by Martha Keyes
“You believe she will cry off when you explain your change in expectations?”
Alfred’s head came up, his hair standing up in spots from him pulling at it. “She will. Her father will insist upon it. If you knew him, you would understand.”
His look of dejection and hopelessness was pitiful. And yet Hugh could remember feeling something similar when he had realized that, in hurting her sister, he had ruined any small chance he had ever had with Emma.
Hugh rubbed his forehead. Why had he ever thought a return home to be his best course?
His desire to make reparations to Lucy was fruitless, engaged to be married as she was. His own brother saw his return as the greatest piece of misfortune that could have befallen him. And Emma...well, he had caused a resurfacing of her anger—and a painful reminder to himself of why he had refused to marry Lucy in the first place.
“You love Miss Bolton,” Hugh said, determined to pull himself out of his unhappy thoughts. “She obviously returns your love. What if she still desires to marry you?”
“Then she would be a fool.” The words were harsh. “She could do much better than me, Hugh. I as good as deceived her into accepting my proposal—at least her father will see it that way, and she is very much at his mercy. It would hurt her irreparably to be made to choose between him and me. I must release her from the engagement. And speak to Mr. Bolton.” He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “And the devil’s in it that Miss Bolton is trapped here until the snow melts. Naturally, she cannot declare her desire to end the engagement when we are confined under the same roof for the foreseeable future.”
Hugh straightened himself in his chair.
“Have you spoken to Miss Bolton about the situation?”
Alfred grimaced and nodded.
“And?”
“And she still holds out hope that her father will allow us to marry.” He shook his head. “How I wish she were right.”
Hugh looked out through the window and rubbed his chin. “Don't despair yet, Alfred. We will come about somehow if we but set our minds to it. I promise you that I will do everything in my power.”
“You will help me?” Alfred said, a pleading look in his eyes.
Hugh stared at him and nodded decisively. There must be something he and Alfred could do to salvage things with Miss Bolton.
But what?
Hugh paced the gallery corridor upstairs, feeling his skin prickle. The gallery was always cold, but today it was miserably so.
He had weathered dinner with the family, Miss Bolton, and Emma, knowing that his presence was likely viewed by all but his mother as an unwelcome addition to what would have otherwise been a cheerful party.
Emma’s eyes had seemed to find him a number of times over the course of the meal, and while they didn't smolder as they had done the night before, he was under no misapprehension about how she felt toward him.
At times, he had a pressing desire to explain himself to her; to help her understand that he had made an impossible choice; that he had chosen to hurt Lucy three years ago instead of disappointing her for a lifetime; that he had seen how Lucy had placed him on a pedestal that he had no business being on—one that he would inevitably fall from. And after the fall, he would have been forced to look into her disillusioned eyes.
He wanted to explain it all.
But it was no use. Emma wouldn't feel flattered to know of his love for her. She would only feel disgust. And he could bear her anger better than he could bear her disgust.
He paused in front of the portrait of his grandfather, clasping his hands behind him out of habit, just as he had always done in his grandfather’s company. Even in the portrait, the man stood erect, grave, and precise—just as Hugh remembered him. “A man is only as good as his word,” he would always say. “Better to lose one’s life than to lose one’s honor.”
Those words had reverberated in Hugh’s mind night and day during his convalescence. He had hoped to regain in battle the honor he had lost by abandoning the marriage his family had hoped for. But instead, he had found himself holding his dying friend in his arms—a friend who had sacrificed his life to save Hugh; a friend without whom the ball in Hugh’s shoulder would have been in a ball in his chest.
Seymour had died to save a man with no honor; a man not worth saving.
Footsteps sounded down the corridor, muffled by the long gallery rug, and Hugh looked over, his swallow catching in his throat as his gaze met the form of Emma.
Hugh bowed. “Excuse me, Miss Caldwell,” he said, moving to walk around her and out of the gallery.
His shoulder brushed hers as he rushed to pass her.
“Please stop,” she said.
Hugh froze, then turned slowly. He didn't know if he had the energy to endure criticism from Emma at the moment. His grandfather’s eyes had already condemned him enough.
She was looking at him, her hands clasped in front of her chest, thumbs fiddling.
“Have you absented yourself from the drawing room for my sake?” she said.
“It is no trouble,” he said, inclining his head, forcing a smile, and then turning again to leave.
“It is quite unnecessary,” she said, and he paused again.
What did she want from him? To force him to face his reprehensible actions by requiring him to face her anger?
She swallowed, and her chin came up slightly. “Surely we can manage to lay down our weapons in a temporary truce for Christmas.”
He smiled wryly. What weapons did she believe him to be wielding? Surely his position was one of defense rather than attack.
“I don't wish,” she continued, “to sully the season’s memories for your family by causing a rift at a time of year where goodwill is meant to reign.”
“So,” he said slowly, the corners of his lips turned down in a thoughtful frown, “you wish to pretend to feelings you don't have?”
She gripped her lips together. “If you insist on describing it in such a manner.”
He stared down into her eyes, scanning them. What was he to make of this offer? Was it an olive branch, however reluctantly offered? Or would it result in even greater resentment on her behalf, as her anger toward him festered under the pretense of civility? “How would you describe it?”
Her mouth twisted to the side, and she tried to suppress a smile.
“Pretending to feelings you don’t have?” he suggested.
She laughed, and his muscles relaxed at the sight of her smile, his heart skipping at the sound of her laugh.
“I suppose so,” she said.
He sighed. How would it feel to have Emma look at him with anything but spite?
“I have nothing to say against it,” he said, “except that I harbor serious doubts that it is possible. For me, it would be easy.” Too easy. “But for you?” He showed a mouth full of clenched teeth.
“You doubt my ability to act?” she said, her eyebrows up, ready to accept a challenge. “To smile and laugh in your company?”
He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, staring down the long corridor beyond her. “Frankly, I do. It is easier to pretend to strong emotions where they do not exist than to pretend to less emotion than one truly feels.” He knew it too well.
She looked at him without answering for a moment, and for the first time since he had arrived, he found himself wishing she would say whatever was on her mind. Because for the first time since he arrived, it wasn’t glaringly obvious that her thoughts were uncharitable.
“I can manage it,” she finally said. “It will set your mother’s heart at ease if she sees that she doesn’t have to worry about us quarreling—if she sees us on good terms. I see how it pains her not to have you near her solely because you are avoiding me. I don’t wish to be the reason for that.”
Hugh shrugged. “You must be the one to decide what you wish to do. I am happy to oblige if this is truly what you wish. And I will not hold it against you when your true feelings inevitably slip through.”
>
“When?” she said, her brows shooting up and her mouth turning up in a smile both challenging and teasing. “You think me so unamiable that I cannot be perfectly civil for even a single day?”
He chuckled. Did she really think that it would only be one more day until the snow melted? “Not at all. You are amiable by nature.” His smile flickered and began to fade. “It is only when you are near me that you are afflicted with disagreeableness.”
She opened and then closed her mouth. “It wasn’t always so.”
“No, it was not,” Hugh said, clenching his jaw and swallowing.
If the only image of her he’d had during his years away from home were the final one—the cold, haughty stare—he felt confident that his feelings would have quickly faded into nothing.
But more than that image, he had been haunted by memories from the more distant past; from the times he and Emma had danced or conversed with the carefree manner natural to two young people who had grown up in such proximity. He had watched the way her gray eyes brightened whenever she laughed, knowing that the only reason she could treat him with such familiarity had been because she was ignorant of his feelings for her. She had looked at him as a future brother-in-law, blissfully ignorant of the way his heart stuttered whenever she appeared.
“Well,” she said, her voice still quiet and low, “then I shall simply have to draw on the past to assist me in our truce. I will have to pretend that”— she paused, her chin coming up determinedly —“that nothing ever happened.”
Hugh only nodded, afraid to trust himself with saying anything more. The delicate scent of orange blossom perfume permeated the space they stood in—it was the same scent she had always worn, and it was faint enough that he was conscious of a wish to close the gap between them where it would be stronger
“If I am going to the trouble,” she said, “of pretending that you are in my good graces, then you must promise not to wear such a grave expression all the time. Otherwise it will all be for nothing—your mother will know that something is still amiss.”
He pursed his lips and tilted his head to the side. “Surely she will know once our truce has ended and your enmity is again on full display.”
“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly, “but by then I shall be home and can take care to avoid your company.”
His nostrils flared briefly. Her words were anything but comforting. But it was probably for the best—for both of them—that she avoid his company. The dark hallway, her perfume, and the fact that they were alone together without any sparks flying—it gave him hope he had no right to feel.
Emma put her gloved hand out to him, a determined air about her.
Taking in a breath, he extended his arm in exchange, and they shook hands.
Her lips were drawn in a thin line, evidence of the difficulty she found in such a gesture.
His wry smile appeared. “Already you struggle.”
Her mouth stretched into a smile, and Hugh’s did the same in response. Had he not seen the expression that preceded it, had he not known the circumstances under which it occurred, he would have believed it to be a genuine smile. Apparently, he had underestimated her.
He, on the other hand, could already feel the way his heart twisted. Was he prepared for this? To be treated in a way much more reminiscent of their past relationship? It was a time when everything had been simpler.
But nothing was simple now. And a smile that hid malice was hardly something to rejoice over.
“You,” she said in an accusatory tone, “seem to be struggling every bit as much as you believe I am. Surely you didn't forget how to smile during your time on the Continent?” Her eyes and mouth teased him, and his mouth felt dry.
He chuckled and smiled down at her, appreciating the way a dimple trembled on the right side of her mouth when she tried not to laugh.
Their eyes locked for a moment, and her smile wavered as her gaze traveled from his eyes down to his smile. She blinked rapidly and looked up at him again, as she swallowed and dropped his hand. His own hand hung in the air for a moment, tingling with the cool air and the memory of her touch.
“Good. You have not forgotten.” Her tone was light and dispassionate, and she looked back down the corridor from the doorway she had come through. “Shall we go to the drawing room?”
He nodded, putting out his arm for her to take, wishing he knew what had caused her to look at him with such bewilderment. He was used to knowing precisely how she felt toward him—she had left no room for interpretation in the past.
How would he survive her counterfeit kindness?
5
When Emma awoke in the morning, she wrapped her dressing gown around herself and walked straight to the window. She had little hope that the snow would have melted enough overnight to allow her journey home, but she had to look, all the same.
Her lips parted in dismay as she looked out the window. A sheet of thick, white fog obscured the vista, and ice crystals clung to the window pane in a mesmerizing patchwork.
She heaved a resigned sigh. So, she would be spending Christmas Eve and Christmas at Norfield after all. Her stomach knotted as she thought about how worried her family must be. Surely they would be wondering if she had reached Norfield before the storm.
Today would have been the day they brought in the large, freshly cut Christmas tree and decorated it with paper flowers, fruit, and candles—a tradition the Caldwells had kept zealously in honor of Emma’s German grandparents, Oma and Opa. Their love of the season had been well-preserved by Emma's mother, who had in turn fostered a love for it in her own children.
But with the frigid temperatures and the fog, would they even be able to carry on the tradition this year? It seemed such a shame that, when they finally had snow on Christmas Eve, there should be no tree to complete the vision Emma and Lucy had always hoped for—and that Emma should be absent entirely. Oma had been full of magical stories of Christmas in Germany and had always lamented the way the English went about things. She would be incensed to see how neglected her precious Weihnachten had become.
Emma smiled softly. She missed Oma’s spirited personality and her descriptive stories which had made Emma feel as if she had been to Germany herself—as if she had smelled the cloves, the anise, the fruity scent of the glühwein; heard the rhythmic ringing of the bells; seen the flickering candles on the fir trees.
She shivered and stepped away from the window. As lamentable as her situation was—trapped at Norfield with the man she least wished to be trapped with—she was grateful that she had a fire in the grate and kind hosts. Had she left London two hours later, she might have been stuck in an inn with damp sheets, disagreeable fellow travelers, and terrible loneliness.
No, it was preferable to be where she was. And perhaps it wouldn't be as terrible as she had anticipated.
When she and Lieutenant Warrilow had walked into the drawing room the night before, her hand on his arm, Lady Dayton wasn't the only one who had looked on with mouth agape. All eyes were trained on them, Alfred’s in particular, looking a question at Hugh.
Hoping to nip any possibility of someone verbalizing or questioning the abrupt change between them, Emma immediately addressed herself to Miss Bolton, successfully diverting attention from them and allowing her to remove her hand from the lieutenant’s arm—where it still felt unnatural.
She hoped she had looked more confident than she had felt. It had taken no small degree of humility and courage to suggest the idea to Lieutenant Warrilow in the first place. After all, she had no desire to leave any room for doubt about what she thought of him.
But the knowledge that her feelings were depriving sweet Lady Dayton of her son’s company, and seeing Lady Dayton’s wistful glances at the door whenever he wasn’t present—it had been too much for Emma. Her bitter behavior toward him felt much less like loyalty to Lucy and much more like selfishness—of whom the primary victim was Lady Dayton.
So she had determined to do what she could to ensu
re that Lady Dayton was able to enjoy her son’s unexpected presence during the season instead of worrying about Emma’s well-being.
But doubt had niggled at Emma since making her decision. Was she unintentionally giving Lieutenant Warrilow the idea that she had forgiven his behavior; that she had forgotten his treatment of Lucy?
Her only comfort was the relief and joy on Lady Dayton’s face at the sight of them arm-in-arm.
Emma descended the stairs from her room with a small swallow. Why should she be nervous to see Lieutenant Warrilow? She simply needed to put aside her uncharitable feelings for a few days—to treat him as she had before everything had happened.
She raised her chin, stretched her mouth into a pleasant smile, and stepped down the last two stairs.
But Lieutenant Warrilow was the only one not in the breakfast parlor when she entered. She was conscious of a feeling of annoyance. Was he continuing to avoid her, despite their conversation the night before? He would give them away if he insisted upon doing so.
“Where is Hugh?” Lord Dayton said, looking around at the group as Emma took a seat. He reached for his cup of ale, mumbling, “Left us again, no doubt.”
“Of course he hasn’t,” said Lady Dayton in a gentle voice. Her forehead creased. “I am not entirely sure where he went. He left with one of the servants, only saying that he would be gone a few hours.”
Emma looked up from sipping her teacup. What in the world could he be doing? It was a veritable tundra outside.
“Went?” said Alfred, looking as perplexed as Emma felt. “You mean to say that he went outside? In this weather?”
Lady Dayton nodded. “Yes, though it took nearly ten minutes for the two of them to force the front door open.”
Alfred scoffed. “Surely he wouldn’t attempt driving on these roads. He must be mad!”
Lady Dayton shook her head, taking a moment to swallow her tea before answering. “I don’t believe he took the carriage.”
