Page 81 of Emma & Edmund

Time counted the invitations that stopped showing up, leaving poor Jonathan to deliver the news of William Tate's engagement to some chit who wasn't even at Belmont.

Time showed the calls would end, that a stroll through the park was only an exercise in social flagellation. That she would spend every evening alone.

Time proved she had ruined everything.

Even Margaret stopped her weekly visits and wouldn't come to the sitting room when Emma came to visit her. While she claimed an illness, it certainly wasn't enough to stop Margaret from flitting off to dinner just an hour later. As Emma watched her childhood friend bounce down the sidewalk below her bedroom window, bile rose in her throat.

Of it all, Margaret's refusal of her hurt the worst. It pierced her like a knife every time she thought of it, every time she caught a glimpse of blonde or a ruffle of silk. For all they had been through, Emma never genuinely thought she would be without Margaret.

For all others, though, she couldn't deny this was the outcome she had earned.

A dance, a flirtation, or a sneaky kiss was scandalous but forgivable if the memory is drowned in enough alcohol. There wasn't enough wine in England, ale in Scotland, or whisky in Ireland combined to diffuse the knowledge of what Emma had done.

She earned the adverted eyes, the whispers, the scorn. She worked for them and deserved them.

They were her punishment for Edmund. For keeping his secret, for following along until it all came crashing down around her. But although she tried not to think of him much, a lump formed in her throat every time she did.

Despite how they parted, she missed him deeply.

In the dark of night, she found herself speaking to nothingness as if it were him, imagining him respond. On those nights, she always fell asleep in a pile of her own tears, the wordmonsterplaying over and over in her head.

On those nights, she dreamed of hellfire, waking up in a puddle of sweat.

"Emma," Gerald joltingly broke the silence at a somber breakfast a month into Emma’s torment, "why don't we go for a walk today? I hear Madame Tibby's has a new silk maker. Very beautiful things, I am told."

Shocked her father would suggest such a thing, the refusal was already on her tongue when Jonathan, sitting opposite her, guffawed loudly.

"You cannot be serious Father! She'll be laughed out of anywhere-"

"This is your fault!" A pounding fist to the tabletop jolted both of the sibling's spine's straight. Gerald's face turned beat red under his white mustache, glaring at his son with such ferocity that, for a second, Emma was very much relieved to be herself. "It was your job to protect your sister. A task that should come easily to any man! But not you, oh no - not Jonathan! Why bother to do your job when there is philandering to do?"

The shamed son sat in shocked silence, his mouth still hanging open with an unsaid joke at Emma's expense.

Emma should have felt good that someone, anyone, took the attention off her for even the briefest moment. But even at her brother's comical look, befuddled and sputtering as he was, the ever-present turning in her gut did not lessen. Her everlasting misery remained.

"It's not his fault, Papa," Emma reached out, folding her hand over her father's. "He tried to stop me, but I snuck around him. Please Papa, for my sake, don't blame him."

Gerald was not a man of weakness, charging through shame, death, and ruin like a bull. His daughter, even in her most humiliated state, was the exception to the rule.

"Well then," Gerald continued after he composed himself, "get yourself ready. I would like to purchase my daughter a new scarf."

Stepping past her front door had become a monumental task. One that no doubt proceeded further humiliation by those they passed in the streets. Their neighborhood had become very comfortable indulging in her public shame quite quickly.

At least with her father by her side, the stares were adverted, the whispers muted. There were even calls to them, greetings from Gerald's friends who had long grown past the need for social acceptance.

None of her peers that passed would greet her, if they hadn't about-faced or crossed the street once they laid eyes on her that was, but the warm afternoon sun on her skin still felt nice.

Although, somewhere deep inside of her, she missed the fresh smell of leaves and dirt. Only the smell of perfume and putrescence filled her nostrils now.

Tibby's Finery Shop for Women held endless memories for Emma. From her first hair ribbon to her first corset fitting - Tibby did it all. All with a fabulously faux French accent to match her soft, feminine, yet bold designs. Truly, Tibby's was a treasure to have just down the block.

Just the same as joy used to burst through her when she laid eyes on the iconic gilded shop door, dread filled her stomach now. Whatever sense of normalness the tiny bit of human interaction granted her, it would all be stripped beyond that door. Her father's influence and friends didn’t matter there. All that did were the opinions of the ladies of London.

"I'll wait for you here, dear." Gerald squeezed her hand before dropping it, turning to continue with his friends. Only then did Emma know she should never have come.

She should have refused. She knew she was going to be let loose to the sharks that populated the shop, but she still prepared herself for the feeding. No perfectly crafted hat nor deliriously silky scarf could possibly be worth it.

"You can do this, Emma," a voice, familiar and warm, sounded deep in her ear. It came on the breeze, pushing her onward. It would make her a madwoman to assume the voice in her ear was there with her, for truthfully, he was far, far away. But the encouragement bolstered her, nonetheless.

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