by Martha Keyes
She hardly knew whether or not she wanted to witness the reunion between the lieutenant and Lucy, but she couldn’t have avoided it without incivility. Lucy was arm-in-arm with Mr. Pritchard, but she took Emma by the hand in an urgent gesture Emma recognized as a request for support.
Lucy managed to keep her composure admirably, only her heightened color and the tightness of her grip on Emma’s arm betraying her inner agitation.
Lieutenant Warrilow was all kind politeness, genuine in his congratulations to Lucy and Mr. Pritchard. Emma could see the apology written in his gaze, whether or not Lucy noticed it. She hoped that seeing Lucy would set his mind at ease, knowing that she would be taken care of—that his actions had been but a temporary adversity. He needn’t continue to berate himself for what he had done.
Emma conversed and listened with as much focus as she could muster, but her preoccupation wouldn’t let her mind rest. She wanted to speak with the lieutenant but dreaded it at the same time. Would Lucy perceive the battle going on in Emma’s mind and heart if she saw them together? Surely, she would at least notice the lack of strain and wonder at it—wonder at the fact that Emma had said nothing of the change.
It wasn’t until the men joined the women in the drawing room that the opportunity to interact with the lieutenant was granted.
Emma was standing before the Christmas tree, reaching to one of the cream paper flowers she had helped fold, when the lieutenant came up beside her. Her heart stuttered, and she glanced at Lucy who stood across the room, speaking with her mother and Lady Dayton.
“Is our truce at an end, then?” he said, adjusting one of the flowers that had sunk deep into the tree’s branches.
The truce? She had forgotten the truce.
It had only motivated her behavior toward him for a day or two. It had been a needed catalyst, to be sure, putting her in a place where she could see past her prejudice against the lieutenant.
But it had not been a determining factor—or even a conscious one—in her behavior toward him for some time now.
“Is there any need for a truce?” she finally said, her mind flitting back to the last time they had stood in the light of the Christmas tree, his arm wrapped around her waist and a hand on her cheek, gentle and then pressing.
“I admit that I had hoped there was not.”
She glanced at him, and he met her gaze squarely. How could she stop from reading into every single thing he said?
Her eyes darted to Lucy.
Lucy. She had to remember Lucy. It didn’t matter what the lieutenant meant. It didn’t matter if he regretted the kiss—a thought which made her stomach feel sick—or wished to repeat it—a thought which made Emma’s head reel.
“She is still in love with you.” She looked up at him.
A frown descended upon his face as he glanced toward Lucy. “How can you be sure?”
Her shoulders came up in a helpless gesture. “I hadn’t gone further than telling her that you were alive and at Norfield when she buried her face in her hands and fled the room. She has been”— she took in a breath, searching for the word —“different ever since.”
Lieutenant Warrilow took in a deep breath. “It must have been a great shock to her.”
“Yes,” Emma said softly, “that is what she claims.”
Emma’s eyes moved to Alfred. He looked strangely exposed without Miss Bolton at his side. His brow was drawn, just as it had been since he had left the room in his Christmas evening outburst. But far from the energy and anger of that evening, there was a beaten and conquered air about his sober expression.
“Has Miss Bolton returned home then?” Emma asked, glad for a reason to change the subject.
Hugh rubbed his chin and nodded. “It is as we suspected. When Alfred requested an audience with her father to inform him of his change in fortunes, it did not end well. Mr. Bolton has insisted that his daughter be released from the engagement.”
“How terrible for them both.” Emma’s mouth twisted to the side, and she looked up at the lieutenant. There was so much pain among them. She looked again to Lucy, whose eyes were on them, an unreadable expression on her face.
Emma attempted a smile at her, knowing that it was a feeble one. Lucy would find it strange to see Emma and Lieutenant Warrilow side-by-side.
Mr. Pritchard touched Lucy’s arm, and her eyes lingered for a moment on Emma and the lieutenant, even as her head turned toward her fiancé.
“Will you return to town after the holidays?” the lieutenant asked.
Emma shut her eyes. A return to town meant facing the impending offer of marriage from Mr. Douglas—a prospect which made her stomach feel leaden. How had her feelings undergone such a rapid and full transformation?
“I believe so,” she said. “And you?”
He shook his head, and she was conscious of an overwhelming feeling of disappointment.
“I have things to take care of here.”
It made sense, of course, that he needed to stay at Norfield. He had been gone for three years, after all. And it was silly to expect him to follow her to London. But, for some reason, his words pierced her as evidence that her regard was not returned—that he had no desire to spend time with her now that circumstances didn’t make it an inevitability, now that the snow had melted.
Did he realize that, if they ever saw one another again, she would likely be engaged or married to Mr. Douglas?
She swallowed, feeling a need to provoke some reaction out of him, to discover what he really felt. If she had truly been brave, she might have asked him forthrightly. But she hadn’t the nerve. “I understand,” she said, clasping her fingers to keep them from trembling, “that Mr. Douglas has some intention of calling upon my father when we return.”
It was feeble. It made her cringe to hear herself say it. It sounded desperate to her own ears and likely felt unfeeling and arrogant to his.
She looked at him, at his flared nostrils, his stiff posture.
“Then I wish you every happiness, Miss Caldwell.” He bowed and walked from the room, leaving her behind with glazed eyes and something very much like a hole in her chest.
11
Hugh stalked out of the drawing room, closing the door behind him and heading for the front door. Stepping into the cold night air, he kicked at the nearby bush, its brown leaves surrendering and crumbling to the ground as he combed his fingers through his hair.
In the stillness of the outside air, his pulse began to calm.
He shut his eyes and bowed his head, shaking it slowly. He couldn’t rid himself of the look in Emma’s eyes as he had left her side—powerless anguish. He hadn’t meant to be so curt with her, but the thought of her marrying this Mr. Douglas?
His fingernails dug into the palms of his hands.
It was unbearable.
Whatever disappointment he thought he had endured upon leaving behind all hope for a chance with Emma when he had gone off to war, it paled in comparison to the disappointment of having that chance in front of him, within reach, and then losing it all over again.
He blew out a breath. The puff expanded around him and dissipated in the midnight air.
He had thought himself changed after his time fighting in the war—ready to accept the duty and consequences that had felt like burdens before.
Why, then, did he find it so difficult to confront the idea that losing Emma was yet another consequence of the decision he had made three years ago? That there had never really been a chance with her?
He had known it before, and yet he had been foolhardy enough to jump at the chance when it so unexpectedly was presented. Or seemed to be presented. He had foolishly taken a few moments of her kindness and comfort as evidence that she cared for him as he cared for her.
She no longer hated him, but it did not follow that she loved him.
He had to remind himself of that. Day in, day out, until he accepted it.
But the kiss they had shared? He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to dispel t
he memory.
It made no sense.
For Hugh, it had been the materialization of a long wished-for dream. An ecstatic moment that he had despaired of ever experiencing.
But for Emma?
He kicked at the bush again, more softly this time.
Had he fooled himself into thinking that she had returned the embrace?
No. He couldn’t have imagined the way her arms had wrapped around him, or the way her soft lips had pressed to his.
But she had pulled away. Pushed, really. She had said it was a mistake.
He was a fool. Things were so much simpler on campaign.
He pressed on his shoulder. It was irritating him much less since the frigid cold had subsided. He felt more confident than ever that it might heal completely within a few weeks, though he had anticipated a much longer leave.
His regiment would welcome him back—he had no doubt about that. But was he ready to stake his life again, ready for life at war again, so soon after returning home? A return to the Continent would mean forfeiting—or at least postponing—the good deed he wished to do for the Seymours.
What would his father say to learn that he was considering a return already? Would it rekindle Alfred’s hope in a match with Miss Bolton? Would Alfred secretly be hoping for Hugh’s death and a second chance with the woman he loved?
Hugh folded his arms, staring out at the tree-lined drive. He couldn’t stay at Norfield. But neither did he feel he could leave and return to the war-torn continent, with all its memories, many of which were anything but pleasant. There were unpleasant memories everywhere. There was guilt and pain everywhere.
He frowned and rubbed the back of his neck with a firm hand, remembering Emma’s words to him about the crushing guilt he labored under.
“Let it spur you to action, let it drive you to make things better than they otherwise would be. You have the means to do much good.”
She was right. It did no good for him to wallow in shame and guilt. Returning the ring to the Seymours had been difficult enough. But surely there was more he could do. Emma had been right: he stood in a position to help the Seymours, and he sincerely hoped that his uncle’s visit would make that a reality.
Hugh stood with his hands behind his back, feeling the warmth of the shaft of afternoon sunlight which illuminated a piece of the Norfield courtyard through a temporary gap in the clouds.
Lord Siddington stepped down from his yellow chaise with a bounce. He was on the shady side of fifty, but no one would have guessed as much to look at him. Lean, energetic, and dressed more like a fop than a man in his middle age, he exuded youth until closer inspection revealed the small lines forming around his mouth, on his forehead, and at the corners of his eyes, concealed with a fair amount of makeup.
After the scandal with Lucy, Lord Siddington hadn’t hesitated to offer the purchase of a commission for Hugh.
“In my day,” he had said to a grave Hugh three years ago, “we did a tour of the Continent, my boy, but with Boney still on the loose, I’m afraid the closest you’ll get is letting me buy you a pair of colors. Never had an ounce of desire for the army myself, but it seems I never come upon a young man these days but he’s army-mad. It might do you good to get away, you know—exhaust your anger on the frogs instead of staying here with that dashed Friday face you’re wearing.”
Uncle Sid, as Hugh was wont to call him, was as free with his money as he was with his gossip, and he had always had a soft spot for Hugh.
“Hugh, dear boy!” he said now, grinning widely and handing his malacca cane to the postilion so that he could properly embrace his nephew. “Thought you’d stuck your spoon in the wall. Devilish glad to hear it’s not the case.”
Hugh smiled appreciatively, heartily embracing his uncle. Alfred couldn’t stand the man, but Hugh never failed to be entertained in his presence.
“No,” he said, “I came close a few times, but I’m still here.”
They pulled apart, and Lord Siddington took his cane back from the postilion. He leaned in toward Hugh, saying, “Carried a cane for years because it was de rigeuer, but the truth is, I’m beginning to need it, my boy.” He shook his head. “Devilish thing it is, getting old. Never thought it would happen to me.” He laughed and slapped Hugh on the back.
Hugh chuckled and stepped in line with his uncle toward the house. “There is a matter I have been meaning to speak with you—”
Lord Siddington waved his hand and shook his head. “No, no, my boy. I have no intention of discussing business until I have a glass of whatever your father has been hiding in that marvelous cellar of his.”
Once Lord Siddington had a glass of sherry in hand, the two of them sat down in the library, Uncle Sid stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankles.
“Now,” he said with a contented sigh, “what is it you wished to speak with me about?”
Knowing his uncle’s short attention span, Hugh quickly related his interactions with Robert Seymour during their time in the same regiment, ending in Seymour’s untimely death and the severely straitened circumstances his wife and children found themselves living in.
Lord Siddington frowned and shook his head. “A terrible shame. Seen it time and time again this past twenty years.”
“Fortunately,” Hugh said, “I came to an idea of how Mrs. Seymour and her children might be helped. It affects you, though, which is why I asked you here.”
Lord Siddington’s drink paused halfway between the table and his mouth, his eyes suddenly wary. “What sort of idea? I have no thought of marrying, my boy, so please—”
Hugh reared back and chuckled. “The notion never even occurred to me, though I do think you could do much worse than marrying Mrs. Seymour, if it came down to it. A few children at your heels might do you some good.”
His uncle’s eyes broadened, and he choked on his drink. “Heaven help me!” He set his drink down, pulling out a yellow spotted handkerchief and patting his lips with it. “I’d rather buy myself a pair of colors than submit to these ideas of yours.”
Hugh shrugged. “It is your affair, of course. My idea, though, relates to your having purchased my commission in the first place. I have some thought of selling out, particularly if prospects improve and there is any likelihood of the war ending. I intended to return the money to you if I ever took such a step.” He watched his uncle carefully.
“Good heavens,” his uncle said. “What should I want with the money? No, my boy, it was a gift. The money is yours to do with as you please.”
Hugh let out a small sigh of relief. “I intend to give the funds directly—and anonymously—to Mrs. Seymour when I do sell out. In the meantime, I hope that my mother and father will lend their support, given what the family sacrificed so that I might be here at all.”
“Very noble, my boy, very noble,” said Lord Siddington distractedly, picking up the decanter of sherry and inspecting it with narrowed eyes. “Richard always lays his hands on the very best of it!”
Hugh sighed at his uncle’s inability to focus on anything of real importance.
“I suppose you’ve heard of Alfred’s broken engagement?” he said, leaning back in his chair and resting his chin on his knuckles.
“Yes,” Lord Siddington said, only half-listening. “Must be something in the air at Norfield.”
Hugh frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Engagements being broken left and right in this house,” he said, pouring himself another glass. “I’ll tell you what, my boy. Don’t get engaged in the first place. That’s the ticket!”
“In this case,” Hugh said, “it was not Alfred who broke the engagement. Not having heard from me in months, he and my parents were under the impression that Alfred would be inheriting. It was with such an understanding that Miss Bolton’s father countenanced the engagement. My return has caused him to withdraw his support and insist Miss Bolton be released from the arrangement.”
“Slippery fellow, eh?”
“Yes, but I think he might be persuaded to reconsider the match if only we could find some situation for Alfred.”
Hugh paused, and Lord Siddington took out his tortoise-shell snuff box, opening it with a flick of the finger.
“His hope,” Hugh continued, “was to seek the living at Balmaker, but he ceased doing so when he believed that there was no longer any need for him to find such employment, and the living was given to someone else.”
Lord Siddington was rubbing a spot off his quizzing glass, taking little interest in the conversation—a fact that Hugh partially attributed to his relative indifference toward Alfred.
“I was hoping you might know of another situation that would suit?”
Lord Siddington put away his snuff box. The silence continued.
Lord Siddington gave a start, seeming to realize something was expected of him. “Eh? Yes, yes, very much a gentleman is Alfred.”
Hugh suppressed a smile. “Uncle, I had asked whether you knew of any livings that Alfred might obtain, as the one at Balmaker is now occupied?”
“Oh,” he said, astounded, “did you?” He frowned a moment. “You know, I just may. Lord Dunhaven’s man at Keldale kicked the bucket last week, as I understand, and Dunhaven owes me more favors than he’ll ever be able to repay. Towed him out of the river tick more than once, among other things.” He shot Hugh a significant look and cleared his throat.
Hugh sat up straighter in his chair. “And you would be willing to call in one of those favors on Alfred’s behalf?”
His uncle shrugged. “Might as well have a Warrilow there as some uppity country bumpkin.”
“Alfred would do a wonderful job. The living at Keldale is significant, is it not?”
Lord Siddington pursed his lips. “Yes, I believe it comes with the living at Newmarsh, as well. The vicar—may he rest in peace—employed a curate there, of course, since it’s devilish out of the way. Middle of nowhere, really. All told, I think the two livings would bring in somewhere in the range of five or six-hundred pounds.”
