Chapter Thirty-Five
Emma sat quietly as Liese brushed and plaited her hair that evening. Emma had always performed the task for herself, but Liese seemed disappointed when Emma sent her way, so she’d begun allowing the girl to do it as part of her nightly routine. She had even begun to enjoy the pampering, but she was too distracted to enjoy it this night.
She gazed at her reflection in the mirror. She was not a great beauty, but she was not without handsome attributes. Her hair was only brown—not richly dark, like Charlotte’s, or angelic blonde, like Lucy’s, but it was thick and soft and fell in nice waves when Liese brushed it out and left it loose, as she sometimes did. Her eyes were also simple brown, but her nose and ears were delicately sized. She was not a person who had ever been particularly preoccupied with her outward appearance—until now. She sighed.
“Are you tired, Your Grace?”
“I suppose I am, Liese.”
“Well, you’ve been very busy, if you don’t mind my saying so. Maybe you would be more rested if you weren’t such an early riser in the mornings. I don’t mean to be presumptuous, Your Grace, but a little more rest might serve you well.”
“Thank you for your suggestion, Liese, and for your concern.”
She looked at her reflection again. “Perhaps you are right, Liese,” she said with a wistful smile. “I will try to get some extra rest tomorrow. If you can bring me a breakfast tray in the morning, I will linger a little longer in my bed.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Liese preened at such attention being paid to her advice. The girl tidied a few last things and bade Emma a quick, “Goodnight, Your Grace,” as she ducked out of the room.
With impossibly perfect timing, the rap on the adjoining door sounded just as the door to the hall closed. John’s knock was more a notice than a request, as he did not wait for a response before opening the door and entering. His dressing gown was knotted loosely at his waist, allowing for a gap that displayed a wide expanse of lightly furred chest. He smiled knowingly at her. “Good evening, sweet Emma.”
She tried to smile encouragingly, but her efforts were weak, for his smile faltered just a bit in response. Once they had their necessary conversation, his mood of happy anticipation would be dashed entirely.
He walked to where she still sat at her dressing table. He placed his hands on her shoulders, kneading there, then sliding up to soothe the tightness in her neck. She very nearly sighed and leaned into his ministrations.
“I’m sorry for my absence at dinner this evening,” he said. “I was visiting the western farms with Mr. Marshall.”
“That’s fine,” Emma said. “We had an eventful afternoon and took trays in our rooms this evening.”
“Has there been more difficulty with Charlotte?”
Has there been more difficulty with Charlotte? She might ask the question of him. What else did she not know of her little protégé? She leaned away from his touch and stood. “There has been a development with Charlotte, but it seems I am the last to know.” She had tried to keep the bitterness from her tone, but he recoiled as though bitten. He eyed her warily, but did not attempt to guess her meaning. She saw no purpose in guessing games anyway. “Charlotte came to me today because she received a threat, in person, from a Mr. Pritchard. I understand this is not his first visit to Brantmoor.”
John’s eyes flew to hers. “Here? Today? Why didn’t she come to me? How was he able to get anywhere close to Charlotte? I’m paying richly to have him watched round the clock!” John’s fists clenched as his voice rose. “Someone will answer for this; I will be certain.”
Emma watched him placidly. He was overcome with concern for his sister, as well he should be. His protection had failed. Perhaps he did not consider the significance of this revelation for Emma. Or, even worse, perhaps he did and did not consider it a betrayal. Emma waited silently as John tugged on the sash of his dressing gown, strode to the door, and summoned the nearest footman. “Awaken Mr. Marshall. I shall meet him in my study shortly.”
He shut the door and returned to Emma. “How long ago did this occur?”
“Charlotte came to me this afternoon, before dinner.”
His brow furrowed. “That was hours ago. Why was I not told immediately?”
Emma stared at him. A coldness had settled over her as he spoke. “I can understand your frustration at the delay,” she said steadily, intentionally contrasting the urgency of his demeanor. “Perhaps if I had been made aware of this threat to Charlotte’s safety, I would have been more alert in keeping watch and more prepared to act quickly when the circumstance arose.”
He stopped, realization of her meaning settling onto his countenance. “Emma,” he began, palm raised in supplication, “I will concede, it was a mistake to keep this from you, but you cannot possibly compare my informing you of some details of Charlotte’s past to a failure to immediately alert me of a threat delivered to her personally at our home. It is my responsibility to protect this family, and I cannot do so when I am not aware of threats which require my protection.”
She could not have worded the case more eloquently herself. “How can I protect Charlotte from threats to her reputation if I am not made aware of the threats?” she snapped. “By the time Charlotte came to me, Mr. Brydges had already seen to his removal.” She arched one brow and crossed her arms. “What I cannot understand is why you felt it necessary to keep these details from me in the first place.”
John looked away. Much of the bluster was lost from his voice when he answered. “Charlotte asked that I not tell you about Mr. Pritchard. She wasn’t sure of your reaction. There was no way to discuss him without revealing that she worked in the kitchens. She didn’t want you to know.”
“Naturally, you assured her that her fears were unfounded.” She knew he had not. She would have known even if his expression just then had not confirmed it.
She had never in her life felt more like scenery or decoration. If he could not find in her actions enough illustration of her character to know she would not judge Charlotte’s employment, then he had given her no more notice than he gave the statues in the entry hall. If he had applied any effort, shown any interest in knowing her, he would have been certain of her lack of prejudice. But, in the end, he had not. He had doubted.
John only shook his head at her question. “I must dress and find Brydges. We must locate Pritchard immediately.”
She watched him as he left.
John had sailed across the ocean to rush to his sister’s aid, lived as a poor clerk for four long years, then married a stranger to give his sister the best possible launch into society. Yet he suspected Emma might find cause to judge in knowing Charlotte had been forced, through no fault of her own, to support herself through her own labors.
He did not love her. If he believed her capable of such judgments, he did not even know her, despite their time together and the moments they had shared. Their marriage was truly nothing more than the mercenary bargain they had made.
Emma wept. Even as she chided herself for her girlish foolishness, she grieved for the loss of a thing she had never had.