Page 3 of Sense and Suitability
Setting aside her spectacles and tucking away the slips of paper bearing her latest scribbles, Emme pushed her small pile of novels to the desk’s corner, except for one—The Heroine—which she took in hand, should distraction become necessary.
She’d strategically placed her desk in this spot by the window for two reasons: One, it allowed morning light to bathe her in enough warmth to dampen any chill from the low-lit fires of the night, and two, the location afforded her a view of the entrance hallway if she twisted just so.
Carter, the long-suffering butler, ambled into view, his pace slower than usual, if that was even possible. The dear man had appeared ancient when Emme was a child, but now he seemed to have approached near antiquity, though his wits proved rather alert and his ears even more so, for good or ill.
He cast her a weathered look down the hallway, his jaw set for battle. Poor man. It was moments like this that she was certain he earned every shilling of his somewhat inflated salary.
Emme stood, novel in hand, and drew in a deep breath before the plunge. Once Carter opened that door, her blissfully quiet life would be turned on its head—for the next four months, at least.
Another series of heavy knocks ushered in the entrance of Aunt Albina Bridges, rather unaffectionately referred to as Aunt Bean, whose self-importance rose from the ends of her pearl-tip shoes to the zenith of her long and usually upturned nose.
She and Father failed to resemble each other at all, in looks orcomportment. Whereas Father fled discord as a whole, Aunt Bean saw it as her duty to generously find or create crises wherever she went. In this respect, Emme tended more toward her father’s disposition... and desire.
Unless in fiction, of course.
“It was quite irksome to remain on the stoop like a beggar for so long, Carter.”
And the sweet greetings whisked down the hall with the same melodic ring as a new violinist.
“Now, Mother,” came a smoother, more amiable voice, one that immediately brightened Emme’s mood. Cousin Thomas. “It is still early. I would imagine Carter has been occupied with other matters this morning.”
Where Aunt Bean created persistent offense, Thomas smoothed out the edges with wit and voice, a fortunate trait for a clergyman.
“Besides, Carter,” Thomas continued in a mock whisper, which Emme heard well enough from down the hall, “it wasn’tthatlong.”
Emme’s smile brimmed... until she heard the resounding click of Aunt Bean’s cane as it tapped the floor. Closer and closer, like the march of troops advancing in combat. Each click increased Emme’s pulse toward retreat.
She glanced around the room, hoping for reinforcements. Aster? Alfie? Even Benedict, the spaniel, would prove a happy distraction, but no, Emme stood alone, left to face the tampering talons of Aunt Bean.
If only Mother were here.
Without a daughter of her own, Aunt Bean relished her role as matchmaker with the fervor of Lady Ruthton’s enthusiasm for hosting balls—a zeal so boundless that she had single-handedly transformed St. Groves into a pale imitation of Bath. And her adoring husband spared no expense. They’d even recently built a new hotel, a theater, and even a concert hall.
Her parties last year numbered fifteen!
Fifteen!
Emme’s shoulders sagged yet again from the weight of her social future. Though, to be honest, she conveniently dodged five of the fifteen for various real and imagined illnesses or situations. After the difficulties of her first season, Father hadn’t forced the issue.
Six clicks later, Aunt Bean came into view with Thomas at her side. In usual Thomas fashion, he wrestled with a smile, which countered the disposition of every previous rector in St. Groves. And if Thomas’s youthfulness and temperament didn’t spark a great deal of interest, his singleness certainly would.
“Good morning, Emme,” Thomas offered before Aunt Bean pounced. “I’m glad to see you are awake and employed already.” His gaze dropped to her book, one quizzical brow etching upward. “Devotional reading, I assume? To usher in the day?”
Emme tightened her grip on Eaton Stannard Barrett’s entertaining novel and slipped it behind her back. “How could you doubt it?”
“Of course.” A twinkle surfaced in his dark eyes before he turned to his mother. “Our cousin is a paragon of virtue, is she not, Mother?”
Not from what the gossips declared, but after almost two years, the tattling tongues of St. Groves had found new victims to exploit, leaving Emme’s catastrophe well faded into infamy. Her inability to find a match last season may have resurfaced some murmurings but mostly pity, which likely sparked this very visit.
Aunt Bean heaved a sigh as large as her bosom and studied Emme from the top of her blonde head to the toe of her morning slippers. “Why is it that you are the only one to greet us this morning? Is everyone else inclined toward laziness?”
Laziness? Emme raised a brow, following Aunt Bean’s survey of the room. Cowardice, perhaps.
“Actually, I do believe everyone else is otherwise engaged, Aunt.” Which was true, even if “engaged” meant Father hiding in the libraryand Aster out for an extended morning walk. So extended, in fact, that she’d likely made it all the way into St. Groves by now. “Alfie is in lessons.”
“Alfie?” Her cane tapped the floor as the name took agitated flight. “I have no interest in your brother. His future is secure. It is you and your sister for which the rescue must be made.”
Rescue?Giving Aunt Bean the role of heroine seemed to defy the very definition of the word. At least for those to be “rescued.”
