“You already own three. What does a fourth hurt?”
Bridget laughed. “Morgan will be beside himself, when I tell him.” She gathered her documents back together in a neat pile and pushed them into the satchel, which allowed Emma to hide her reaction to the mention of Morgan.
Morgan had not spoken to her other than in the politest and most distant ways since he had kissed her in April. He made it impossible for her to speak freely with him, for he was always busy and always remote. She had even tried to speak to him in his office, where she knew he would be. Only, he had shepherded her back out of the room, while explaining that he had urgent matters to attend to. Emma found herself on the other side of the closed door, having barely spoken a word.
She had not tried again. She was afraid to, for she suspected that Morgan’s icy distance was her fault.
The morning Kosta had cured her headache, they sat together companionably at the table, eating toast and drinking their tea and coffee, while talking about all manner of things.
Kosta told her of his life in Constantinople—one of the greatest cities in all of history, Emma swiftly learned. He was a good story-teller. She listened, fascinated, to tales about the colorful Grand Bazaar, and the sound of five hundred thousand people moving about the old quarters of the city. He spoke of the ancient walls, which had withstood invasion for eleven centuries, until the invention of gunpowder had overcome them. She could smell the sea beyond the city harbors and see for herself the crescent-shaped boats which plied their trade between cities and ports around the Mediterranean, whose shape and design had not fundamentally changed in centuries. She heard the calls to prayer from the Sophia Hagia, which soared over the city with its four narrow spires and distinctive dome, as it had done for centuries.
Kosta was describing the old Roman aqueduct, which continued to supply fresh water to the city even now, when Morgan came into the breakfast room.
As Emma had done, Morgan halted at the door, his gaze sweeping from Kosta to Emma.
Kosta stood. “Good morning, Mr. Davies.”
“Your Highness,” Morgan acknowledged, his voice a deep rumble.
“Kosta.”
“If you insist.” Morgan glanced behind him. “I was merely looking for Bakersfield. I will take breakfast in my office and wanted to arrange a tray.”
“I am here, sir,” Bakersfield said, from behind Morgan.
Morgan nodded at Kosta and moved out of the room. Emma heard him talking to Bakersfield in a low voice.
Her heart strummed. Sometime today, she must find a moment to speak to Morgan in private, about last night’s kiss.
“More tea, Miss Emma?” Kosta asked, drawing her attention back to the table.
She nodded. “Yes, please.” After all, it was pleasant sitting here, after days of being terrified of the prince.
Only, her plans to speak to Morgan seemed to go constantly astray. After a few days, she realized Morgan was deflecting her. He slipped from rooms she entered, failed to appear for meals, and was constantly busy.
When she realized he was avoiding her, Emma’s disappointment was acute. Why, he was just like every other lord who had ever stolen a kiss from her! She was far too well acquainted with the glacial politeness which followed such a liberty. If she had been the daughter of a duke, those dukes would have followed up with a marriage proposal, not an invisible shield of indifference and civility. Now Morgan treated her exactly the same way.
His remoteness provided her with the answer she needed. Emma stopped attempting to speak to him and buried herself, instead, in the ever-absorbing issues of women’s suffrage. There were always new issues of Lydia Becker’s magazine to read thoroughly and deeply. Her constant visits with Helen Campbell provided more books and essays and thought-provoking ideas.
It a relief to Emma when the fuss over her voting in the upcoming elections faded to almost nothing. She suspected that as the elections grew closer, it would arise once more. For now, though, she could move about Inverness without people pointing at her or approaching her to give her their forceful opinion about the matter.
Local sentiments were sharply divided, and not always according to the sex of the person, either. Emma learned swiftly that some women found the idea of voting and being involved in politics—or anything outside the home sphere—far too threatening to tolerate. The lesson was delivered by a woman with steel gray hair in a sensible bun and a thick, knitted shawl around her shoulders. The woman marched up to Emma on the High Street and demanded she give up “this nonsense about voting.”
“Ye are setting a dangerous precedent for women,” the lady said. “Next thing ye know, everyone will think it their right to vote! It will upset everything. It will unsex ye, to boot. Ye should be concentrating on finding a good man and marrying him, ye ken?”
“She does indeed understand, Mrs. Shandy,” Helen said, drawing Emma away from the woman’s rigid anger.
Helen became Emma’s dearest friend. Emma and she attended at-homes together, visited the library, spent days in Helen’s sitting room talking and drinking, and took long walks upon the hills and moors together. There was always something new and interesting to do, for Helen was the soul of invention. She would satisfy her curiosity whenever she could.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen flax turned to linen, Emma,” Helen remarked. “Perhaps we should investigate and learn how it is done.”
“It is late spring,” Emma pointed out. “There will be no flax to harvest for months yet.”
“There will surely be an old wife somewhere in Inverness with a cache of flax from last year, ready to be spun,” Helen said decisively. “I will find out.”
Accordingly, a week later, Helen and Emma spent a day with Mrs. Treadwell. Mrs. Treadwell was a widow and grandmother. She who showed them how to beat, comb and spin the flax, then weave it into the finest linen cloth with a dull silver gleam to it.
Emma took her sample home to Kirkaldy and showed Bridget. “I do believe you should consult with Mrs. Treadwell, Bridget,” Emma added, as Bridget turned the sample over and over and ran her fingers across the soft fibers.
Mrs. Treadwell became Bridget’s new supervisor for the small linen mill Morgan and Bridget set up on the outskirts of Inverness.
In early June, when the first of the warm days occurred and everyone’s spirits seemed to lift along with the thermometer, Emma realized for the first time that Morgan wasn’t sleeping. He had returned to squeezing and rubbing his head in the mornings as he silently read his papers.
With a jolt, Emma realized that at some point she had failed to notice, he must have stopped doing it. Now she noted its reoccurrence. His insomnia had returned.
Was he working too hard? She had never known anyone to be so focused upon work. Even when he sat at the dining table with everyone else and contributed to conversations in his low voice, Emma suspected he was still working in his head—planning, deciding, arranging matters to the best advantage.
She firmly put aside her concern for him. Morgan had demonstrated she had no claim upon him. Any association between them had been transitory and insincere.
Instead, Emma focused upon having a most unexpected and pleasant summer, for Kosta had become a friend, too.
In May, Kosta had found her in the morning room and held out a letter on heavy cream parchment, with a deep seal at the top. “I have been invited to Lord Ashbury’s estate in…” He turned the letter to consult the text. “In Dumfries, for ‘a weekend’. I confess I do not understand this concept. Will tells me you have attended many Seasons. Perhaps you could explain this to me?”
Emma ignored the implication that she had attended so many Seasons she was an authority upon the subject yet was still a single lady. “Oh, weekends are so terribly fashionable, Kosta! Everyone stays at the manor house. It is one long party, from breakfast to supper, for two or three days. They’re ever so much fun! Most people on the ton like them because it is a change from soirees and dinners in London. Th
ey can be very casual affairs.”
Kosta frowned. “Perhaps you should accompany me, so I may consult you when needed throughout the weekend. I would not like to offend anyone with my ignorance.”
“Oh, they will adore you, Kosta. You are amenable and nobody minds faux pas at all. Weekends are the opposite of soirees. There are no rules.”
Kosta shook his head. “Nevertheless, I will feel happier if you are with me. Would you come?”
Emma hesitated.
“You may bring your maid,” Kosta said quickly. “I will borrow one of Will’s footmen as a temporary valet. It will be most respectable and innocent, I assure you.”
“That is not my concern,” Emma said slowly. “I mean, yes, it is, of course, only I trust you would be a complete gentleman, Kosta. You should find another lady to accompany you, though, if you feel in need of companionship.”
“Why should I do that?” Kosta demanded, his dark brows coming together.
“I am not the type of lady a prince should be seen with,” Emma said, forcing the words past her constricted throat. Her heart thudded unhappily. It was as close to the facts about her birth as she could get.
“I am not the type of prince about which your society matrons care whose company I keep,” Kosta replied. His smile was as sour as her innards felt. “I am from too far in the east to sit comfortably with most of them.”
“That cannot possibly be true!” Emma said, startled. “I have watched society mamas push their daughters toward Prussian and Bohemian princes and dukes…you are as fine a catch as any of those, and Pandev is only a little farther east.”
Kosta’s smile grew slightly warmer. “You are very loyal, Emma. I know the truth of this, though. I learned it when I was in Cambridge. I do not look like a typical Englishman, even though I sound like one.” He touched his nut-brown face. “Society is polite enough, yet they judge.” He dropped his hand. “We are a pair, you and I. Come with me. Attend this ‘weekend’ of fun and show me how it is done. I confess I am curious to see what proper English society considers fun.”
“You might be surprised,” Emma said softly, for she had heard rumors of weekends of outrageous and scandalous drinking, dancing and far more wicked activities, some of them not removed to a discrete bedroom, as they should be. “Very well, I will come with you. Thank you for the offer.”
Kosta looked pleased. “Do bring that beautiful peacock dress of yours, hmm?”
“Peacock?” Emma repeated and laughed. “I have not heard it called that before.”
Kosta laughed, too. “The blue and green silk, with the purple velvet. It draws the eye.”
“I will make sure to have it packed,” Emma said. “And now, you must excuse me. I have a society weekend to prepare for.”
Kosta bowed and moved out of her way, while Emma hurried to find Cookson, already sorting and discarding in her mind which gowns she would take with her.
The weekend was as much fun as Emma had suspected it would be. She and Kosta thoroughly enjoyed it for reasons she had not anticipated. Even when the peers and lords were at their coolest and politest with them, Emma had Kosta to keep her company, which offset the chill. Kosta, too, found her a welcome retreat.
He returned from a ride with Lord Ashby and his fellow peers and dropped into the chair beside hers and sighed. “You are a restful sight, Miss Emma. I have been staring at the backs of men in riding coats all morning.” He leaned closer. “Some of them smell of mothballs!”
Emma giggled and covered her mouth, even as she nodded. “Weekends upset the order of the Season,” she murmured. “Most men put away their hunting and riding wardrobe for the summer. Weekends force them to unpack their trunks and chests.” She put her book down. “Shall we broach the decanter in the library? I saw the butler refill it not long ago.”
“Is it the Kirkaldy Scotch?” Kosta asked, for he had developed an appreciation for the spirit.
“Fettercairn, I believe.”
Kosta pushed out his bottom lip. “I supposed we must compromise then.” He leapt to his feet and held out his hand, apparently oblivious to the many other women in the morning room who were glaring at him for disturbing their peace.
Emma let him assist her to her feet. They moved to the library, where all the non-riding men were gathered about the brandy decanter. Instead, they headed for the Scotch decanter, while brows lifted at a woman being among them.
Kosta laughed, enjoying himself, as he poured her a glassful, not bothering to wait for a footman to pour. Emma laughed softly herself. Kosta made defying society amusing.
After the weekend at Lord Ashby’s, Kosta asked Emma to accompany him on more social occasions, most of them in the Highlands. “I will not be drawn to London, for it is the Season,” he told Emma, as they traveled to Inverness in the family coach for a ball. “I am in England to relax and rest. London is not restful.”
“Not in the slightest,” Emma said in agreement.
“Although, you and your peacock dress are a most refreshing sight,” Kosta added.
She smiled. “This peacock dress is a year out of fashion, Kosta. I could only wear it here in Inverness and not earn a catty remark or a raised brow for my lack of taste.”
“Then we must arrange a fashionable gown made from the same colors, for they are a joy to behold, as is the lady wearing them.”
She laughed at him. “You are supposed to be resting and relaxing, Kosta. You cannot do either if you are expending your energy upon pithless compliments.”
“You are right, Miss Emma,” he said, his tone judicious. “I will preserve my energy for every waltz on your card tonight, instead.”
And he did.
Late spring and early summer were a dreamy, diversion-filled time. Emma could not remember ever truly enjoying social affairs. They had always been fraught with worries about what society thought of her, how they might judge her.
Now, though, she was free of such concerns, which allowed her to relax and enjoy herself. Society in Inverness was a far simpler and easy-going affair than formal, rigid London society. There were too few upper-class people for them to insist upon separation of classes at public events. The middle-class and working folk who attended did not care a whit about either Kosta’s or Emma’s antecedents. They dealt with them as they were.
It was a most refreshing change.
Although, even the usually egalitarian Scots were intimidated by Kosta’s title and tended to defer to him at all times.
The Highland Games was an annual event held close to mid-summer and eagerly anticipated by most of Inverness. The Inverness games were the biggest in the region, drawing competitors from across Scotland and from England. Helen was a patron of the caber tossing event, and even her long political diatribes petered out as the event grew closer and she studied the competitors.
“‘tis a fine, fine roster this year, to be sure,” Helen said, perusing the card of competitors she had been sent. She glanced at Emma, her eyes twinkling. “If ye a mind to take up with a Scot, ye’d be hard-pressed to find an unsuitable laddy in this lot.”
Emma blushed.
“Or is it princes ye have in mind these days?” Helen teased.
“You know Kosta is just a friend,” Emma said.
“Aye, so ye say,” Helen murmured and poured her another glass of Scotch.
The day of the games was bright, cloudless and warm. Kosta was mad to see the traditional events and had planned to attend since he had seen the first announcement in the Inverness Courier. He waited beside the open coach as Emma put up her parasol against the bright morning sun and helped her up and settled her on the front seat.
He sat opposite her, instead of beside her. “All the better to absorb your loveliness. I had no idea lace and muslin could be so fetching.”
Emma laughed at him. “You’ve spent your life around far too much silk and satin, Kosta.”
“I have, indeed.”
It was an exciting and fascinating day. They observed Scotsmen
throwing stones larger than their heads, competitors tossing sixty-five pound iron weights into the air, and men heaving sheaves of wheat and hay. Afterward, Kosta helped Emma pick the shards of hay from her dress and hair.
There was also a wrestling event. Kosta studied the men grappling together, his head tilted to one side, a quizzical expression on his face.
“It’s called backhold wrestling,” Emma explained. “Although, everyone here calls it Scottish wrestling.”
He glanced at her, his brow lifted. “The intention is to throw the other man to the ground?”
“Yes, exactly.” She thought of the unofficial wrestling she had spied upon, months before. It reminded her of Morgan. Quickly, she shifted her thoughts. “Do you want to watch the wrestling, Kosta?” she asked, for he had not moved away from the ropeline.
He considered. “No, I would rather see the…what is it you called it? Cable…?”
“Caber tossing,” Emma supplied. She lifted the printed program to see where on the grounds the caber tossing event was located.
“The wrestling in Turkey is far better, anyway,” Kosta added.
“You wrestle in Turkey?”
He took her arm. “Indeed. Oil wrestling. As fine a tradition as Scottish wrestling, but with none of this hugging business.”
Emma laughed. “The competitors are covered in oil?” she guessed.
He nodded. “A serious business, is oil wrestling.”
“I can see why there is no hugging,” she added, keeping her tone just as sober. “No one could hold on to anyone else for long.”
Kosta touched the center of his chest. “I was a champion, once.”
“You?” Emma drew in a quick breath, trying to imagine Kosta, who liked his clothes and finery far too much, stripped to the waist and covered in oil.
Only, the image which inserted itself into her mind was of Morgan, stripped and his muscled flesh gleaming with oil…
Emma looked around, searching for distraction. She saw Helen ahead, sitting on a chair upon a stand hung with the blue and white colors of Scotland. Emma waved.
Year of Folly Page 14
