Page 3 of What a Scot Wants
“Mary,” Imogen said with a glance at Emma. She gentled her voice, but it had to be said. “This is the third position we’ve found for you, and your second birth. You cannot just keep allowing yourself to be seduced by the lord of the manor.”
The girl had the grace to blush. “I dunnae mean to.”
“At least use some form of protection against conception,” Emma interjected, scrubbing her hands after checking the babe and giving him to one of the waiting wet nurses. “Sponges and the like. It’s no’ all on the men, ye ken. ’Tis yer body.”
“Try to get some rest,” Imogen said, then turned to Emma with a sigh of utter exhaustion.
Emma had been a part of Haven from the start, handling most of the pregnant mothers, until they’d had to expand and hire a small staff of nurses and an additional midwife. She’d also helped manage the money and its allocation. They had met at finishing school, and though Emma had a head for numbers, her passion had always been medicine. A passion gained from her physician father, who had indulged her desire to learn.
“It gets harder and harder to say no. We don’t have enough beds as it is.”
“Mary is the exception,” Emma said gently. “The women ye help truly need it. Haven has become a safe harbor for many who have nae place to go and nae one to turn to.”
“I want to do more. Expand the schooling and extend it to boys as well.” Imogen pursed her lips as they walked back to the small office she kept for herself on the first floor. “Change and education start with both genders. And the flash houses in the city have been getting worse. Children need an opportunity to make a better life for themselves than petty thievery, or worse.” She eyed Emma. “How much money do we have left?”
Emma drew a breath. “Enough for a while if we’re careful, but no’ to cover additional expenses like those.”
“I will talk to my parents.” Imogen sighed. “Perhaps they’ll consider giving me the rest of my dowry early. It’s not like any more marriage proposals are forthcoming.”
“Ye truly do no’ wish to marry?”
“No.” And she didn’t. A husband was a shackle she did not want or need.
“I’ll talk to my father tonight,” she said to Emma, packing up her satchel. “My parents know by now I’ll never marry. I’m a certifiable, unwanted old maid.”
“Ye’re no’ old,” Emma said staunchly. “And if ye’d give yer suitors half a chance, ye wouldnae be unwantedorunwed.”
It was probably true. Despite her apathy toward marriage, gentlemen with marital offers in hand had come in droves, attracted by her obscene dowry. But Imogen had refused to allow that money to go to some man who would get it simply by offering up his name. Her inheritance was meant for bigger things. More important things. And it washers. And so, she had turned every one of them away by any means necessary.
“Why would I want to marry?”
“To have a family?” Emma returned.
“I already have one.”
“To fall in love, then?”
Imogen rolled her eyes. “Love is useless. Just ask Mary and the men who profess their undying affection, only to run the other way once the fruits of their pleasure have ripened.”
“Ye are much too cynical, my friend.” Laughing, Emma waved her finger in a circle. “Though, one day, when ye least expect it, love will find ye and knock ye head over heels.”
Imogen gave a mock shudder and slipped through the front door, where her carriage was waiting. “God, I hope not. Good night, Emma dear.”
“Love will find ye,” Emma singsonged behind her.
“Not if I can help it!”
Imogen was still grinning and shaking her head when she entered the coach and rapped for the driver to depart. Hinley waited without fail at the same time every evening, whereupon he drove her back to her residence—her parents’ residence—where she had dinner with them before retiring.
Early on, she’d made the decision not to live at Haven herself. It was a large home with many bedrooms, but she wanted every last one of them open for whoever needed them. And as much as she loved her work, she did need space to breathe. The Kinley home was spacious enough for her to live comfortably with them. She had her own wing and enough privacy. Why change a good thing?
Smoothing her dress, she descended from the carriage and climbed the steps.
“Papa? Mama?” she called, divesting her cloak, bonnet, and gloves and handing them to their butler. “Thank you, Burns. Are my parents at home?”
“In the study, dearest,” her mother’s tense voice floated back before Burns could make his reply.
She entered the room, her smile fading at her parents’ unusually somber faces. Was something amiss? Had something happened?
