Lady of a Recluse Earl

by Mirella Tinley

  All around them, the house was still. It seemed the Nightingale family were yet to awaken.

  “Mrs Harbour?” Emmy murmured, looking around sleepily.

  The cook turned at the sound of Emmy’s voice, her expression softening. It was clear that Mrs Harbour had a deep affection for the family she had served for so long, her watery grey eyes twinkling as she moved to stand beside her mistress.

  “What is it, my dear?” Mrs Harbour asked in a tone gentler than Mr Smith had expected from such a severe-looking woman.

  “Promise me… promise me you will not breathe… a word of what you have seen,” she replied. “I have behaved… so foolishly. I was not… watching where I was going,” she wheezed, her breath coming in laboured rasps between bouts of shivering. “It should… distress me greatly, if Mama or Papa were to… hear of my idiocy. After what… happened the other night, I fear my… hero would be spurned instead of congratulated,” she explained, her foggy gaze turning upward to look at Mr Smith’s face.

  He tried not to show the affection he also felt for the youngest Nightingale daughter, keeping his expression stoic though he longed to smile at her. She did not seem to mind being in his arms, her own arms draped casually around his neck.

  Mrs Harbour’s cheeks turned a flustered shade of red. “Oh, sweet Miss Emmeline, I do not believe I can keep this from Lord and Lady Nightingale. It would not be right to do so, dearie,” she replied.

  Emmy returned her gaze to the cook, a mournful look flashing across her beautiful dark eyes. It was a look few people were capable of resisting.

  “I implore you… Mrs Harbour. I do not wish… to alarm the household,” she said softly, through sharply drawn-in breaths. “It was an accident… I shall be fine. If you must, say I… have a cold and send for Doctor Edwards. Let that put… your mind at ease.”

  Mrs Harbour looked thoughtful for a few moments. The house would soon be awakening, but there was still time to return Emmy to her chambers before anyone knew anything more about it.

  A stern word from Mrs Harbour would stay the tongue of any staff who had seen Mr Smith and Emmy enter the house in such a peculiar manner, but there had been nobody milling about in the kitchen when they had entered. Mr Smith was almost entirely certain that nobody but Mrs Harbour had, so far, seen them.

  “Very well, Miss Emmeline, though I do not like it,” Mrs Harbour said at last. “I shall send one of the valets for the doctor as soon as you are back in your bed, where you belong,” she added, flashing an accusatory look in Mr Smith’s direction. “And remember, it shall be my position on the line if they were ever to find out.”

  “They shall not… Mrs Harbour,” Emmy wheezed. “Please do send for the doctor. Tell Mama and Papa that… I came downstairs, feeling quite unwell… and asked that you call for him, as you… were the only one in the vicinity.”

  Mrs Harbour nodded, though her disapproving gaze remained upon Mr Smith’s face. “I shall do as you ask, Miss Emmeline. Now please allow me to see you to your chambers before someone comes out and catches us down here having our mother’s meeting,” she grumbled, evidently keen to be back in her kitchens, away from any drama.

  “Thank you… sweet Mrs Harbour,” Emmy whispered, before sinking back into the safety of Mr Smith’s arms. He could feel her face against his neck and the gentle flutter of her eyelashes as she blinked against his skin.

  With Mrs Harbour a few paces ahead, he allowed himself to smile when she looked up into his eyes once more, delighted by the roses that were returning to her cheeks and the lucidity that was returning to her demeanour.

  Her shivering had eased somewhat, thanks to the heat of his body, but there was still a bluish pallor to her lips that troubled him.

  Shrugging off any dark thoughts, he convinced himself that Doctor Edwards would see to it that she was okay.

  After all, the doctor had brought him back from the brink of death. Mr Smith just hoped there was still some fragment of a miracle left for Emmy.

  He stopped at the door to Emmy’s chamber, allowing Mrs Harbour to take his charge away from him.

  The stout woman was stronger than she looked, her muscular forearms bearing the slight weight of Emmy as she looped the weary young woman’s arms about her neck.

  Mr Smith watched as the pair of them disappeared inside the room, not knowing what to do with himself. He had wanted to say a fond farewell, but a stern look from Mrs Harbour had prevented such a thing.

  In truth, there was nothing for him to do but leave. And so he made his lonely way back down the stairs, careful not to be seen by anyone in the house. He followed the same route he had walked with Emmy in his arms, trying not to think too intently about the way she had felt. Instead, he forced his mind to pray for her wellbeing, sending hope up to the heavens, though he could not be sure anyone was listening.

  Not yet wishing to return to the hermitage, given the traumatic memories he now held within his mind, Mr Smith lingered a while longer at Davenham Park.

  Taking himself back out through the kitchens, drawing a curious look from the two kitchen maids who were egg-washing pastries, he stepped outside.

  The scent of rosemary and thyme bombarded his senses, the herby fragrance wafting down from the kitchen gardens. It was here that he decided to rest awhile, sitting down on a nearby bench so he might watch the sparrows and thrushes flitting amongst the vegetable patches. One snatched up a worm from the rich soil before flying away, triumphant.

  He liked the quiet solitude of gardens and the way time seemed to slow down. Had it not been for the worry that niggled away at the back of his mind, his thoughts ever with Emmy, he knew it might have made for quite a pleasant morning, whiling the hours away, watching the wildlife in the warming morning sunlight.

  “Mr Smith, you should probably see to your shoulder.” Mrs Harbour’s voice startled him, disturbing his peace.

  As he turned to greet her he was met by a steely look, though he could not tell if that was simply her usual expression.

  Heeding her words, he glanced down at the top of his shirt only to see that blood was beginning to stain the fabric. In his struggle to save Emmy, he had evidently reopened some of the wound Doctor Edwards had taken such pains to stitch shut. Not only that, but most of his shirt and trousers were damp too, where Emmy had lain against him.

  “Thank you for your kindness and your assistance, Mrs Harbour,” he said politely. “I shall return now and see to my injuries.”

  Mrs Harbour nodded, her arms folded across her chest. “You got lucky this time,” she warned. “I will not see my beloved Miss Emmeline tarnished by the likes of you.”

  “Mrs Harbour, you misunderstand,” he began, but the cook cut him off sharply.

  “Perhaps I do, but even to place your hands upon a young woman such as her, in the manner you have done this morning, is beyond the pale of what is acceptable. You know that as well as I do. She may not, but you are no fool. Indeed, I do not doubt that such a vulgar act would see you cast out from your precious little hermitage,” she snapped. “I will keep this secret, for the sake of Miss Emmeline, but if I so much as see a glimpse of you near this house I shall go straight to Lord Nightingale. Do I make myself clear?”

  Mr Smith could do nothing but nod.

  “Very well, then be off with you,” she barked, shooing him away. “Go back to your hermitage, and never disturb us again.”

  Mr Smith turned and walked in the direction of the woods, pondering Mrs Harbour’s words.

  As sensible as they were, and as much as he would have loved to adhere to them, he knew he could not. It was too late now. He had almost lost Emmy to the churning waters of the river, and her health still hung in the balance… he had to see her again.

  There was no other path for him now.

  Chapter Fourteen

  One letter

  Chapter 14

  Although Mrs Harbour got her out of her wet clothes as quickly as possible and called for one of the lady’s maids to draw a hot
bath, Emmy quickly came down with a terrible cold that left her bedridden for several days.

  The majority of the illness rested on her chest, her ribcage rattling with every breath she took, prompting the concern of the entire house.

  They worried for her welfare, with such a thing not particularly common in the approach to summertime, but Doctor Edwards assured the Nightingale family that Emmy would be just fine, as long as she rested and recuperated in a warm room with plenty of broth to revive her senses.

  She was doing just that when two letters arrived.

  Nora brought them both up to her, having taken up the mantle of constant nurse. Emmy didn’t mind. In fact, she was delighted to have her sister close again to keep her company.

  The two sisters had not discussed how Emmy’s sickness came to pass, since Mrs Harbour had taken the sodden evidence to the laundry as soon as Emmy was out of them, but she could tell that Nora was entertaining some suspicions that all was not quite as it seemed.

  Still, if she did believe something was amiss, she didn’t say anything, sticking to a chirpier line of conversation instead to cheer Emmy’s spirits.

  “You are popular this morning, dear sister,” Nora teased, handing Emmy the two letters.

  Emmy smiled broadly before turning the messages over in her lap.

  She was propped up against a mound of pillows with a dozen blankets piled high across her, thanks to the over-zealous nursing of Nora. It did not matter that she complained of being too warm, Nora would continue to add blankets and pillows until she was satisfied that Emmy was not about to keel over and die of a chill.

  As she saw the seals on the back, a frown corrugated her forehead; she did not recognise either of them, nor did she recognise the handwriting on the front, though both were elegant.

  Curious, Emmy opened up the first and flattened it out so she could read it better.

  Dear Miss Emmeline Nightingale,

  I thought I ought to write prior to my visit to Davenham Park in two days’ time, where I plan to shoot and fish with your brothers and your father, Lord Nightingale. Your mother, Lady Nightingale, is aware of my writing to you, since I have requested permission to do so.

  I write only to say how delighted I was by your intelligent conversation and your dancing at the ball held at your fine home. I thought you the most charming girl in the room and should continue to do so, I imagine. I hope you do not find this letter impertinent—I seek only to convey my warmest regards to you and your family.

  I look forward to my visit. I hope this letter finds you well.

  Yours Sincerely,

  Viscount James Fitzroy

  Emmy pulled a face as she folded the letter back up, only to catch sight of the date, written neatly on the back. It was dated two days ago.

  A wave of annoyance rippled through her as she realised the postal service must have misplaced this viscount’s letter, resulting in its late delivery.

  There wasn’t a single chance she would be ready to welcome such an esteemed guest, though she would not have wanted to even if she was in her best health.

  James Fitzroy was not the man Emmy was besotted with. No, indeed, he was as far from the man she adored as it was possible to be.

  Where this lord would be brimming with all manner of pomp and circumstance, the man she was tentatively falling for was modest and unassuming, with the kindest way about him.

  The thought of Mr Smith made her pulse quicken, a pale flush heating her cheeks. Although most of the incident had been a blur, little snippets kept returning to her at the most inopportune of moments.

  In the dark of her bedchamber, with everyone else asleep, she would let her mind drift toward thoughts of his arms around her. They had been so strong and capable, pulling her to him, keeping her safe. She recalled him hauling her out of the water and the soft whisper of his voice, urging her back into the world of the living. There was the slightest kiss upon her brow too, she thought, though she didn’t quite know what was reality and what was the delirium of her fever. Even so, she held onto the hope that the tender kiss had been one of the true actions Mr Smith had performed.

  “Who is it from, sister?” Nora asked, bringing Emmy back from the impure thoughts of her fantasy.

  “It is from Lord James Fitzroy,” said Emmy with a sigh. “But the letter must be late. It is dated from two days ago, though in the note he says he is due here, at Davenham, in two days’ time.”

  Nora nodded curiously. “So that is why Mama is all of a flap downstairs and the serving staff are buzzing around the house like bumblebees,” she murmured, almost to herself.

  “I am too sick to entertain anyone, Nora,” Emmy grumbled, wanting to tear up the letter and throw it in the fire that was burning in the grate, in the hopes it would keep him at bay.

  “Mama surely knows that,” said Nora, dubiously. “I am sure she will not expect you down to dinner or any other activities until you are quite well. She may be desperate to see you wed, but I do not believe she would risk your health.”

  Emmy flashed her a knowing look. “This is Mama we are talking about, Nora,” she replied with a tight laugh.

  “Well, then, I shall be your sentinel, sister. I shall not permit anyone, not even Mama, to pass over the threshold of your bedchamber door without my say-so,” she insisted, a playful grin upon her face.

  Hugh Hodge was still away from Davenham, and Emmy could see the joy and freedom upon her sister’s face.

  In Hugh’s absence, she was the Nora that everyone knew and loved, unshackled from the brutality of her toady husband.

  Emmy chuckled. “I should like to see Mama get past you.”

  “What does the other letter say?” Nora asked as their laughter subsided.

  Emmy shrugged before opening up the second letter.

  Slowly, she let her eyes travel across the page, taking in every word.

  Dearest Miss Emmeline,

  I hope this letter finds you well, though I must beg forgiveness for the intrusion of it. It is unseemly for me to send such a thing, and yet I have felt myself compelled to do so.

  Please, Miss Emmeline, I must ask that once you have read this message you burn the evidence until there is nothing left. I would not seek to put you in the way of trouble, and I refuse to do so for the sake of my own selfish desire to write this.

  In your absence, I have felt an unbearable void. I hear news that you are on the road to recovery, and for that I am eternally grateful. It gladdens my heart. I wish only that I could see for myself how restored you are in your vitality and your spirit.

  I ask nothing of you. I am not writing in the hope of a further visit where I might speak with you in person. I am writing only to comfort my soul, am writing so that there is a fragment of me beside you, watching over you, keeping you safe from harm. Even if it is just for the briefest of moments before you burn this letter.

  You are forever in my thoughts, you sweet angel.

  With affection,

  Mr S.

  Immediately, Emmy reread the letter, feeling her heart soar as she let every morsel of it sink in.

  In the days she had spent bedridden, she had wondered how Mr Smith was feeling or if he even knew how she was. It did not seem possible that she could send word to him without being found out, and it did not seem fair that he should be out there, worrying.

  Now she knew where he stood on the matter. He had been thinking about her. That was all that mattered.

  “Who is the letter from?” Nora repeated, a wary look in her eyes.

  Emmy gripped the letter in her hands before lifting her gaze to meet her sister’s. “Sister, I must request something of you. It is a grave task, and I shall understand if you refuse me. But I must ask it nonetheless,” she said, her lip trembling. All she could think about was him, alone out there, not knowing that she was thinking of him too.

  Nora frowned. “What would you ask of me?”

  Emboldened, Emmy let the words tumble out of her mouth. “I must ask yo
u to take a letter to the hermitage and deliver the message to Mr Smith. I would ask that you do not read the contents,” she explained anxiously, not knowing how her sister would react.

  “To… Mr Smith?” Nora whispered.

  Emmy nodded. “You must do this, sister. I fear my whole life’s happiness may rest upon it.”

  “This is the fever talking, Emmy. Perhaps we can discuss the matter again when you are feeling more like yourself,” Nora countered, picking up a cold compress and bringing it toward Emmy’s forehead.