Page 48 of An Arranged Marriage with a Cruel Earl
Chapter 17
Emmeline tiptoed into Lady Rilendale’s chamber. It was mid-morning, the sunshine blazing through the curtains.
“I will sit with her,” Emmeline said gently to Philipa, Lady Rilendale’s trusted maid. The older woman nodded.
“Of course, my lady. I will go and wash her things.”
Emmeline nodded gratefully and went to sit by Lady Rilendale’s bed. Emmeline had slept deeply and woken with a clear head and, oddly, the first person she had wanted to talk to was Lady Rilendale. Of all the people at the manor, Lady Rilendale was the only one where there seemed to be a rapport. She was at least in some way similar to her mother. And she needed to talk to her.
She sat next to the older woman’s bed and gazed down at her. She was still asleep, but her breathing was noticeably deeper and more measured than it had been the night before. Her hair glowed softly in the morning light, the lines on her face lined with golden morning rays. Emmeline gazed down at her, feeling her heart twist with love at the sight of that tranquil, reposeful older face.
“Lady Rilendale,” she said softly, not wanting to wake the older woman, but still longing to tell her the news. “I had the strangest experience last night. I... I think I might be starting to feel something for your grandson.”
Lady Rilendale slept on. Emmeline’s heart twisted. She wished that she could confide her news in Lady Rilendale when she was awake, but in a way, it was easier and better to tell her when she was asleep so that she could not judge. Not that Lady Rilendale would judge her, or anyone else, for that matter. Emmeline was almost certain that she was fair and kind.
“I spoke to him in the library. He was different. More open. He was kind. He thanked me. He told me he appreciated me.” She let out a long breath. “He lent me a poetry book to read.” That had touched her. His mother’s things were clearly very precious to him, and yet he trusted her with them.
She saw Lady Rilendale stirring. Her lips moved, her eyes opening briefly. Emmeline tensed. She had spoken quite loudly, and she had not meant to wake Lady Rilendale. As she was about to apologise, the miracle of that fact hit her. Lady Rilendale was waking up.
“Lady Rilendale!” she exclaimed.
“Where am I?” Lady Rilendale murmured, opening her eyes. “What...where...” She tried to sit up, her voice full of concern, and then lay back on the bed, her eyes shut, wincing.
“You fell,” Emmeline explained gently. “You’re in your bedchamber,” she added. She had woken enough times from a deep sleep, unsure of where she was and a little disorientated. She could only imagine how Lady Rilendale must feel.
“I fell,” Lady Rilendale whispered. “I don’t remember.”
“I’m not surprised,” Emmeline said honestly. “You hit your head quite badly.”
Lady Rilendale grinned. Her eyes were shut, but her lips moved up at the edges in a brief smile. “Was it so bad that you think it has damaged my memory?”
“No. I think you might take time to remember yesterday, but it doesn’t seem as though you’ve forgotten much else,” Emmeline said quickly. “You hit your forehead,” she added, resting her hand lightly on where the bruise was. “It has quite a spectacular bruise. Can I show you?” she added, standing to go and fetch a mirror.
Lady Rilendale chuckled. “No,” she said, but Emmeline could hear how tired she was, and she settled down in the chair again. “I believe you.” Her voice was the merest whisper. Emmeline held her hand tightly.
“Would you like something?” she asked softly. Lady Rilendale had not eaten since the previous midday meal. “Tea, perhaps? Something to eat?”
Lady Rilendale shook her head. Her grip on Emmeline’s fingers tightened. “Just stay with me a while. Talk with me. I’m tired, but I am afraid to sleep. My head hurts,” she added, reaching up to touch the bruise.
Emmeline shifted on the seat, making herself comfortable. “Of course I will,” she said at once. “I’d be happy to.”
She thought about telling Lady Rilendale about her evening in the library, but with the older woman staring up at her, she lost some of her courage.
“I can tell you about my childhood in the countryside,” she proffered.
“Please do,” Lady Rilendale murmured. “I would like to hear of it.”
“Amelia was often with me at Ashmore, our country home,” she began. “We used to get up to all manner of mischief together. I remember when we stole pies from the kitchen. It was my idea, but Amelia gotcaught. She got into such trouble, so Ihadto tell the cook it was my idea. While I was talking, Amelia grabbed my arm and ran, and we both ran into the garden and hid.” She chuckled at the memory. The cook had not been quite as angry as she had been pretending to be, and at the sight of the two fleeing children, she had burst out laughing. Emmeline and Amelia had only found that part out later from Emmeline’s mother, to whom the cook had reported the incident with some amusement.
Emmeline looked over at the bed and saw a slight smile on Lady Rilendale’s lips. Her heart lifted. She racked her brains for another funny story.
“When I first started riding, my horse threw me into a patch of nettles.” She winced at the memory. That had not been very funny, but she recalled how her father had run to her at once. “Papa lifted me out of the nettles and kissed the sore places on my hands. Then he put me back on my horse and told me that he knew I could ride very well, that I had managed grandly with my first fall, and that I’d be even better now that I had some experience.” She sniffed, her throat tightening at the memory. If her father had not been so understanding, she might have been scared to ride again. Instead, she’d ridden around at a canter, so proud of her growing skills that she had not minded in the least about the burning nettle stings on her hands.
She swallowed hard. Lady Rilendale had fallen asleep—her eyes had closed, and the rhythm of her breathing had changed. She leaned back, watching her sleep. She did not stir or ask for another story, so Emmeline sat where she was, trying to figure out how to stand up quietly without waking her.
“How fares my mother?” a voice asked from behind her. She jumped and spun around to see Andrew in the doorway. His expression was serious but when his eyes met hers, they were bright, as though the same bubbling excitement that she experienced when she heard his voice.
“She’s sleeping,” Emmeline whispered. “I didn’t wish to wake her,” she added. Andrew’s voice had not disturbed her, so Emmeline decided it was safe to let the chair scrape on the floor and she stood up and went to the door. Lady Rilendale did not wake. Andrew smiled.
