged and to smile more too.”
Smile more? The notion made her shudder. Somehow Emma forced her lips to curve upward and her head to dip in a false nod.
Apparently satisfied for the time being, her sister stood. “I shall leave you then, if you insist. Cards tonight, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
“Yes, cards.”
She could muddle through, she told herself, if only she could have some time alone now.
Sigrid paused again, studying her with kind eyes. “You are sure you are feeling well? You looked quite peaked during your fitting.”
“Yes, I… If you must know, it is my time of the month.”
Stupid, but she’d been disappointed when her menses had arrived a couple days ago. In spite of the appalling furor it would have caused, a tiny part of her had been hoping she was with child. It would have given her an excuse to see him again.
But there was no child.
There was nothing between them now.
Sigrid relaxed suddenly. “Why did you not just say? There’s no need to be embarrassed. We women all suffer. Are you in pain? Poor dear, I shall have a compress and a toddy brought up immediately. Go on. Lie down. I will see to everything.”
Suddenly Emma wished she could tell her sister the whole truth, could go to her and take comfort in her words and her embrace. But she didn’t know if she would receive the comfort she needed or find condemnation instead.
In some ways, she and Sigrid really were little more than strangers; they had spent too many years apart for her to know how her sister might react. She knew Sigrid loved her and meant her well, but as for sharing confidences, she decided her secrets and her sorrow were better kept to herself.
Still, the smile she gave her sister was a genuine one as she turned and made her way to the bed in search of the quiet and temporary oblivion she craved.
Chapter 15
“Ain’t me place ter say, I suppose, but that butler and valet of yers acts more like the lord of the manor than ye do yerself, Cap’n,” Goldfinch said two afternoons later as he and Nick sat across from each other in Nic
k’s study. “Mind ye, I’m naught but an old seadog and an ordinary man besides, but at least I don’t put on no airs. Don’t rightly know how Bell stands to be around them two blighters—no offense.”
Nick regarded his former crewman over the rim of his whiskey glass and resisted the urge to smile. He couldn’t help but be aware of the chilly treatment Goldfinch had received from his servants when he had once again presented himself on Nick’s doorstep—the front door rather than the back. Symms, in particular, took issue with Goldfinch not using the tradesman’s entrance, though he never complained openly to Nick about the infraction.
For his own part, Nick didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, a door was a door. But the servants had a protocol and Nick respected their need for order. Goldfinch was a guest, however, and should be treated as such no matter his station in life. Nick made a note to himself to have a word with his senior staff regarding the issue.
“Symms and Puddlemere take great pride in their positions, which they have held since my brother’s day,” Nick said. “If they seem high in the instep, it is only because they are fiercely protective of maintaining the dignity of the household.”
Goldfinch gave a snort and took a swig of his own drink. “’Tis yer household. Don’t see how it’s up to them.”
“Be that as it may, the next time you visit, you are to present yourself at the front door again. My orders.”
The old sailor grinned, displaying a set of teeth stained by age and tobacco, one of the canines missing. “Thank ye, Cap’n. Ye always was a right fine gentleman.”
Nick idly turned his glass in his hand. “As for Bell, he seems to rub along well with the staff, despite his being new to a life of service.”
“Aye, that’s Bell for ye. He gets on wit everyone. A good lad, and bright as they come, even if he can talk the hind end off a horse.”
This time Nick smiled. Raising his glass to his lips, he took another drink, then set the crystal onto his desk with a thump. “Well then, what progress have you made? Were you able to learn anything from your visit to Covent Gardens?”
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