by Martha Keyes
“Alfred,” he said in a gruff voice, clapping his good arm around his younger brother.
“We had given you up for dead, Hugh,” Alfred said. “I should have known you wouldn’t be such easy prey for the French.”
Hugh chuckled and gripped Alfred’s shoulder. “I have missed you.”
He stepped back, his gaze travelling curiously over the face of an unfamiliar young woman who looked at him with curiosity, and then he froze.
Emma Caldwell sat rigid in her chair, her nostrils flared.
What in the world was she doing at Norfield? Hugh shut his open mouth.
The gray eyes which had unknowingly looked at him a few nights ago now bored into him.
Hugh swallowed. How did she manage to look so beautiful even in a rage? Her mask the other night had hidden enough from him that he’d been blissfully ignorant of how it affected him to see her. Still. All these years later.
It was not a welcome realization.
He looked at his mother who looked a nervous apology at him. “Emma is here on her way to Marsdon House, but she kindly stopped to convey a gift and her father’s congratulations to Alfred and Miss Bolton.”
“Congratulations?” Hugh said, swallowing the large knob in his throat and looking to Alfred.
The tense look on Alfred’s face transformed into a smile. “Miss Bolton has done me the honor of accepting my offer of marriage.” He looked to Miss Bolton with an almost foolishly joyful grin.
Hugh clapped him on the back again. “I felicitate you both. What wonderful news!”
“It is indeed,” his mother said, but she was watching Emma and grimacing in understanding at her. “I apologize, my dear.” She sent Hugh a helpless glance.
Emma set down her utensils slowly and deliberately. “Don’t apologize, Lady Dayton. I think it best that I leave, though, and leave you to your reunion. It was lovely to see you”— she looked to Miss Bolton —“and to meet you, Miss Bolton. I hope you know how pleased my father was to learn of your engagement—he thinks himself the most fortunate godfather in the world and was very anxious for me to deliver you his congratulations. I, too, wish you both very well. We all do.”
“But you have hardly eaten,” Hugh’s mother said.
“I have a small appetite,” Emma replied with a polite smile. She gently pushed her chair back, and the footman behind rushed to assist her. Her gaze flitted to Hugh and then to the door.
Something shifted inside of Hugh and he blinked twice, realizing what was happening. “No, Miss Caldwell, please. Have a seat. I will go.”
Emma looked at him for a moment with a measuring gaze, then shook her head, heading for the door.
He stared straight ahead, clenching his fists. How could she still harbor so much hate toward him? It was as if no time had passed. He cleared his throat. “A journey home in this weather would be folly, Miss Caldwell.”
She turned her head to look at him, hesitating on the threshold where a footman held the door open for her.
Hugh walked over to one of the tall windows, pulling back the curtains. The sun was down, but the landscape glowed with the reflective light of the snow in the air and on the ground.
Emma bit her lip and then straightened her shoulders. “Thank you for your concern”— was there a bite to the words? —“but I imagine my coachman can handle a matter of a few short miles.”
“Only if he is a fool,” Hugh said, fighting the irritation he felt at knowing she would rather risk her life than spend another minute under the same roof. He took in a breath to stabilize his emotions. “I barely made it here myself, and the snow has only worsened since then.”
“Please, dear,” Lady Dayton said softly. “Reconsider. I could never forgive myself if you came to harm on the way home. You have your belongings with you, don’t you? You must stay.”
“Indeed,” came the soft voice of Miss Bolton, “I cannot think it wise to go out in such weather. Do stay.”
Emma was silent for a moment, her jaw clenching and unclenching. She looked at Lady Dayton, then shut her eyes briefly and sighed. “Very well,” she said, moving back to her seat.
The footman closed the door.
Hugh nodded at them all. “I bid you all a good night.” He turned toward the door, which the footman rushed to open.
“Sit down.” The voice of Hugh’s father wasn't raised, but Hugh recognized the authority in it—the authority he had come to know best when he had flouted it by refusing to marry Lucy.
He paused, struggling within himself. He had become accustomed to receiving orders during the war as well as to giving them. It was Emma’s presence that made him hesitate to follow these particular orders, though. To follow them would be to cause her discomfort and to subject himself to her fulminating glances all evening.
But what did it matter? Nothing he could say or do would change her opinion of him. To defy his father would be to court his ire unnecessarily, and all the while, Emma would remain angry with him whether or not he stayed.
His stomach growled, and he breathed in the scent of roast duck—his favorite dish. He hadn’t eaten it in years, at least not the way that the Warrilow’s chef Pudston prepared it.
He turned back toward the table, noting with a tensing of his jaw that the only seat open was the one opposite Emma. Judging from the way she inhaled through flared nostrils, she had noticed the same thing.
He made his way over to the chair and sat, busying himself with his napkin and then with serving himself from the food in front of him—never mind that it was a dish he had never liked.
An uncomfortable silence reigned for a time, until Hugh’s father spoke.
“Hugh, do you intend to go to London when Parliament resumes? Or is this a leave of absence?”
Hugh cleared his throat and finished chewing. “I haven't decided yet. It will depend upon a few matters that are outside of my control.” He suppressed a desire to glance at Emma, wondering what she would think if she had known of his intent to ask for Lucy’s hand in marriage. No doubt she would do her best to persuade Lucy to refuse him. “I am technically on leave. But if my shoulder heals fully, I may well return to my regiment. As it currently can’t bear the weight of a saber, though, I am wholly useless for the time being.”
His father continued cutting his food, and he didn't look at Hugh when he said, “We should prepare ourselves, then, for another sudden departure, I suppose.”
There was a hard note to his voice, and Hugh watched Alfred’s hand slow as he set his glass down. He didn’t meet Hugh’s gaze, and Hugh’s brows knit. The joyous expression Alfred had been wearing had waned, and in its place was something more like a frown.
The short two years between Hugh and Alfred had resulted in a strong fraternal bond—one of mutual respect and affection. Alfred’s joy upon seeing Hugh had been genuine, his embrace making Hugh’s shoulder ache with its force. What was this frown, then?
His father’s reaction to his return, on the other hand, had been expected, apathetic as it was. He had never been the demonstrative type, and Hugh had known very well that in leaving to join the army, his father considered him to be abandoning his duties as heir. It was only natural he would be upset upon Hugh’s return, particularly after the silence he had subjected them to.
Emma was watching him, an almost amused expression in her eyes. She held his gaze for a moment, the amusement turning to a hard challenge, before reaching for a nearby dish. Was she glad to see his father chastise him for his behavior? Of course, she must believe he deserved every bit of it. She had made it abundantly clear what she thought of him.
“No, Father,” Hugh said. “You have no need to fear that. My joining the army was rash and disrespectful. I am very sorry for my behavior and for not keeping you informed of my circumstances or my intent to come home.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Hugh saw Emma go still.
He reached for his glass, his throat feeling suddenly dry. He had intended to apologize to his parents from t
he time he had decided to come home, but he had not intended to do it at the dinner table with guests present—particularly not someone as antagonistic toward him as Emma.
It was difficult to say the words—to acknowledge aloud that he had acted like a coward in refusing to marry Lucy and then in joining the army so suddenly. At the time, he had told himself that accepting his uncle’s offer to buy a commission was a worthy cause, that it was the only way to recoup his honor, to demonstrate his courage and character.
And he had done much of that during his years fighting for England. He knew what kind of man he wanted to be now.
But it didn’t change the fact that there was an added benefit to his departure: not having to remain among his acquaintances to face the consequences of his actions.
Well, he must face them now, whatever they might be.
* * *
When he entered the drawing room behind his father and Alfred, Hugh spotted Emma seated by the fire, a shawl lying across her knees and an unfocused look in her eyes.
She was unlikely to welcome conversation with him, but Hugh knew that he needed to apologize to her. He had anticipated having more time before attempting it—he hadn’t even been sure she would give him the opportunity to speak to her, given her behavior toward him three years ago—but it made little sense to wait. Waiting would give him time to rethink. It was better to act now while he was feeling brave enough.
He straightened his shoulders and walked to the vacant chair near her, taking a seat on the plush cushion. The luxuries of life at home were strange to him.
Emma was staring into the fire, the light from the dancing flames reflected in her eyes, but she turned her head as Hugh sat down, a long, patience-pleading blink telling him that his presence was—as he had expected—not gladly received.
“Miss Caldwell,” he said. “I realize that there is likely no other gentleman in this country whose company you have less desire of, so I shan’t take much of your time.”
Her gaze flicked toward him. Was there a softening in her eyes? He remembered a time when her eyes hadn’t looked at him with such severity—when they hadn’t reminded him so much of steel; when he’d had a sliver of hope, at least, that someday she might return his regard.
She said nothing, though, returning her gaze to the fire.
He swallowed. Three years away, and she still had such influence on his pulse. Whether his nerves were due to her cold behavior or rather evidence that his regard for her was intact was unclear.
If there was any mercy in the world, it would be the former. He knew what he needed to do, but he would much rather do it without romantic regard for Emma complicating things. He had given his attachment to her far too much importance in the past. He understood now that duty needed to transcend emotion.
And marriage was certainly his duty.
“I wish to apologize,” he said.
Emma let out a small scoffing noise.
Hugh persisted. “I wish to apologize for my behavior toward Lucy. It was abominable.” Meeting only silence, he continued, “While I intended no ill toward her, the effect of my actions was the same as if I had.”
He clasped his hands together, looking at the small, fading scars from the battles he had fought, from the thorny bushes he had run through during the campaigns he had participated in. In many ways, that had all been easier than confronting Emma and admitting his faults. “I understand that she suffered greatly, and I know you care for her enough that you must have suffered along with her. I don’t expect forgiveness”— Emma’s head turned toward him —“but I wish you to know that I regret having caused so much pain. I hope that I may live to right some of my wrongs.”
Emma’s eyes had calmed, he thought, until his last words. Her body drew back.
“And how do you intend to accomplish such a feat?”
Hugh rubbed his lips together with a sudden, vexing doubt about the merits of his plan. “I hope,” he said, choosing his words with care, “that your sister will allow me the opportunity to demonstrate that.”
Emma blinked. “I don't think I understand.”
Hugh shifted in his seat. She was going to force him to say it. “I hope to speak with your father regarding my intentions before saying any more on the subject.”
Emma stared at him. “Surely you jest.”
Hugh rubbed a hand down his pant leg. Emma was not one to mince words—it was one of her best qualities, but just now it gave him the desire to loosen his cravat. He had never felt more uncomfortable, had never felt that his character was less satisfactory.
“I am in earnest, Miss Caldwell.” It was all he could manage.
A humorous light entered Emma’s eyes, and she pursed her lips. “I suppose I could leave you to discover how things stand on your own—it is an enticing prospect, I admit.” She shook her head. “But no, it is not what Lucy would wish.” She clasped her hands in her lap and reclined in her chair, watching Hugh. “Lucy is engaged to be married.”
Hugh’s mouth opened and shut. He had learned on arrival in England that Lucy was still unmarried, but how had he not considered that she might be engaged?
As he looked at Emma, who seemed to be mildly enjoying his discomfiture, his assumption that Lucy would still be unmarried seemed presumptuous at best and offensive at worst.
“I must ask,” Emma said, “did you expect that she would wait for your return? After you jilted her and made her the talk of the town for weeks?”
Her words were harsh. But he didn’t fault her for them. He deserved them. And though it saddened him to hear confirmation of what Emma thought of him, he could imagine that her words were borne of grief for her sister’s suffering—grief which manifested as anger toward him.
When he spoke, his voice was soft. “It does sound ridiculous now that I hear you say it. I imagine I sound like a coxcomb.”
“Aren’t you?”
His head whipped up, and he saw the teasing glint in her eyes—just enough to soften the insult. He let out a small laugh. “It would appear so.”
He would gladly take teasing jibes at his expense over frigid animosity.
“I am pleased to hear that she is to marry,” he said. “I wish her great happiness.”
He nodded to her and stood, feeling a weight off his shoulders.
He hadn’t approached marriage to Lucy thinking himself a martyr, for she was a kind, agreeable young woman. But he had known some hesitation, and it was certainly duty rather than any particular warmth of feeling which had propelled the intention to offer for her.
But seeing Emma at the masquerade and now again, sitting at the dining room table in his childhood home—her presence had hit him with a force reminiscent of the one that had lodged a bullet in his shoulder a few months ago.
She was every bit the engaging, artless woman he had loved in secret for years.
Except when she spoke with him.
3
Emma straightened her neck as Lieutenant Warrilow walked away, having bid her a good night and rejoined his mother across the room.
The fire crackled in the grate before her, and she suddenly felt too warm. She shifted her legs away from the flames and stared at the brocade curtains hanging at the windows, even though she knew a desire to observe Lieutenant Warrilow more.
She had thought she would never see him again. Nor had she wanted to see him. But being confronted with him so suddenly at dinner—with his snow-speckled hair and his broad shoulders, accentuated by his brown great coat—she had determined to treat him with as much cold indifference as she could muster.
Lucy, with her generous heart, might be able to forgive him, but Emma couldn’t see him without thinking of how Lucy had shut herself in her room for hours, refusing to talk to anyone, upon discovering that he had no intention of marrying her.
But Emma’s plan to make it clear that he was not forgiven had been somewhat rattled by his forthright admission of wrong. He had taken the wind out of her sails when he had said he had no
expectation of being forgiven, when he had softly acknowledged that, in hurting Lucy, he had hurt her family as well.
She could hardly throw his wrongs in his face after such behavior.
She glanced over at him, seated on the arm of the chair his mother occupied. He was peering over his mother’s shoulder at the sheets of music she held, one of his hands resting on her shoulder as he smiled down at her in an exchange of words.
Lady Dayton looked up at him as though he were her greatest gift and accomplishment. There was no trace of resentment in the woman.
Could Emma forgive him as completely as his mother had?
She looked away. Forgive and forget—those words were always paired together, but Emma could hardly forget what he had put Lucy through.
She stood, walking to the window. The blackness of the late evening couldn’t obscure the large, white flakes falling to the ground.
Leaning against the cold window frame, she sighed. It was difficult to tell just how much snow had fallen, but she had to believe life wouldn’t be so cruel as to keep her at Norfield longer than one night.
She turned as she saw Lady Dayton approach.
Lieutenant Warrilow walked over to the fireplace, leaning a hand on the mantel above as he stared into the flames, moving the wood with the poker.
Lady Dayton came and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Emma, the skin beside her eyes wrinkling as she smiled warmly.
“I know that this is not at all what you bargained for, my dear,” she said, her eyes flicking over to Lieutenant Warrilow as she tucked her arm into Emma’s. “And it is particularly unfair when you came to do such a good deed. Your father has been a wonderful godfather to Alfred.”
Emma laughed softly. “He takes his duties very seriously. He is more likely to be considered an over-involved godfather than an unconcerned one.” Her smile faded as her eyes landed on Lieutenant Warrilow, still prodding at the logs within the grate. What was he thinking about with such a furrowed brow?
“I am happy to spend more time with you, in any case,” Emma said, turning to look at Lady Dayton. “I imagine you are elated to have him home.”
