Page 62 of Sense and Suitability
“That would suit perfectly,” she replied, moving toward the door. Beside her, Thomas shook his head, as though still baffled by her conduct, and... perhaps the conduct of the smaller people in the room. She braced herself for a lecture all the way home.
“And I shall join them,” a voice interrupted from the secondary doorway. Mrs. Thornbury stepped into view, stately in her unrelieved black, her presence as imposing as ever. “If the invitation extends to me?” One arched brow challenged Emme to refuse.
Emme forced her best hostess smile. “Of course.”
“It is far more prudent,” Mrs. Thornbury declared, “for the children to have a family chaperone until the governess arrives.”
Emme flicked a glance to Charlotte, wondering if her aunt’s eavesdropping abilities had rubbed off on her niece.
“Quite so,” Simon agreed, his tone studiously neutral. Yet, when his gaze met Emme’s, it lingered for a fraction too long. Had he been admiring her? The notion was absurd. She brushed it aside, though her face grew warm.
It didn’t matter. Itcouldn’tmatter.
“Very well.” Emme bathed the room in a smile she hoped predicted the future of a glorious outing. “I shall expect to see you tomorrow.”
“I still can’t believe you offered to help him find a bride,” Aster settled on the couch in the parlor and opened her sketch pad, sparing Emme a raised-brow look. “Him, of all people, Emme.”
Truly, the idea of helping a man she’d once loved find a bridewho wasn’t her was one of the most preposterous schemes she’d ever conceived.
“If you’d stared into the eyes of those children like I did, you’d have understood.” Emme glanced down at her forgotten embroidery, though her stitches were a disaster—unsurprising, given her thoughts had been anywhere but on her needlework. The last thing she needed was another lecture on how preposterous the scheme was. Thomas had given her a rather lengthy, sermon-worthy speech all the way home from Ravenscross. They’d had an understanding, he’d said. She’d diverged from the plan, he’d said.
“Your compassion overrode sound judgment?” Aster didn’t even look up for that reprimand.
“Perhaps.” Her voice barely broke a whisper. “And perhaps I know all too well the life of a motherless child.”
Aster’s gaze shot up, the edge in her expression faltering.
“You know as well as I how difficult it was for us, especially as girls, until Mrs. Lane came to Thistlecroft.”
And the governess had become a motherly surrogate, providing not only structure but also an affection and understanding that their dear father had struggled to provide, especially in his own grief.
“I’m certain Lord Ravenscross can find his own bride, Emme.”
The sentence pricked at Emme’s conscience. Of course he could. But Emme knew the ladies of St. Groves and could provide practical guidance. How could she not help Simon choose the best match from his limited options? For him and for those children. Love could grow in time, couldn’t it? The thought stirred an ache in her chest, but she pushed it aside. What they all needed now was hope.
Hope for a world that had been turned upside down more than any Gothic novel she’d read recently.
Or written, for that matter.
“His life is in shambles, Aster. He could use a... friend to help him.”
“Friend?” Her brow jutted up again. “I saw how hisfriendshipbroke your heart. As wholesome as your compassion is, you grieved as thoroughly as any heroine in a novel.”
A line of worry wrinkled her sister’s forehead, and Emme pushed up a smile. “Unlike last time, I go into this choice aware. This time, I harbor no hope of being with him.”
But Aster’s reference to story shifted Emme’s thoughts and her gaze wandered from the hallway—where Aunt Bean was removing her shawl in preparation for the morning lessons—to the novel she’d chosen for the afternoon:Pride and Prejudice. She had read it for the first time a few months ago and again last week. Something about its beauty and the vivid authenticity of its characters captivated her heart far more intimately than any Gothic romance had enchanted her imagination.
These epichoric tales pricked her emotions in ways that left her eager to reread and savor them. When she’d first begun writing, she believed only mysterious stories or those tinged with the supernatural could enthrall a reader, but novels like this one—and those by Fanny Burney—had taught her otherwise. Their simple beauty, their exploration of real life, love, danger, and loss, were rooted in truths more deeply than any fantastical adventure ever could be.
Her attention snagged on the stack of papers peeking from beneath the novel—her newest manuscript—an attempt to emulate these stories she’d grown to adore.
“Ladies, I must impress upon you the single most important aspect of your success in society,” Aunt Bean declared, sweeping into the morning room like a galleon under full sail—or at least what Emme presumed a galleon under full sail might look like.
Not that she’d ever seen one.
But she’d written about them.
Several times.
