Scandal's Promise

by Gibson, Pamela

  She stopped, her lip quivering. “I must. I must see him.” She ran to the door. “Drew. I’m here. Can you hear me?”

  “Emily? Christ, do not let her in.”

  “Come.” Ralston pulled her away. “You must go to George. If you feel emotional, imagine what he’s feeling. He’s a child. He cries for you.”

  Emily grimaced. “Why can’t I see Andrew? I need to be with him.”

  “No, you do not.” Ralston’s tone was fierce. “The room reeks of sickness—in the worst way possible. It’s not fit for an animal right now. But that’s what he is. And he would die rather than have you see him.”

  She sniffed and took deep breaths. “All right.” She straightened and walked sedately up the next flight of stairs to the nursery floor. When the child spied her, he screeched and ran to her, throwing his little body against hers as he sobbed. She tightened her arms around him. “Everything is going to be all right. I promise. Do you believe me? No one will leave you alone. You are safe here.”

  He stepped back, his tear-stained face looking up at her. “Papa screams.”

  She picked up the boy and sat on a chair with him in her lap. “Your papa is ill, and part of his illness requires him to shout from time to time. But he will be better soon. Maybe not today or tomorrow. But you must believe me. He went through a lot to find you. He will not lose you ever again.” She stopped and kissed the child on the top of his head. “He wants to see your face light up when you see your Christmas gift. You will be pleased, and your papa would not miss that.”

  “What is it?”

  “Now if I told you, ’twould not be a surprise.”

  “Will you be here to see me on Christmas?”

  She hugged the child. “Yes. I would not miss it.”

  Once again she would defy her family, this time without remorse. She was tired of sneaking off to visit Andrew and the child, to keep her mother from being upset. She would do it no longer. When she made the decision to be more open about her own needs, she’d written to her friend Gwen in Yorkshire. As she’d expected, Gwen had encouraged her, telling her how liberating it was to be your own person and not hide behind a polite, societal façade.

  “When we’re young, we’re raised in the strictest propriety, taught to follow the rules set forth by a society that breaks them all the time in secret,” she’d written. “It’s hypocritical and unhealthy to forever suppress your own desires merely to show a proper face to the world. Look at your Austen novels. Do all of the author’s characters abide by the rules? Of course not. Because they are creatures of emotion as well as reason. Bravo to you. At five and twenty, you should be able to follow your instincts, and your heart.”

  Miranda tapped Emily’s arm. “We must not be overlong. Why don’t you read George a story, and I shall corner Ralston and discover what progress Cardmore has made?”

  “Thank you, Miranda.” She swallowed as she rocked the child. Almost too big for a lap, George would be a strapping boy. “Now then, Master George. Shall I tell you a story? And then you must promise me you will remain calm for Mrs. Townsend. She cares for you and will not leave you unattended. But it distresses her when you are upset and she cannot calm you. Young gentlemen do not worry ladies of their acquaintance.” At least, not intentionally.

  “Tell me the story.”

  “Let’s see. Monsieur Charles Perrault’s stories are quite entertaining. Do you know the one called ‘Sleeping Beauty?’”

  “No.”

  “Ah, many old tales were discovered and adapted by that man. I know them all. But this one is quite thrilling. It’s about a sleeping princess awakened by a handsome prince with a kiss.”

  “Ugh. I hate kissing.”

  “You do? Then I shall remember not to kiss you when I leave, goose.”

  He giggled, and she warmed with it, knowing laughter healed many wounds. They settled down for the story, and when Miranda came back, looking grim, she set George on the floor and promised to be back for his Christmas surprise.

  Mrs. Townsend nodded from her corner and set aside her mending. “Thank you, my lady. He seems much calmer now.”

  “Send word if you need me.”

  “I shall.”

  She grabbed George and gave him a noisy kiss on the cheek, gratified when he laughed and pulled away. “See? Kisses aren’t bad.”

  Miranda held the door, and they walked out together. As they passed Andrew’s door, Emily averted her eyes and continued down the stairs until they reached the ground floor. Expecting to see Lord Ralston, she was disappointed but climbed into the carriage.

  “What can you tell me?” She peered at Miranda across from her.

  “He is strong and holding up well. Lord Ralston said he is mostly in his bed, chilled to the bone, covers piled on him, while sweat pours from his body. His retching continues, and he is soiled. Periodically, the servants hold him down while they clean him. There is nothing pleasant about this, Emily. It is why you may not be in his presence, and he would not want you there, despite your feelings for him.”

  “Where is Lester?”

  “Lord Ralston said Lester was an accomplice, the one who was paid to place the notes in the post and to put George in the chapel. Wentworth was going to collect the child later.”

  Emily’s eyes widened. “I do not believe it. He seemed taken with the boy.”

  “He was Wentworth’s man.”

  “So he is gone. Good riddance.” She bit her lip in frustration. What a nightmare, to have someone as close as your valet prove to be an enemy. “What of the servants with him now?”

  Miranda untied her bonnet and placed it on the seat, rubbing her temples. “The servants chosen to stay with him are former army men. They’ve been assured the hell Andrew is experiencing is not the result of a contagious illness. And they’re being paid well although there will undoubtedly be gossip.”

  “Knowing Drew, he cares not what gossip escapes the house.”

  “If it does, it might serve as a warning to others. Will, my late husband, worried about people taking too much laudanum. But he was a forward thinker. He abhorred the practice of bloodletting and believed in cleanliness.”

  “Do you ever miss him?”

  “Of course I do. He was my best friend. But never my lover. Only Jeremy. Always Jeremy.”

  Emily reached across and squeezed her cousin’s hand. “I’m glad we found each other. While your Jeremy was always of interest to Mama, he was never of interest to me. I wanted you to know.”

  The carriage bounced over a rut, and they laughed—two women who could almost be twins, in perfect harmony.

  I will miss you, Miranda, when you leave.

  The carriage stopped near the front steps of the house, and the women alighted. Emily hoped Mama would not question their exact whereabouts, but if she did, she would not lie.

  The Grange was quiet. Longley and Phoebe had not yet returned, and Aunt Lily was in her studio. Emily composed herself, shattered by what she’d seen and heard, but grateful she could comfort the child.

  Miranda left her at her bedchamber door and climbed the stairs to the nursery to see to James. How wonderful it must be to hold a child of your own in your arms. George felt like hers, but he was not. She’d promised to be there for Christmas, and she would. After that . . .

  She changed and plodded to her sewing room, occupying herself by sketching a garment for Gwen’s new child. She’d wait to know its gender before adding the final details. This would be her life now. Sewing, sketching new designs, playing the pianoforte. Her greatest joy would be helping at the village school. The children loved to read out loud to her, and she loved listening to them as they proudly showed off what they’d learned.

  A bleak existence, but one appropriate for a spinster.

  And she would be n
othing else.

  Or would she?

  Chapter 39

  Snow fell by the end of the week, covering the trees with a soft blanket of white. Given the wetness of the rest of the year, snow seemed a fitting end.

  Emily had seen George only once when Mrs. Townsend had taken the boy walking near the lake. To her relief, a groom walked with them. George had run straight into her arms and begged her to visit. But she could not. Ralston had specifically told her to stay away. She must honor his advice.

  Mama planned to host a dinner for the neighbors. Lord Ralston was invited, as was Andrew. Aunt Lily convinced her with the ruse that Ralston was fond of Emily and looking for a wife, and one could not invite the guest and not the host. There would be dancing afterward. Emily, the spinster, would play the pianoforte. Mama was not apprised of the chaos at Cardmore Hall. She’d mentioned Andrew only once, to frown as she placed sealing wax on his invitation and mutter she hoped he would decline.

  He probably would. Emily didn’t know his current condition except what Mrs. Townsend had told her. The shouting and cursing had ended. A surgeon had visited from a nearby village. She believed he’d been recommended to Lord Ralston by Lady Longley as someone with whom her late husband had corresponded. More substantial food was now being sent up by the kitchen, and a guard was no longer stationed at the bedchamber door.

  She sat on a stool in the kitchen while extra kitchen maids, brought in for the night, scurried about. Clear soup, leg of mutton, carp, a special Christmas pudding—all these scents combined to make her mouth water. A lavish menu fit for London where Mama did all of her entertaining. Aunt Lily asked to be excused, not liking parties. But Papa would not hear of it. He claimed she spent too much time looking backward. She needed to be cheerful and gay. Perhaps a lonely man might be there looking for a companion.

  Emily laughed at the memory because she thought Aunt would throw her tea at her beloved brother. But well-meaning as he was, Aunt Lily would not be entertaining any elderly widowers. She had a mind of her own and bowed to no man, not even her brother. Her aunt never spoke of her marriage. Emily surmised it had been a great love match and she still felt the pain of loss. Perhaps some late night, over Madeira and a game of cards, she’d confide. Emily wouldn’t pry.

  She conversed with cook then made her way up the stairs. Her toilette would not take long. She’d have time to bathe. After ordering the tub, she put on her robe and sat in her dressing room while buckets of hot water warmed the copper. When the footmen left, she handed her robe to Alice and stepped in, allowing the heat of the water to soothe her tired muscles.

  “Will you be wearing the new velvet gown you made, my lady?”

  “Yes. Please set it out along with my grandmother’s emerald necklace. Mama wants this to be as grand an occasion as one can have in the country—her words—so I shall comply by looking my best.”

  Alice left, and Emily leaned back and closed her eyes. What was Andrew doing? Had he recovered from his ordeal? Was George happy?

  Why must I continue to dwell on that household?

  At least Cardmore wasn’t alone. Ralston was there, and Andrew had George.

  She soaked until her skin wrinkled, then climbed out and dried off. She’d washed her hair two days ago and had not been out. If she dampened it again, it would not dry. Mama had duties for her to perform, and after she dressed, she must go to the music room and select pieces to play for the dancing in the large drawing room. The servants had already rolled up the carpet and moved the pianoforte into a corner.

  A corner. How many corners shall I occupy until I die?

  When she was all decked out in her finery and her hair was done in a loose chignon with curls framing her face, she declined the looking glass and made her way downstairs. Mama was in the receiving room on the ground floor, awaiting the first guests.

  “You look fine, my dear. Perhaps there will be a gentleman or two to admire you.”

  “Here, Mama? I doubt it. All our neighbors are happily married or spoken for. I’m off to see to my music for the entertainments.”

  “Come back when you’re through. You can help Papa and me receive the guests.”

  Emily played a few chords, finding the pianoforte well-tuned, and set her music aside. She wandered into the dining room where Mama had outdone herself in selecting modest yule decorations for the table. Twelve places were set, an even number to match the invitations. Andrew and Ralston had sent a formal response accepting, but Mama was sure Cardmore would not appear. He’d been ill, she told Emily. The weather would keep him home.

  Voices in the hallway told her the first guests had arrived. She walked sedately into the drawing room, noting a few people sitting while others stood in conversation.

  Two more entered the room as Emily bent her head to hear what the soft-voiced wife of their vicar said.

  “The Earl of Ralston and the Earl of Cardmore,” announced the butler.

  Emily stopped speaking mid-sentence, her body seizing in the tension of the moment. Slowly, she turned, and there he was—slimmer, a bit gaunt in his jawline, but smiling broadly directly at her as if no one else existed in the room. She swallowed, noting out of the corner of her eye, Mama and Papa did not move forward. As if compelled by an unseen force, Emily’s feet moved in the direction of their latest arrivals. She extended her hand, first to Ralston, then to Andrew.

  “I did not know if you were coming.”

  “Neither did we.” Andrew kissed her extended hand politely as he bowed over it.

  “You look well.”

  “I feel . . . better. Not quite the thing, but I’m getting there.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  And she was. Her heart overflowed with happiness. Although his manners were as impeccable as always, he appeared uncomfortable in company. But his eyes seemed softer, and while Ralston left to greet her parents and Aunt Lily, Andrew squeezed her hand and whispered in her ear.

  “Tomorrow. The lake. Early afternoon.”

  She nodded imperceptibly.

  The butler entered the room and announced dinner. They did not go into the room in any precise order, as they might in London, but seated themselves where place cards displayed their names. Emily was far from Andrew, but Lord Ralston was next to her. They conversed throughout dinner on inane topics, even though Emily longed to ask questions about Andrew’s recovery.

  Twice she glanced down the table at Drew—seated by Aunt Lily and across from the vicar and his wife—but he did not meet her eye.

  When dinner ended and the ladies retired to the drawing room, Andrew and Ralston excused themselves and left the party, claiming rightly Andrew had been unwell and needed to make an early evening.

  Later, Aunt Lily joined Emily on the piano bench to turn pages for her, while couples formed for a country dance.

  “How was he?” Emily asked. “He looked pale and ill, despite his good humor.”

  “I’m sure he’s been through a terrible ordeal, but we did not converse about his illness. I asked about George and how he likes his tutor. The vicar admonished him for not attending services, but Cardmore comported himself well, giving believable excuses.”

  “Our vicar is not a hell and damnation sort. I think Andrew would like his sermons. Getting to know someone as a person helps erase old, erroneous opinions of certain professions. If anyone can win him back to church, it will be our Reverend Smythe.”

  The sets were formed, and with a great deal of laughter, the dancing began. Emily played the tune from memory, but Aunt Lily insisted on remaining with her. After a few hours of dancing, the guests began to dwindle. When they’d all departed, Mama called her into her private sitting room for a coze.

  Her maid brushed out Mama’s brown hair with long strokes. Only a few strands of gray were evident. How lucky she would be if her hai
r was as elegant as Mama’s when she was her age. “You wished to see me?”

  “Sit down.”

  Emily pulled a chair close and folded her hands in her lap.

  Mama lifted her hand to stay the brush. “What is wrong with Cardmore?”

  “I don’t know what you mean?”

  “But you do, don’t you.” It was a statement, not a question. Had one of the servants been tattling? She sincerely hoped not. She was too old to have her ears heated by Mama’s scathing comments.

  “He has been ailing, but it is my understanding he is on the mend. His war wounds pained him, and he became overly fond of his medicine. I’m told it is difficult to let go of something that takes pain away, but he has done it.”

  Mama’s bosom heaved as she sighed deeply. “You’ve been seeing him.”

  Emily studied the portrait on the wall. It was of Mama as a young girl with her sister Victoria. A spaniel lay at their feet. “I have visited Cardmore Hall on occasion to call on his son, George. The child needed a nurse, and Aunt Lily and I suggested Mrs. Townsend. When the child went missing, of course I helped with the search. But you know all this, Mama. Why are you asking it again?”

  “Look at me, Emily Victoria Sinclair.” Her tone was sharp.

  Emily looked into her mother’s face, keeping her expression bland.

  “You told me once that after everything he’s done to you, you still care for him. The man who walked away from you after your betrothal ball. The man who married a woman by carrying her off to the Gretna Green after shamelessly seducing her. I cannot believe you. Where is your self-esteem?”

  Emily jumped up. “Yes, I care for him. I love him, Mama. I have never loved anyone else since I was a girl in the first blush of womanhood. He and I bonded as children, flirted and cared for each other as youths, and fell in love as adults. I shall never love anyone else. Yes, he has flaws. So do I. You may as well stop your machinations and allow me to live my life as a spinster. As I cannot marry Andrew, I will never marry anyone else.”