Lady of a Recluse Earl

by Mirella Tinley

  Without another moment’s hesitation, Lord Nightingale took his eldest daughter by the arm and helped her into the first carriage, whilst Emmy and her mother got into the one behind, and her two brothers brought up the rear.

  Nora waved to the staff, who waved back as the carriage pulled away, though Mrs Harbour’s guttural sobs could still be heard once they had rounded the corner. In fact, Emmy was almost certain she could still hear them as they pulled up to the chapel.

  It was a pretty building, with smooth, sandstone walls. The sunlight gleamed off the stained-glass windows, no doubt casting a multi-coloured pattern onto the floor within. At the very top of the steeple, a golden weathervane turned in the breeze.

  After a quick word between Lord Nightingale and the vicar on the steps of the chapel, the robed man disappeared inside and the sound of the organ filtered out into the summer air.

  Lady Nightingale and the Nightingale brothers entered first, to find their seats, giving Emmy the chance to give her sister’s hand one last squeeze.

  “Good luck,” she whispered. “And remember, if he doesn’t make you the happiest of wives, he shall have me to deal with,” she added with a wink before entering ahead of Nora.

  Inside the chapel, Emmy smiled at the sight of the Wyndhams, who were sitting near the back on the bride’s side. Sir Wyndham was there with his wife, Lady Tabitha Wyndham, who was an exquisite beauty despite her advancing years. Beside them sat the two Wyndham brothers, Ambrose and Archibald, though the sight of them without Albion made Emmy’s heart twinge a little.

  Ambrose, in particular, looked a lot like his elder brother, with the same curling auburn hair and handsome face, though his eyes were not nearly as green.

  A sinking feeling twisted in Emmy’s stomach—it was strange without him. Maybe, just maybe, she did miss him.

  Just then, there was a rush and rustle of fabric as everybody stood.

  The bride had entered. Emmy watched as Ambrose’s eyes immediately flickered past her shoulder, toward the arriving bride. He could not take his eyes off her and Emmy didn’t blame him. Nora looked otherworldly, like a princess pulled from the pages of a fairy-tale. Archibald, however, who was the youngest Wyndham brother, simply seemed bored by the whole thing.

  Emmy glanced over her shoulder, just in time to see Nora gazing at Ambrose. It lasted only a second, the look between them, but Emmy could see the flush in Nora’s cheeks, even beneath the gauze of her veil, that lasted a long while after.

  Up ahead stood the short, stout man that would be Nora’s husband. Emmy tried to keep an impartial expression upon her face, but she couldn’t help being repulsed by the sight of the toady man. It took everything she had not to turn her nose up, as though she’d sniffed something awful. Instead, she gave him a polite smile and stood off to the side, taking Nora’s bouquet of roses as Lord Nightingale gave his eldest daughter away.

  With that done, everyone but the happy couple sat down and the proceedings began. Hymns were sung, readings were read, and the ceremony was performed.

  The chapel fell silent when the vicar asked if anyone knew of any lawful impediment that could prevent the marriage, though Emmy felt a sudden impulse to shout out.

  As if sensing it, Nora had turned to her at that moment and flashed Emmy a warning glance, which had duly silenced any urge she might have had. And so, everything went smoothly. The rings were exchanged, and then it was over.

  Miss Honora Nightingale had become Lady Honora Hodge, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

  As everyone filtered out of the chapel, following the newlyweds, Ambrose caught up with Emmy. There was a strange expression in his eyes that Emmy could not read, but she wondered if he felt the same way as her about the marriage they had just witnessed.

  “Miss Emmeline, I hope you will not mind my saying, but your sister looks particularly beautiful today,” he said after a moment.

  Emmy nodded, looking at her. She was in the middle of speaking with a long-lost Aunt, her face a picture of feminine composure and elegance. “She certainly does, Mr Wyndham, as she does every day.”

  “And she loves her husband?” he asked, somewhat impertinently. The question took Emmy by surprise.

  “I believe so, Mr Wyndham, though I do not think that a polite question to ask,” she replied sternly.

  Ambrose shook his head. “No, of course not. Please accept my apologies, Miss Emmeline. I was not thinking when I spoke,” he said quickly, apparently realising how loose his tongue had become.

  Emmy smiled. “I believe the vision of my sister could make any man lose his head for a moment, Mr Wyndham. You are quite forgiven.”

  “It will undoubtedly be you next, Miss Emmeline, once my brother has returned from battle,” he said, changing the subject.

  “Indeed. I look forward to his return,” Emmy replied, surprised to find that she meant it.

  Suddenly, the wedding party was interrupted by the sound of swiftly approaching hooves. A horse was charging toward the chapel, bearing a rider whose gloomy face did not fit with the gaiety of the day.

  Emmy looked at him with a worried brow as he pulled the horse up and jumped down, gripping a letter in his hand.

  “I am looking for Sir Wyndham and Lady Wyndham,” the man said, revealing himself to be a messenger. “I was told by the staff at Whitecroft Abbey that you would be here,” he added.

  Herbert stepped forward with his wife on his arm. “I am Sir Wyndham,” he said.

  “I have ridden express from Dover, Sir. I wish I brought you kinder news on such a day as this,” the messenger sighed, gesturing toward the rest of the congregation, whose eyes were all turned in his direction.

  “Is it news of my son?” Lady Wyndham gasped, her grip tightening on her husband’s arm.

  The rider nodded. “I am sorry,” was all he said before jumping back onto the horse and riding away, the hooves pounding into the distance.

  Sir Wyndham opened the letter slowly, allowing his wife to read over his shoulder. An unbearable silence stretched across the chapel grounds. It did not last.

  A scream ripped through the air as Lady Tabitha crumpled to the ground. Ambrose ran to his mother, kneeling beside her, clutching her hands in his.

  “Mother, what is it? What has happened?” he pleaded to know.

  Sir Wyndham simply stood, saying nothing, though his face said it all. The colour had drained entirely from his features, his eyes wide, taking on a haunted expression. At his feet, his wife began to wail uncontrollably. An animalistic roar erupted from the back of her throat.

  It was unlike anything Emmy had ever heard before, and she knew precisely what it meant.

  “Mother, what did the letter say?” Ambrose implored, trying to peel the piece of paper from his mother’s hands, but she refused to give it up. Instead, she clung to Ambrose, rocking to-and-fro in his worried arms.

  “My boy! My baby boy! They killed my baby boy!” Lady Wyndham howled, answering everyone’s questions in one fell swoop.

  In that moment, Emmy’s world began to crumble. It felt as though someone had taken a club to her stomach once the pieces clicked into place, understanding dawning in horrifying slow-motion. Nausea rippled through her body, her knees shaking, her eyesight blurring.

  If she hadn’t felt her sister’s arms wrapping tightly around her, she was certain she would have fallen to the ground as the world faded to black.

  Albion was dead, and with his loss, her future had been torn asunder.

  Chapter Two

  Albion

  Chapter 2

  Cheshire, England, May 1816

  Emmy sat on the stone bench beside Albion’s grave, clutching a bouquet of flowers to her chest.

  She had yet to lay them upon the gravestone, though her eyes were drawn to the last ones she had left there. The petals were curled and browning, the stems long-since lost their green vitality.

  Her tears had dried up many months ago, but her permeating sadness remained. For so long, she
had thought her betrothal something of a curse upon her happiness, but now that Albion was gone, she was certain he had been the key to it all along.

  Now, she was forced to endure the endless matchmaking of her mother, who had barely waited three months before beginning her vocation of seeking out viable choices from the eligible bachelors of England and Scotland. It didn’t matter that Emmy was still wearing black and visiting Albion’s grave most days; Lady Nightingale wanted to see her youngest daughter married. So far, she had managed to put her mother off for almost a year, but she knew she could not postpone her mother’s efforts much longer.

  Her silent reverie was disturbed by the crunch of a twig under someone’s foot. She turned sharply to see Ambrose standing in the shade of an oak tree. He was watching her sadly, though his gaze trailed toward Nora, who was walking nearby, providing a chaperone for Emmy’s desired solitude.

  “Mr Wyndham,” said Emmy politely with a nod.

  “Miss Emmeline,” he replied, his presence bringing Nora over. “Lady Hodge,” he added, though the words sounded oddly terse.

  “Mr Wyndham,” repeated Nora, who sat down beside Emmy. “How is your mother faring?” she asked, voicing the question Emmy had been unable to utter.

  Ambrose smiled sadly. “I am afraid she is still not herself…nor do I think she is ever likely to recover,” he admitted. “I have never seen such sorrow in one solitary person before. It is infectious, I feel—like a disease. The Abbey is rife with it, and I do not believe there is a cure. But, the real question is, how are you faring, Miss Emmeline?”

  Emmy shook her head. “The weight of it grows easier with every day that passes, Mr Wyndham, though I cannot bear the loss of his image in my mind,” she said softly, staring at the dead flowers on the gravestone.

  “I could bring a likeness of his over to the house one of these days. I realise I have been remiss in visiting with your brothers and your father, but it is something I am seeking to remedy,” Ambrose replied, an apologetic expression on his handsome face.

  Emmy looked up at him, only to turn her face away again. He looked so remarkably like his brother that his presence was almost uncomfortable.

  “I am sorry,” Emmy whispered.

  “My mother does the same thing, Miss Emmeline,” he said, his voice tight with sorrow.

  “A likeness of Albion would be a wonderful gift, Mr Wyndham. You are too kind.” Emmy forced herself to look at him, unable to bear the sadness in his voice. She could only imagine what it must be like to live in a household where even his mother could not bear to look at him. It was not fair; Ambrose could not change the way he looked.

  “It would be my pleasure, Miss Emmeline,” he replied, a grateful glitter in his eyes, before turning his attention to Nora. “I must say, I was surprised to see you here today, Lady Hodge. I had heard you were residing at Fallow Manor?”

  Nora smiled politely. “Indeed, Mr Wyndham. For much of the year, I have been there with my husband, but I have persuaded him to spend the summer at his Aunt’s, so I might be closer to my family. With it coming up to that time of year, I felt it only right to be near my beloved sister,” she explained, holding his gaze.

  “That is kind of you, Lady Hodge,” said Ambrose. “I heard on the grapevine that there is to be a ball soon?”

  Emmy flushed a violent shade of scarlet. The ball had been her mother’s idea, as a means of finding a suitable husband before the year was out.

  With the summer season coming into full swing, Lady Nightingale had made her intentions clear—she was going to take full advantage of the societal calendar to ensure Emmy was placed in front of as many families and suitors as possible, without it seeming vulgar.

  Emmy had been horrified by the news, knowing that it would only serve to upset Lady Wyndham. There had been a few letters sent throughout the year, mainly penned by Sir Herbert—though Emmy had a feeling Lady Wyndham was responsible for them—suggesting that Emmy might like to marry one of the other Wyndham brothers instead.

  Had Emmy had her way, she would have settled for such a match, but her mother had other ideas. With Nora married to a wealthy baron, it was evident that Lady Nightingale had garnered a taste for rich matches. Why her mother didn’t focus more of her time on the heir to Davenham Park, Courtesy Viscount Francis Nightingale, or her other son, Mr Jasper Nightingale, Emmy had no idea.

  “Indeed, Mr Wyndham, there is to be a ball in ten days’ time. My mother is so very proud of the way the gardens have turned out this year that I believe she is keen to show them off,” Nora said, to Emmy’s eternal gratitude. It seemed she had lost her voice in the midst of her shame.

  “Might we expect an invitation, Lady Hodge?” he asked, somewhat brazenly.

  “I should expect so, Mr Wyndham,” Nora replied evenly. “I shall oversee it myself.”

  He smiled. “And, will your husband be accompanying you to the ball, Lady Hodge?”

  “I should expect so, Mr Wyndham,” she repeated, her face giving little away.

  “Although it is a little unorthodox, might I request the first dance with you, Miss Emmeline?” Ambrose asked, letting his gaze rest on Emmy.

  She nodded. “I would be delighted to dance with you, Mr Wyndham.”

  “Very good, Miss Emmeline. I shall look forward to it,” he said kindly, a twinkle in his eyes. “I shall not disturb your peace any longer. I came only to speak with my brother, but I imagine he is distracted with the two of you in his presence. I shall return at another time. Take care of yourselves, Lady Hodge, Miss Emmeline. I hope our paths may cross again soon,” he added, tipping his hat in the direction of Emmy and her sister.

  “And you, Mr Wyndham,” Nora encouraged.

  With that, Ambrose Wyndham took his leave of the Nightingale sisters, though Emmy watched him until he had completely disappeared from sight.

  She knew he would have taken the path that led from Davenham Park to the more modest lands of Whitecroft Abbey through the stretch of woodland they shared, the dense trees bordering the bottom edge of the two properties.

  A river ran through the woodland and she felt as though she could hear the rushing water, though it was only the breeze, rustling the trees overhead.

  “I wish Mama had never decided to put on this garish ball,” Emmy said bitterly once she was certain Ambrose had gone. “It is obscene to have such an event less than a year after Albion’s death. It is frankly abhorrent, as far as I am concerned. I will dance and I will do my duty, but I shan’t enjoy a moment of it.”

  “She will never relent until she sees you wed, sister,” Nora remarked, putting her arm around Emmy’s shoulders. “It is neither fair nor proper, but she will not desist. Perhaps, it will be easier for you if you do not fight her.”

  Emmy turned sharply in her sister’s direction. “You cannot say such a thing. You, of all people, cannot say you agree with her?”

  “No, sister, I do not agree with her, but I do not wish to see the two of you at war over this. She will have her way, regardless of what you think. I would not have you suffer more than you already have,” Nora explained.

  “I will fight her, Nora,” Emmy insisted defiantly. “I will, because I will not be her marionette, dancing to her every whim and fancy. You would not be married to a brute such as Hugh Hodge if she had not meddled and thought she could do as she pleased with your happiness.”

  Nora recoiled.

  Emmy knew her words had stung her older sister, but she could not help it. For a whole year, she had watched that man pick away at everything beautiful in Nora. She had seen the hidden bruises beneath the neckline of Nora’s dresses and the way Nora winced when Hugh whispered something to her over dinner. He was a tyrant, only tied to Nora because of what their mother had done. Emmy was determined that it should not happen to her, too.

  “You should not speak that way, Emmy,” Nora warned, her gaze lowering to the ground. “It is not polite to speak so.”

  Emmy sighed. “But is it not true? You cannot expect
me to believe that you are anything less than miserable at Fallow Manor with that vile old troll?”

  “Enough, Emmy!” Nora snapped, though her tone instantly softened. She was not the kind of woman who was prone to sudden outbursts, and the sound of it took Emmy quite by surprise.

  “I am sorry, dearest Nora. I spoke out of turn. I realise that, in speaking so, I do nothing but add to your discontent,” said Emmy, instantly apologetic of her words. The last thing she wanted to do was see her sister saddened, but when it came to the situation with Hugh, Emmy simply couldn’t help herself. She hated the man.

  Nora shook her head slowly. “It is quite all right, my beloved sister. I know that what you say comes from a place of love. I should not have shouted like that—it is most unbecoming,” she murmured shamefacedly, turning away for a moment. “The truth is, you are no fool. I can hide my displeasure from Mama, keeping up the pretence of marital bliss, but I cannot do the same with you. You see right through me, Emmy—you always have. I just wish you would not see what I seek to conceal.” A small, tight laugh tinkled from her cherry-red lips.