by Martha Keyes
“This is all very enlightening. And what if I should take it upon myself to find a husband for you?” Lucy suggested.
Emma let out a small laugh, and she wrapped her arm into Lucy’s. “I think you would do a fine job of choosing a husband for me—if only I hadn’t already decided upon one myself.”
Lucy ignored her words, scanning the crowd until her eyes stopped. “Hmm…what of Lord Whitfield?”
Emma followed her sister’s gaze to the earl. He wore no costume, providing quite a contrast to his friend beside him, dressed in a very extravagant lion costume.
Emma looked at Lucy with incredulous brows. “Perhaps we shouldn’t aim quite so high, Lucy.”
Lucy sighed. “Very well.” She continued scanning the room. “Ah, and what about the man in the black, eagle mask from earlier? The one you were to dance with? There was something a bit mysterious about him, I think, and everyone likes mystery.”
Emma laughed. “Mysterious? Perhaps because he didn’t say a single word? Or because he is wearing an enormous bird mask. The entire purpose of a masquerade is to give us the illusion of mystery, isn’t it?”
“There would be less mystery if you danced with him.” Lucy wagged her brows once. “Or married him, even,” she said with a playful shrug.
Emma clucked her tongue. “As I said, it is a terrible shame that I have already settled upon who I am to marry.”
Lucy sighed, giving up the game. “Mr. Douglas?”
Emma nodded with a laugh. “Why should you say it in such a voice? He is perfectly respectable.”
“Never mind,” Lucy said resignedly. “Are you sure you don’t wish to travel with us to Barthorpe Hall? We leave tomorrow morning, and George insists it would be no trouble at all to have you stay there with us for two or three days. We will be to Marsdon by the 23rd at the very latest, in plenty of time to help Mama decorate.”
Emma smiled but shook her head. “It is very kind of him, but I still have a number of things to do before leaving town.” She shifted her jaw, thinking of the letter she had received. “Besides, I’ve just received a letter from Papa. He has asked that I break my journey for dinner at Norfield to convey his congratulations and a gift to Alfred and his new fiancée.” She shot Lucy a significant look. “I doubt that is something you would like to do—particularly in the company of George.” If George Pritchard knew of Lucy’s past with Hugh Warrilow, it would likely be uncomfortable for him.
Lucy’s own eyebrows shot up. “Surely between you and me, there is little doubt who relishes the thought of a visit to Norfield Manor less. You can’t even bring yourself to say Hugh Warrilow’s name—how will you fare, dining at his home where he is very likely to come up in conversation? Where there will be reminders of him everywhere?”
Emma said nothing for a moment. His was a name that made her blood boil, even three years later.
Lucy sought her eyes. “You prove my point with your silence.” She sighed and shook her head. “How you can go from cheering on a match between Hugh and myself, touting his best qualities, to despising him so—it isn’t reasonable, Emma.”
Emma had thought Hugh a wonderful match for Lucy at one time. In fact, Emma’s description—imposing but kind and gentle—was an apt description of the man Emma had once thought Hugh was—the perfect man to protect Lucy’s pure and guileless heart.
But instead of shielding Lucy as he should have, he had left her vulnerable, subjected her to scorn and heartache.
Emma clenched one of her gloved hands. The memory of Lucy’s anguish—her lovely, kind eyes set within two dark hollows, the way they filled up with tears at the least provocation—it still felt fresh to Emma. Lucy would be a married woman soon and seemed to have moved past what had happened, but Emma could never forget how Lucy’s broken heart had seemed to break her spirit for so long.
Emma took a glass of negus from the silver tray held by a passing footman and handed it to Lucy before taking one for herself. “I am very fond of Lady Dayton, and I have no need to fret over being confronted by Hugh Warrilow—”
“I believe he is a lieutenant now,” Lucy said.
Emma tilted her head. “I am sure you are right. But who is to say, when he has made no effort to write his family? He could be anywhere, in any state, really.” She shrugged lightly. “I think it likely that he has met the same sad fate as so many other soldiers have.”
Lucy lowered her glass. “If that is so, it is not something to take pleasure in, Emma. It is terribly sad. Lady Dayton only recently told me that she feels she must accept that he is dead. And I fear she may be right. Mrs. Seymour’s husband was fighting in Spain, too, you know, and she received the tragic news of his death months ago. That Lord and Lady Dayton have had not a word from Hugh for so long does not bode well.”
Emma pursed her lips. “How can you be so charitable to one who hurt you so? I suppose I should be cast down at the thought of him killed in battle, and indeed I am very sorry for Lady Dayton’s sake. But I shall never be able to forgive Hugh—Lieutenant Warrilow”— she said on seeing Lucy open her mouth to speak —“for how he hurt my dearest sister.” She reached a hand to Lucy’s face, brushing her gloved thumb over her cheek.
Lucy’s cheeks were rosy again now, even without rouge. They hadn’t always been, though. For so long after Hugh Warrilow’s departure, her face had been pale, wan, and thinner than usual.
Lucy frowned. “You are much too critical of him, Emma.”
She always looked grave when Emma spoke her mind about Hugh Warrilow.
“He is a good, kind man,” Lucy said, “much better than you give him credit for. And I harbor him no ill-will.” She inclined her head. “To be sure, it is not a time of my life I should ever choose to repeat, but”— she put a hand up to silence Emma’s retort —“I shouldn’t wish to have married him, knowing he was so opposed to it.”
“You were engaged, Lucy,” Emma said, setting her empty glass down on the tray held by a passing footman.
“Not officially,” Lucy said. “We never courted.” She shook her head. “It was not official.”
Emma shrugged her shoulders. “It may as well have been. Everyone knew that you were meant to wed.”
Lucy paused before answering. “Yes. But that was no fault of his. Besides, he received punishment enough from friends and acquaintances afterward. Including you.” She looked Emma in the eye with a hint of censure.
Lucy had not been at all thrilled upon discovering that Emma had given him the cut direct after everything had happened. No matter how devastated she had been to learn that her love was unrequited and that she was not to marry him after all, Lucy had been a staunch defender of Hugh Warrilow.
Emma would never understand it. Nor could she find it in herself to regret what she had done. She could hardly have stood up to dance with the man who had just shattered Lucy’s heart and then dared to show up to a ball—all while Lucy was too devastated to get out of bed.
Emma would have done anything to take on Lucy’s heartache in her stead.
“Well,” Emma said, perking up, “I am sure that—if he is alive—he is kicking himself for having turned down the opportunity to marry a woman with a heart as kind and good as yours. That you have forgiven him says nothing at all about him but everything good about you, my sweet Lucy.”
“Much as you pretend that it is not the case,” Lucy said, “you have the more loyal and kind heart between the two of us, Emma.”
“Bah,” Emma said, holding her chin up with feigned hauteur, “my heart has nothing to say to anything.”
“Perhaps,” Lucy said hesitantly, “that is only because you have not yet found the gentleman it responds to.”
“Then I hope I never shall. I shall marry for convenience or not at all, Lucy.”
“And that is why you are accepting the attentions of Mr. Douglas?”
“Yes,” Emma said baldly.
“But you have nothing at all in common,” said Lucy, an almost pleading note to her voice.
“That is precisely why his suit is appealing. I shan’t have to worry about one of us falling in love with the other. Both of us are reasonable, neither given to romantics; I think we shall suit well enough.”
Emma’s eyes sought out Mr. Douglas, who had removed his mask entirely and was standing beside his younger sister. He was a very practical man, as was demonstrated by the neat clothing visible underneath his equally-plain domino.
It was something Emma appreciated about him, as she glanced around the room at the vibrant waistcoats, intricate cravats, and high collars, many of which were beginning to wilt due to the warmth of the ball. Unless one stood near one of the windows where a frigid breeze blew in from outside, the humid heat generated by candles, fires, and dozens of bodies in the ballroom was stifling. Emma’s hooded domino only added to the oppressive heat.
She was very much looking forward to a respite from the unending string of balls and parties they had been attending in anticipation of Parliament’s holiday recess.
Lucy heaved a sigh. “Is it wrong of me to say, Emma, that I want more for you than Mr. Douglas?”
Emma saw Lucy’s eyes on the man and suddenly felt defensive. It was unlike Lucy to say anything uncomplimentary. She could find it in her to defend the man who had jilted her, but she could find nothing good to say of Mr. Douglas?
“Wanted more for me?” Emma said. “What more? My own Mr. Pritchard? My own version of Hugh Warrilow to jilt me?”
Lucy was silent, and Emma glanced at her with a stab of guilt. She squeezed her eyes shut. “I am sorry, Lucy. That was terribly cruel. Please forgive me. I think that this heat has made me irritable. You know that I have never had a great interest in marrying.” She smiled wryly. “I only entertain the notion now because I overheard Mrs. Richins claiming that I couldn’t convince a shopkeeper to offer for me now that I am on the shelf. Naturally I must prove her wrong.”
Lucy was in too grave a humor to laugh at Emma’s jest, and Emma took her hand. “What do you say to this, Lucy? If Mr. Douglas doesn’t come up to scratch and offer for me, I give you leave to choose my husband for me.”
Lucy smiled weakly, looking Emma in the eye. “You were meant to love deeply, Emma. I just know it. It is why I am saddened at the prospect of you marrying without any affection at all.”
Emma sighed. “Oh Lucy, I don’t have a heart like yours. I think you would love any person you married. Your heart holds enough warmth to make up for the coldness of mine.”
Lucy shook her head emphatically, her ringlets, swaying to and fro. “Your heart is anything but cold—I know that better than anyone. You may not give your heart easily, but once given, it is secure. It is what I love so much about you: I never need doubt you.”
Emma squeezed Lucy’s hand. “That last part, at least, is true.”
It was too like Lucy to believe the best of everyone. It was what had allowed her to forgive Hugh Warrilow so readily. But Lucy’s tendency to think the best of every person she encountered was what had resulted in her heart being broken.
And though she might sometimes envy Lucy’s optimism, Emma felt more secure, more able to protect Lucy from further pain by being the more practical and realistic of the two.
It was that pragmatism that led her to desire a marriage of convenience.
Lucy might not be satisfied with Emma marrying Mr. Douglas, but Emma was perfectly content with her decision. Or at least tolerably so.
2
Hugh fiddled with the gold carnelian signet ring in his hand as the carriage wheels rumbled over the uneven dirt road. Aside from the ache in his shoulder, he hardly noticed the jolting—he had experienced far worse during the war. But the cold did seem to aggravate his mending wound—and England felt colder than he remembered it being when he had last stepped foot on its shores a few years ago.
He looked down at the ring, turning it so that the fading light through the chaise window glinted on the red stone—a red he knew too well. It was the same color that had saturated his clothes and his skin on the battlefield. It had been days before the remnants had disappeared from under his nails—a reminder of how tightly he had clutched at Seymour’s clothing as his life slipped away before Hugh’s eyes.
He closed his fingers around the ring, clenching his fist and his jaw as he looked through the window, scanning the countryside. Anything to turn his mind from those images.
For a moment, he had considered taking the road that led to the Seymours’ home in order to deliver the signet ring to Mrs. Seymour—perhaps the last remnant of her husband she would see. But as the carriage had drawn closer to the crossroad, Hugh’s nerves had failed him.
Would Mrs. Seymour blame him? She could hardly do so more than Hugh blamed himself. How would he bear seeing her grief? How would he bear it, knowing that, if it weren’t for him, her husband would very likely still be alive?
He wasn’t ready to face Mrs. Seymour. But would he ever be ready?
Tucking the ring into the small pocket of his waistcoat, he consoled himself with the fact that an unanticipated visit at the dinner hour would hardly be welcome. It would have to wait for another day.
He tapped his fingers on his leg nervously. When he had begun the journey home from Spain, he had comforted himself with the knowledge that he would have plenty of time to steel himself to the prospect of facing his family.
But he was here—home again—and no more confident of the reception he would receive. He had to hope that his mother, at least, would rejoice in seeing him.
But nothing was certain. Much could change over the course of three years, and Hugh had provided plenty of reason for resentment by his long silence.
He had been nothing but a disappointment. And yet she had never made him feel like one. She was the person he had most regretted leaving when his uncle had bought him a commission.
Of course, he had also regretted leaving his brother Alfred behind.
And Emma, too. But that was a train of thought he knew better than to follow and encourage. That was all in the past. It was better to leave it well enough alone.
Hugh glanced out the window and sighed, easily recognizing their location, even with the fast-falling snow. They had almost reached the road to Marsdon House—another errand he would need to accomplish before long.
How he would face Lucy and the Caldwells after what he put them through, he had no idea. But he had to. It was time to make things right—or as right as he could.
And as for Emma? His short encounter with her had raised more questions than Hugh had answers to.
He shook his head, wishing it could shake his feelings away. His attachment to Emma was something he had vowed to rid himself of. It couldn't be permitted to interfere with his aim. It was that attachment which had landed him in this whole mess in the first place.
Soon enough, the hired chaise rolled to a stop, and the lights of Norfield streamed through the carriage window, beckoning Hugh home. He sat still for a moment, scanning the façade of the house, masked by the thick flakes falling to the ground. It was the dinner hour—perhaps not the ideal conditions for an unanticipated return. But what would be ideal conditions?
Hugh noted the other carriage in the courtyard with a grimace. Visitors. They would certainly get more than they had bargained for in coming to Norfield tonight, witnessing his return. Whoever it was, they would have quite an ordeal driving home, if it were possible at all. Visibility would be terrible, not to mention the state of the roads.
He took in a deep breath. It was time.
Supporting all his belongings with his uninjured arm, he passed by the path to the front door, opting instead for a side door which would allow him to avoid the inevitably shocked reaction of the servants.
Cringing as the side door creaked, he peeked his head inside before slipping in and setting his bags lightly on the floor. They could be retrieved later.
He blew a breath through his lips, straightened his shoulders, and walked down the corridor to the dini
ng room, feeling strangely at home and simultaneously out of place.
The clanking of silverware sounded within the dining room, and the smell of hollandaise sauce—likely over a brace of pheasants, if his father’s tastes hadn’t changed—wafted under the door.
The servants would still be within, along with whatever visitors, a fact Hugh didn’t relish. But there was no helping it.
He pulled the door open and took a step inside. All the ambient noise ceased immediately, accompanied by the sight of forks suspended mid-air and jaws hanging agape.
Hugh’s eyes found his mother first. She was blinking—slow prolonged blinks—as if each one might change what she was seeing.
“Mama,” he said, striding toward her and kneeling by her side, swallowing his anxiety as he reached for her hand.
She was frozen in place, staring at him rigidly until her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a sob. Scooting her chair back from the table, she rose, pulling Hugh up with her, and threw her arms around him. The pain that shot through his right arm was worth it—to be able to hold and be held by her after such a long time.
“How?” she said in his ear.
“So, the prodigal returns,” came the voice of Hugh’s father. He sat in his chair, his wrists resting on the edge of the table, a hard set to his jaw.
“I believe,” said Hugh’s brother Alfred, standing and striding over to Hugh with a large grin on his face, disbelief in his eyes, and his arms outstretched, “that in the parable, the father sees his son from a long way off, which quite obviously none of us did. What a welcome surprise, though!”
In the parable, the father also ran to meet his son, falling on his son’s neck and kissing him. But Hugh knew his father too well to expect any such welcome from him.
He released his mother with a quick, soft kiss on her cheek.
