Page 82 of Emma & Edmund

She squared her shoulders, flipped a curl out of her eyes, and walked through the rosy door to her doom.

Chapter 23

Rather than the immediate social thrashing she expected to receive, Emma was greeted by a deafening silence.

The patrons, girls and women she went to school with, to church with, and many of whom were at Belmont, were paused in tableau, frozen at the moment before she crossed the threshold.

Sophia Hawthorne stood near the wall of fabric samples, draped out for the pursuers to touch and gush over. Victoria Tate was surrounded by silken reticules, fingers still wrapped around a particularly lush one.

Worst of all, just beyond the front door, the very first eyes hers locked with were none other than Margaret Ingham’s.

Emma's throat went dry, the knot in her stomach tightened impossibly further, and she wanted nothing more than to turn tail and run. But as humiliating as their unabashed stares were, it would only be worse if she gave in to the need to flee.

Throwing her chin upward, Emma demurely folded her hands together and strolled right past her childhood friend.

Various goods were artfully displayed around the large space, the tables and stands just as beautiful as the chains, ribbons, and hats that adorned them.

The hush that had fallen over the room lifted, only to be filled with less-than-subtle whispers. Each time her name was spoken, her confidence was stabbed.

With her last remaining shred of pride, Emma made it as far as the hair ribbon arrangement, now more than halfway through the store. Utterly unable to escape with any sense of dignity.

Clutching a pale pink option between her gloved hands, Emma was mere moments away from screaming aloud, possibly forever.

"Emma."

For a moment, she thought it washimagain, whispering her name in the wind. She even wondered if she had perhaps finally gone fully insane, continuously hearing voices that were not there.

It was only when the ribbon was yanked from her fingers did she look up.

Peering through the other side of the display, their eye contact artfully hidden from prying eyes by strands of silk and lowered lashes, was Margaret.

Her flawless expression was unreadable, so much so anyone passing by would assume she was looking at nothing but a table of baubles. And she might as well have been.

"What do you want?" Emma could hardly find it in herself to speak to the woman. Her image was colored by betrayal and abandonment.

Margaret’s voice was barely above a whisper. "I haven't seen you since we-”

"You could have. You could have written, could have stopped by. I sat in your home, and you pretended I didn't exist."

Part of Emma wanted to turn away, flee the store, and resign herself to being a recluse for the rest of her life. Part of her wanted to melt into the floor. But a much, much stronger part of her demanded Margaret's acknowledgment of what had happened. Not her night with Edmund, not the exile she faced in the city.

The total desertion of everyone else made perfect sense. But not Margaret. Not the one person she always believed she could count on.

And so, like a steel grip, she held her gaze.

"You know I had to, Emma. Considering what happened."

Emma sneered, not bothering to stop it.

"I hadn't a clue that falling victim to passion was contagious."

"Falling victim? You?" Anger crept into Margaret's voice, prodded by Emma's roll of the eyes. "Was that what you called it when you were too drunk at Lady Charlotte's opening ball? When you vomited all over Kenneth Etcher? Or was it when I spread the rumor it was his breath that forced it from you?

"Oh wait, I know. Was it when you wept over Father Thomas John? How your love of him would never be returned? Only to, not a month later, do the same with none other than William Tate himself. How dare you mark yourself a victim when I was the one who cleaned up that mess. And every mess before."

"Just because your transgressions weren't as public doesn't mean you can hold mine against me. Or do you forget I know the real reason your maid was shipped back to Ireland?"

An angry blush claimed Margaret's face. "It is not my fault the well of public forgiveness of you ran dry. Especially when you were dumping it out by the bucketful."

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