Page 79 of Sense and Suitability
“Thank you, Father.” A puff of a laugh escaped her lips. Her father’s faith in her was insurmountable. “But deeply caring for someone doesn’t make money suddenly appear. And I fear his heart may turn from me soon enough when the needs of his estate prove too great.”
His entire expression softened, and he lowered himself to the settee at the end of her bed. “Emmeline.”
His gentle use of her name pricked her heart. “I will be fine, Father. I just think some distance will help the process along.”
“Even after everything, you still care for him?”
“I don’t agree with the way he ended things between us—not telling me why.” She sighed. “But I believe he is still every bit the man I thought him to be. Perhaps even better now, after all he’s endured. And in the throes of affection”—the memory of the balcony kiss flashed to her mind—“it would be easy to forget what is best.”
“What is best for whom?”
Emme looked away, the question so pointed that it pricked at her heart.
Father stepped closer, his gaze falling to the papers scattering her desk with her newest manuscript. She rarely hid them in her own room in the evening because no one, except Aster, usually visited her there, and Aster never showed any interest in what Emme had on her desk. But Father’s gaze sharpened.
“Working on the next novel, are you?”
Emme’s bottom lip dropped. “What?”
He smiled, eyes alight. “I’ve read them all, you know. Every terrifying adventure.”
Emme blinked a few times, absorbing her father’s words. “You... you know about my novels?”
He shrugged as if his admission hadn’t just shocked her senses. “Just because I’ve never mentioned it doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed. I supposed you’d tell me when you were ready for me to know.”
She struggled to collect her thoughts. “All this time, you’ve known?”
He gave a calm nod, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
After all her worry over his response? “And... and what did you think?”
Her father raised an eyebrow, clearly amused at her response to his revelation. “Well, you’re certainly an excellent writer. You always were, even as a child, constantly spinning stories for the rest of us.”
An excellent writer? A sweet warmth pooled through her. Oh, how long she’d wanted to tell him. How much she’d craved to have him approve. And now—he had known all along. Not only had he known, but he thought her an excellent writer. Tears stung her eyes. “And the stories?” Her voice wavered a little. “Did you like them?”
His hesitation was slight but enough to temper her rising elation.“Stories of pirates and haunted castles are not my usual fare, though I must admit you wrote them exceptionally well. I prefer tales that reflect more of what I know, but”—his lips twitched in a teasing smile—“they certainly held my attention.”
She couldn’t help but laugh, though his words reminded her of Thomas’s. Her gaze fell to the papers on her desk, and a small, unbidden idea took root. Carefully, she lifted the corner of a page left out to dry before glancing back at her father. “I’m . . I’m working on something new,” she said, her voice dropping as though others might overhear in the privacy of her room. “Something different from what I’ve written before.”
Father inclined his head. “Are you now?”
She nodded, hesitating before her courage finally overcame her. “Would you...” She took a breath, steadying herself. She’d never shown anyone her work before she’d finished it. Not even Thomas. “Would you like to hear a few pages?”
For a moment he simply looked at her, his blue eyes infused with a warmth that soothed every lingering uncertainty. Then, with a broad smile, he gave a firm nod and moved to a chair near the fire. “Indeed, I would.”
He tucked his pipe into the corner of his mouth and offered her a most encouraging smile. “Begin whenever you’re ready.”
He should be happy for Emmeline Lockhart.
It would be the noble, self-sacrificing thing to do.
If she’d formed a new attachment, even if it were to the newly installed rector, Simon should feel nothing but contentment at her chance for happiness—just as she appeared to wish the same for him.
But blast it all, he wasn’t.
Crossing his arms, he stared out the window at the cloudy afternoon. A sheen of rain lingered on the grass, and the air carried a sharp coolness, foretelling the turn of seasons. Not that he cared for the weather. Autumn might as well rage into winter if it pleased. The only thing weighing on him now was the truth pressing against his chest.
He loved Emmeline Lockhart.
