Lady of a Recluse Earl

by Mirella Tinley

  “You really mustn’t aggravate Mama like that. She may just select the worst of the potential suitors purely just to spite you,” Nora warned as she began to put her boots on too.

  “If she does, I shall get all the more pleasure from rejecting him right in front of Mama’s smug face,” Emmy muttered, savagely tying her laces into two bows.

  Nora chuckled. “Now that I should like to see.”

  Suitably attired, they headed out into the warmth of a bright, late-spring morning. The lawns were dew-soaked, the blades glittering with a thousand crystalline beads.

  Mr Noakes, the gardener, was whistling a tune as he set to work on landscaping Mama’s winter gardens. Across the azure sky, swallows flitted, hurrying to-and-fro, as the songs of other birds filled the air.

  It was a beautiful day, but Emmy’s mind was elsewhere. Tossing and turning all night, she had thought about the strange hermit, unable to fully recall his face. All she could hear was the soothing, masculine sound of his voice, and all she could see was the glimmer of blue eyes lit by torchlight.

  As much as she knew it was wrong, she wanted to find out more about the peculiar man. If nothing else, she wanted to see what he looked like by daylight.

  With Nora beside her, however, she knew she would have to bide her time and wait for a suitable opportunity to arise. Nora would frown upon her behaviour, and she didn’t feel like having another telling-off that morning.

  And so they wandered the grounds together, pausing by the chapel to lay some wildflowers at Albion’s grave. She stopped there for a while, speaking with the departed before carrying on in search of happier exploits.

  They strolled through the summer gardens, watching the bees buzzing from bloom to bloom, their furry thighs loaded with pollen.

  Bumblebees were Emmy’s favourite creature of all. She adored the way they lumbered through the air, struggling despite their size, their fluffiness giving them a sweetness despite the fierce sting they possessed.

  After an hour or so, they sat down on one of the benches, which overlooked the sculptured water-fountain resting in the centre of the summer gardens. In the middle, there was a marble statue of a goddess holding a jug of water that poured endlessly downwards. Her posed body was flanked by coiling fish, whose mouths spewed glistening liquid.

  “Are you quite well, sister?” Emmy asked, noticing that Nora looked somewhat weary.

  Nora smiled. “I fear you have tired me out, Emmy.”

  “Surely not?” Emmy remarked. “We have barely been walking an hour. Come on, I am certain you can manage another hour or so before lunch!”

  Nora shook her apologetically. “I fear I cannot, Emmy. With the ball last night, I did not sleep particularly well, and I believe it is taking its toll on me today.”

  Emmy’s eyes fell towards Nora’s neck and wrists, checking for any signs of recent brutality, but there did not seem to be any. However, Emmy knew that didn’t mean there weren’t some bruises lingering below the light cotton fabric of Nora’s cream-coloured dress.

  Indeed, there did appear to be some particularly dark circles beneath her elder sister’s eyes, and there was a dull quality to her skin that could not be revitalised no matter how hard she pinched her cheeks.

  It worried Emmy to see her sister so fatigued. Had Hugh not been about to go away for a fortnight, returning to Fallow Manor to oversee the building of a new wing, Emmy knew she would have had to say something to Papa about Hugh’s mistreatment of Nora.

  “Would you be cross if I continued alone?” Emmy asked, feeling guilty for abandoning her sister. Nora, however, didn’t seem to mind.

  “Of course not. You should go and enjoy this fine day whilst I remain here and refresh my spirits,” she encouraged. “Do not wander too far, though. If Mama comes out, I would like to be able to tell her where you are.”

  Emmy nodded. “I shall stay close by,” she lied, making a show of walking around the rest of the summer gardens before setting off in the direction of the woodland.

  Stepping into the cool shade of the trees, she felt much calmer.

  In the daylight, everything was precisely where it ought to be, her eyes and legs knowing exactly which way to go. At the path leading to the bridge, she turned right instead, following the rotting wooden sign that spelled out ‘Merlin’s Pool’. It was the name her eldest brother, Francis, had given the waterfall, but she also knew that was where she would find the hermitage.

  Along the path she paused, hearing the sound of men’s laughter. She ducked back behind a tree, peering around it to see her father, her brothers, and Hugh Hodge standing on a narrow stretch of pebble beach, swatting their rods along the rushing surface of the river, teasing for a bite. If she made even the slightest sound, she knew they would see her and demand to know what she was up to.

  Taking a deep breath, she crept along the bank, keeping as far back as she could, her eyes constantly on the men moving below.

  It was hard to hear what they were talking about, but Emmy felt the blood rise to her cheeks as she heard her sister’s name mentioned.

  “She is the dearest of creatures, Lord Nightingale,” said Hugh, flicking the line of his rod back out into the water, the lure bobbing for a moment. “I do not know how I have found myself in such a fortunate circumstance. I truly must have the most beautiful wife in all of England,” he enthused, laying the praise on thick.

  “She has always been a delightful girl,” Lord Nightingale agreed, running a hand through his greying hair. “My youngest is fair, though far more unruly than Honora.”

  “Indeed,” Hugh muttered, no doubt reliving the way Emmy had charged at him to get his hands off Nora.

  Lord Nightingale flashed him a derisive look, as though he were not meant to agree with his words.

  “Indeed, she is a fair young woman,” added Hugh, hastily. Lord Nightingale’s expression softened as he turned towards his sons.

  “We shall have to see the pair of you wed soon enough, once your mother has finished plotting your sister’s betrothal,” he teased, bringing a horrified expression to the faces of the two young men.

  Francis was the spitting image of his father, tall and broad, with the thick, dark hair his father had possessed in his youth.

  Jasper, meanwhile, was something of the runt of the litter, with a lean, willowy frame, paler, mousy hair that sprang up in disorderly curls, and light brown eyes that often had to squint to see. He more than made up for his appearance with his sense of humour, however, and was often the wittiest in the room. Certainly, with Albion gone, he had taken up that mantle.

  Emmy watched them as she continued to walk along the bank path.

  Suddenly, she froze, her foot snapping a twig in two. Standing perfectly still, she kept her eyes on the men, expecting them to look up and see her. When they did not, she took the opportunity and scurried away as delicately as she could, not stopping until she was around the bend of the river.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, she began to enjoy her stroll through the woods, feeling the cool air in her lungs, listening to the sound of woodland creatures going about their business in the undergrowth. They were much less frightening when she could see what they were.

  Before long, she turned a corner that led around a small outcrop of rocks, the roar of the waterfall instantly bombarding her senses. It was like the sound of applause at the end of an opera.

  Ahead, the water cascaded down into the pool her brother had named, where it churned and frothed before running away towards the sea, passing the spot where the men were fishing.

  It wasn’t the rushing water that had caught Emmy’s attention, however.

  Sitting on a flat ledge, perilously close to the tumbling falls, was the shirtless figure of Mr Smith. He was holding a fragment of looking glass in one hand, whilst his other hand clutched a cut-throat razor. Lathered suds created an amusing, white beard around the contours of his jawline, though he was steadily striving to remove every scrap of actual beard from his face.


  Emmy flattened herself against the rocky outcrop, letting her eyes settle on his shirtless form. It was wholly improper, but she could not tear her eyes away. She had never seen the bare chest of a man before, and there was an illicit thrill in witnessing it so secretively. He was muscular, though Emmy supposed a lack of nourishment had made him leaner than he ought to be, given the broadness of his shoulders and the natural bulk of his arms. There was a taut tone to his stomach too, and the muscles in his back rippled each time he put down his utensils and leant into the cascading water to wash some of the suds from his face.

  With every scrape of the razor, more of his features were revealed. When he finally finished, dipping his head under the water one final time, Emmy was wide-eyed with awe.

  All this time, there had been an entirely different man beneath the scruffy tangle of his beard… and he was undeniably handsome.

  He shook the water from his hair, rubbing it down with a strip of fabric he had waiting on a shelf of rock above him, before moving the same piece of cloth across his damp body, removing the moisture.

  Emmy watched every movement Mr Smith made, noting his muscles moving beneath his bare skin, feeling her heart flutter excitedly in her chest. She felt as though she were in a real-life version of The Mysteries of Udolpho, though she knew it unchaste to think so.

  Several minutes later, he picked up his shirt and pulled it over his head before moving in the direction of the small, stone house that stood beside the falls. To Emmy, it almost looked like a chapel, but then she supposed that was the point. Hermits were religious folk, after all.

  “Mr Smith?” she called out, realising that her moment had come. It would be far more uncomfortable if she had to walk up to his front door and knock.

  He turned sharply, a look of shock on his handsome, clean-shaven face. With him looking straight at her, Emmy got the vantage point she had been waiting for. Head on, she could at last properly see him.

  His hair looked dark, though it was hard to tell, considering it was still slicked back with water. His eyes, however, were an unmistakeable blue and set below a strong brow, and he had a kind mouth that led down to a firm, masculine jawline.

  Yes, he was very handsome indeed.

  “Miss Emmeline?” Mr Smith gasped, fumbling with the top buttons of his shirt.

  Emmy chuckled to herself as she approached. “I apologise for intruding so unexpectedly, Mr Smith. Please do not fret on my behalf.”

  “I am not fit for company,” he insisted. “You should not have come here.”

  “And why not, Mr Smith?” Emmy asked, somewhat taken aback by his terse comment.

  “Miss Emmeline, please do not be offended by my remark. It is a delight to see you, but were your father or someone else to see you here, I fear there would be dire consequences. I would not see you placed in such a situation. I think it best that you go.” He ducked into his house to put a jacket about his person. It was a threadbare piece of navy blue cloth, but it made him look suddenly smarter.

  Emmy smiled. “Will you not permit me to thank my saviour, Mr Smith?”

  “I see that you will not leave until you have,” Mr Smith replied, his tone nervous. “Thank me if you must—though I was only doing my duty—but then you must go before anyone finds you here.”

  Taking that as a positive sign, Emmy continued to walk up the path to where he stood.

  There was a stone bench sitting outside the hermitage, and it was upon this that Emmy sat, though Mr Smith remained standing, keeping a suitable distance between them.

  “Are you in better spirits now, Miss Emmeline?” Mr Smith asked, breaking the awkward silence.

  As bold as Emmy had been feeling, she had little experience in speaking with gentlemen alone, and the nerves had begun to set in.

  Emmy nodded. “Oh, yes, thank you,” she said, feeling stilted. “What is it that brings you to this particular hermitage?”

  “It is a fine part of the country. And, I must say, it is one of the more unique hermitages. I have found it to be most therapeutic in my recovery,” he explained. “The water is extremely soothing, though you would not think it, to hear it roar so.”

  “Have you always been a hermit?” she pressed, hoping there was something mysterious bubbling away beneath the surface of Mr Smith’s calm demeanour. Truly, she had read one too many novels.

  He shook his head, gazing into the falling water. “No, I have not always been a hermit. I have a past, as anyone does, but that is where it must stay. It is why I am here serving penance for the life I have lived.”

  Emmy felt a ripple of anticipation shiver through her as she tried to imagine what he might have been.

  Was he a former highwayman who robbed the rich and gave to the poor? Was he a reformed lothario destined to endure a life of chastity lest his desires carry him towards destruction? Was he a secret prince, running from the crown he did not wish to wear? Was he a lost soul, struggling to come to terms with the death of a beloved wife?

  “What are you attempting to seek redemption for, Mr Smith?” Emmy dared to ask.

  “It is not something I wish to discuss with a young lady. Please accept my apologies, Miss Emmeline,” he replied firmly.

  Emmy frowned. “But you must tell me, as I have enquired, Mr Smith. It cannot be so horrid that you cannot say what it is. I insist you enlighten me,” she demanded, trying to keep her tone light.

  The truth was, she was desperate to know who he was and where he had come from, and the thought of never knowing was unbearable to her youthful mind.

  “I do not wish to tell you,” he repeated, turning his face away. “I would ask that you do not continue down this path of discussion.”

  This only served to increase Emmy’s desire to know his secrets. “Mr Smith, I demand you tell me, or I shall go to my father and tell him of your gallant act last night,” she threatened, knowing he wished it to be kept a secret.

  In an instant, his mood changed.

  Turning his head sharply back towards her, she could see the glitter of anger in his eyes. His mouth had set in a grim line, and his hands were balling into fists. There was a tension in his shoulders as his chest rose and fell with a violent force.

  “I did not ask you to come here, Miss Emmeline,” he snapped. “You took it upon yourself, though I have not wished it. Now you would threaten everything I have for the sake of a secret that is not yours to know? You are more foolish than I ever could have imagined. I thought you kind, but now I see you are cruel and spoilt, just like the rest of them.”

  Tears sprang to Emmy’s eyes. Nobody had ever spoken to her like that before.

  “You cannot speak to me this way, Mr Smith!” she hissed, trying to keep herself together. She would not permit him to see her weakened.

  “You leave me no choice, Miss Emmeline!” he shouted, his voice tight with raw emotion.

  “You have intruded upon my peace and demanded my story on a silver platter. It is not for you. I do not wish to be ungracious towards you, but you have insulted me, and I will not stand for it. I must ask that you leave, immediately, and do not return.”

  Emmy felt her cheeks growing hotter by the second. “You cannot order me around, but I would not wish to stay here a moment longer, even if you begged it of me!” she sniped, her voice cracking.

  Hurriedly, she turned and ran away from the secluded spot by the waterfall, rushing along until she reached the safety of home.

  As she staggered across the lawns, heading for the gardens, she almost careened headfirst into the figures of her sister and Ambrose Wyndham, who had come in search of her. Nora held Emmy in her arms, lifting her chin so she could see Emmy’s distraught face.

  “Goodness me, whatever is the matter?” Nora implored, brushing the tears from Emmy’s cheeks.

  “Has someone injured you, Miss Emmeline?” Ambrose asked, stepping forwards, a worried expression on his face.

  Emmy did not dare to admit that Mr Smith had injured her deeply, though she bore n
o wound to show for it. No, he had injured her pride, and that was a much harder pain to heal. Still, she could not impede the bitterness she felt at being made to feel so foolish and small. He would pay for that.

  With tears rolling down her face, she pointed in the direction of the woods.

  Chapter Eight

  The ring

  Chapter 8

  Mr Smith watched Emmy walk away, though he desperately wanted to call her back.

  He knew he should not have spoken that way to her, but she had ignited a fury in him that he had not been able to control. It was a trait he was trying to rid himself of.

  Now, more than ever, he knew he was not worthy of her presence. Perhaps, he reasoned, that was a good thing. She distracted his mind when it needed to be kept on the straight and narrow. With her around, he knew he would not be able to concentrate on his redemption.