Page 18 of If I Loved You
He stopped, several feet away from them, bending one knee while he kept weight on the other, his fine tall hat in his hand, tapped against his thigh. He was dressed formally and must have then, she presumed, just returned from London, as he so often favored fawn breeches and muslin shirts when here in the country.
When he seemed content only to stare at her, she lifted a brow to him, imagining—hoping—that his arrival was occasioned by some intent other than raking her rather severely with his inscrutable gaze.
He cleared his throat.
“I thought to take Bethany riding with me today,” he said.
Emma did not know what to make of what sounded like uncertainty in his voice. She wondered if any living soul could claim to have ever heard such hesitancy from this man.
And then he said, “Mayhap you would like to accompany me as well. Riding, that is,” which served only to confound Emma yet more. She was acutely aware that she knew nothing about anything, but didn’t this just sound so fantastically like a polite invitation?
An invitation. From the earl. To spend time with him.
She felt that wicked wind send the skirts of her fine cotton gown firmly against her thighs. It whipped the fabric into a caress, pushing the skirts out and away from her, surely highlighting every curve and line of her legs. His gaze dipped there and then retreated as the wind faded, finding her eyes again as he awaited a reply.
Mulishness was the only motivation she could conceive to refuse him. But she thought he should know, “Of course I don’t ride, my lord.” She couldn’t imagine why he might think that she could. “But I’m sure Bethany would enjoy the occasion.” Truly, there was no reason to deny the child any experience merely to save herself from awkward situations, which seemed to consist of any time spent in the earl’s presence.
She wouldn’t have said he appeared, then, particularly disappointed as he strode toward her and lifted his hands to Bethany, who happily removed her arms from around Emma’s neck and reached for him.
“Would you care to learn to ride?” He surprised Emma by asking then.
As she imagined she might never own her own horse, and while the idea took flight that she could never hope to havecontrol over such a large beast, she shook her head. “I think not.” As he stood there, just watching her once more, she wondered if he only awaited more words from her, that she thought to add, “But I thank you for the offer.” His expression did not change. And he did not move, not even to bear himself and Bethany to the stables to find a mount. Awkwardly, Emma gave a brief smile and lifted her skirts. “I’ll await Bethany’s return at the house then.” And she walked away—which seemed a perfectly acceptable thing to do, given that he’d said so little, and had just stated that he aimed to ride just now. Without turning back to see, she knew that he hadn’t moved yet, and had the unnerving and cheek-pinkening notion that he still stared at her, that it took so much more effort to walk straight and with seeming calmness. Meanwhile, the wind continued to bedevil her, at one point lifting her skirts nearly to her knees.
Once returned to the house, and without a chore to attend, she wondered to Mrs. Conklin if she might only wander around the house, curious about the stately home but unwilling to trespass if it might be frowned upon.
Mrs. Conklin only shrugged. “It is only the earl and yourself in residence, miss. Aside from his personal chambers, if a door should be unlocked, feel free to explore. Of course, the ground floor is all servants’ quarters but the first and second and third stories will show you some very pretty rooms, even if they rarely see any visitors these days.”
“Does the earl not ever entertain?” Emma asked.
“The earl finds all his entertainments in the city, miss. Haven’t hosted an event here since the countess lived, and that’s more than a decade ago.”
Emma guessed she might have only assumed that people of wealth and consequence regularly held dinner parties and soirees, or similar frivolities. She thanked the housekeeper and found her own chambers, where she discarded her bonnet and jacket and then returned to the hall. With her hands on her hips, she glanced up and down the corridor, choosing where to start. Surely, this floor was mostly or only bedchambers, the Lindsey family apartments. She walked to the end of the hall and ascended a narrow flight of stairs to the third floor, peeking inside the first door she came upon. A disappointing beginning, as this room might well have at one time been a small but pretty bedroom but seemed now to have been relegated to that of a catch-all. Boxes and crates and furniture crammed every inch of floor space, appearing as if each new addition was only set just inside the door and pushed forward into an ever-growing mountain of discarded things.
Hoping to find something of greater interest, Emma proceeded to the next door. And then the next and the next, each of which showed only many bedchambers, grander than any servants’ accommodations but not as stately as the second floor apartments. She had never seen so many chambers all under one roof. To some degree, almost every chamber had, over the years, been inhabited or suffused with odd furniture and more items of storage, that not one of them held particular appeal to Emma. Save for the third-to-the-last door she might have peeked inside. She paused just inside this room, taken aback by how much finer and frillier this room was than any other, made especially appealing as it had escaped the notice or intent of persons looking to stash no longer needed household elements.
She stepped fully inside, taking in the overall pink tone, still dominant despite the advent of dusty linens covering so much of the furniture and even the bed. The walls and carpets and window treatments all bore some design of pink, striped curtains and chintz floral wallpaper and a thick Aubusson carpet which once might well have been as bright as magenta.
Emma lifted the edges of one piece of linen, showing the subtly glossed wood of an armoire. Another lifted linen showed a pretty carved wood writing desk. Absently, Emma flipped the linen completely out of the way and opened the desk drawer. Or tried to. The drawer stuck but she had the impression that it only did so because too many papers were trapped inside, a hint of these seen from the barely open drawer. Facing the desk squarely, she gave another good tug, and then slipped her fingers within until she moved enough of the impediment away that it finally pulled open. It was indeed crammed with papers, flat and folded letters in a bold, hard-pressed script.
Emma withdrew the topmost letter, turning over the heavy paper to reveal it had been signed and sent by a George Fiske. A quick glance at the others indicated the lettering was all the same, the messages having come from the same person.
A scrawled phrase,until we meet again, caught Emma’s eye. The date at the top of the letter read January, 1774. Curious, yet considering the aged letters fair game as she could likely injure no living person with her snooping, Emma read the entire letter, finding that whoever George Fiske was, he suffered quite a distant passion for “My darling Caralyn”, who was, the envelopes said, a Caralyn Withers.
My love has made me selfish. Were that your hand were fast in mine.
Thus intrigued, Emma scooped up the entire contents of the drawer, all the letters, and found a pretty pink ribbon strewn and crinkled within the stack. At one time, these love notes had been tied neatly together. Emma considered that she’d found the drawer untidy, and immovable because of the messy business within. Had someone, at some time, come looking for a particular missive? Had they been frantic, ripping away the ribbon, and leaving the chaos behind?
Turning, Emma walked across the room and sat on the floor just at the edge of the once bright rug and beneath the set of double windows which afforded plenty of sunshine for reading. Thinking George and Caralyn’s story would reveal itself more efficiently if the letters were put in order by the date of their writing, she took the time to do this, trying to keep any remaining envelopes still connected to its rightful contents. When she’d organized them, she counted twenty-eight letters. Leaning her back against the side of the linen shrouded bed, Emma began to read George Fiske’s words.
ZACH RETURNED TO THEhouse almost an hour after stealing Bethany from Emma. Truly, he delighted in the child. She was easy to please, had taken to the riding as well as he’d expected, and hadn’t fussed at all when he’d told her they were done for the day.
“We had ourselves a bit of fun, didn’t we?” He asked her, as they swept through different rooms upon the ground floor, but found Miss Ainsley nowhere.
Bethany didn’t answer and Zach was thinking she was tired. He marched up the stairs and knocked upon Emma’s door but heard no call for entrance. A quick peek inside showed him only an empty chamber. Returning to the first floor, he finally saw another person, his housekeeper, stepping out of the dining room, a notepad and pencil in hand.
“Ah, Mrs. Conklin,” he called to her. “Have you any idea where Miss Ainsley might be?
When Mrs. Conklin had informed him that Miss Ainsley had asked to tour the entire house, he’d wondered idly what might be done with the child now.
