Authors: Susan Carroll
Emma looked up from her mending with a serene smile.
"Ah, so there you are. You and Trent were gone so long, I feared the pair
of you had run off together."
"Oh, n-no," Chloe stammered, horrified to feel her
face turn a bright red. "I only took Will—that is, I was only teaching him
to skate."
"And I was only teasing you, dearest." Emma laughed.
"Of course I knew that you were down at the pond. So you and the captain
have managed to become friends at last. I am very happy."
Chloe regarded her sister earnestly. "Are you,
Emma? Truly happy, that is."
Emma's gaze dropped back to the needlework in her lap.
"Certainly, I am most content."
Chloe did not find this reply reassuring. Happy and content
were far from being the same thing. Would it do any good to broach the subject
of Mr. Henry again? Apparently not, for as though she feared Chloe might be
about to say something more, Emma was already folding her mending back into her
workbasket, declaring she had best see how Old Meg was coming with the things
for tea.
Emma paused on the threshold to say, "Thank you again,
Chloe, for making such an effort to be cordial to Captain Trent, to keep him
occupied this morning. I really am most grateful to you."
And the melancholy thing was, Chloe thought, that it was
perfectly true. Emma's eyes did shine with a real gratitude. A gratitude that
left Chloe feeling sad and even more strange—a little guilty.
Chapter Seven
The days seemed to be slipping away faster than the tide
raking sand from the shore. Settled behind the desk in Windhaven's small, musty
library, Trent thumbed through the personal log that he always kept with him.
As he dipped his pen into the inkwell, he was startled to note what the date
should be: December 31, the last day of 1807.
He could hardly credit it He had been here at Windhaven an
entire sennight, yet it felt as if he had just arrived. Never before had he
experienced such a swift passage of time, especially not while on leave from
his ship. Indeed, after one week, time usually seemed to grind to a halt, with
him chafing against the hours, longing to return to sea.
Still disbelieving, he turned back one page to check that he
had not made some error. No, today was indeed New Year's Eve. That meant only
five more days remained until Twelfth Night, five more sunsets until he was a
married man and on his way back to his ship. The thought was almost alarming.
It was as if he rode the crest of some tidal wave, his destiny quite out of his
control. He attempted to dismiss the odd feeling, telling himself he was merely
disturbed because so many days had sped by and he had accomplished very little.
Somehow he had never met with Mr. Martin to go over the
accounts. Nor had he ever succeeded in making a thorough inspection of the
house. He had also neglected to take a riding tour of the estate and meet his
new tenants.
Then what the deuce had he done with all of his time? He
began flipping through all the recent entries in his diary. As he skimmed the
pages, his mouth curved into a rueful half smile.
December 26—Boxing Day—went ice skating with Chloe. Left hip
sadly bruised. Took a most welcome hot bath.
December 27—Feast of the Innocents. Escorted Chloe into
village. Called at cottage of that little girl Peggety, who speaks such an
extraordinary language. Chloe brought a posset to the mother. Mrs. Green
appears in as interesting a condition as ever and mighty uncomfortable.
December 28—Chloe showed me the local cliffs and beach. She
wanted to learn how to dance a sailor's jig to the hornpipe. Astonished to
discover that after all these years, I still know how to do so.
December 29—Helped Chloe hitch the farm horse to the sleigh.
Obliged to drive out with her lest she upset this ancient vehicle into a ditch.
She didn't. I did. Luckily the bank where I overturned us had a reasonably soft
padding of snow. Fear that Lathrop will never let me hear the end of it.
December 30—Bitter-cold day. Stayed indoors as my throat was
feeling a bit raw. Chloe insisted upon trying to make me a blancmange. I went
to the kitchens to assist her. The pair of us created such a disaster Old Meg
threatened to give in her notice. Emma only laughed.
As Trent perused this last entry, it disturbed him to note
how infrequently Emma's name appeared. Even without that hard evidence, he was
obliged to admit that he had been neglecting his intended bride. Not that he was
entirely to blame for that. When any outing was proposed, Emma always had some
domestic matter that claimed her attention—and this besides the fact that two
stout wenches from the village had been recently engaged into service at
Windhaven.
Emma had been quite willing to send him off with her younger
sister, and Chloe, with her exuberant pastimes, was far too beguiling. But
Trent saw that it was a poor if not improper state of affairs. He should have
made some effort to become better acquainted with his future wife. That he had
not done so was a grave dereliction of duty.
With only five days until the wedding, the situation
required immediate remedy. With this view in mind, Trent closed up his log and
summoning Polly, the maid, dispatched a request to Emma that she join him in
the parlor that afternoon, affording him a little time alone in her company.
Request? He feared he had framed it more like a command, as
though he were summoning his first mate to wait upon him in his cabin. But Emma
did not seem to mind, for she sent back a polite acceptance.
Chloe would have teased him, given him a far more difficult
time. When he became too high-handed, she was still inclined to snap him off a
roguish salute, her blue eyes sparkling. Trent sucked in his breath, striving
to banish the image. He thought entirely too much about Chloe of late. It
simply wouldn't do.
At precisely a quarter to three, he entered the parlor, as
stiff and formal as though he had come courting a young lady whose hand he had
yet to win. Emma greeted him in equally grave fashion.
They took up their positions opposite each other, she seated
upon the wing-back chair, Trent settling upon the settee. He smiled at her. She
smiled back. Never, Trent thought wryly, had two people been more cheerfully determined
to be obliging to each other.
After the first attempts at conversation, Emma seemed unable
to refrain from diving into her workbasket. She pulled forth a red wool sock
she had been knitting and set to work on it. His bride was obviously a lady of
great industry, never one to let her hands remain idle. It was an admirable
trait and one he should have greatly approved. Why, then, did the incessant
click of those knitting needles grate upon his nerves?
He was not one given to indulging in unnecessary movements,
but he caught himself tapping his fingers against his knee. They talked of the
weather, the indifferent harvest, and the shocking price of candles. What the
deuce they were going to discuss next was more than he knew. He deferred to
Emma, but she flung the choice right back at him.
"You may discourse upon anything you like," she
said amiably. "I am a great listener."
Which left him precisely nowhere, for he was not a great
talker. There was no question of regaling Emma with any of the sea tales Chloe
always badgered him for. He had a notion that Emma would only politely remark,
"How interesting," and then he would feel like a complete dolt.
At last, in desperation, he said, "I procured a special
license for our marriage. Did I tell you that?"
Emma merely nodded, and he winced. Yes, by thunder, he had
told her that, several times, at least.
He continued, "I hope you are not too disappointed that
our wedding will not be a grander affair."
"Not at all. A simple wedding was all I ever desired.
No more than my family to be present and then a small breakfast to be served
after the ceremony."
Trent cleared his throat. It was a ticklish subject, but he
felt he had to broach it. "And it is all right with you that Mr. Henry
should perform the ceremony?"
There was a slight pause in Emma's movements, and then the
needles clicked more furiously than ever. "Certainly. He is the local
vicar. Who else should perform the service?"
It was a most sensible reply, but Trent was conscious of a
feeling of disappointment. He was dismayed to realize he had almost hoped to
hear her say it was not all right for Mr. Henry to officiate, perhaps even not
all right for there to be a wedding at all.
Trent drew himself upright, forcing his own fingers to be
still. What was wrong with him to be thinking such a thing? Likely only nerves,
a last-minute panic that any bachelor must feel when finally confronting the
altar.
After another lengthy silence, Emma inquired, "Have you
reached any decision about where we shall live? I know Chloe finally took you
over the old part of Windhaven. I daresay you found it in sad case."
Trent agreed, although he feared he had not noticed as much
as he should have. He had spent his entire inspection lingering with Chloe in
what had been the west wing's ballroom, listening to her conjure up visions of
dashing cavaliers and lovely ladies moving through the steps of some lively
dance until he had been almost able to see the plumed hats and the panniered
gowns reflected in the hall's cracked mirrors.
"Actually," he was astonished to hear himself
saying, "I have been giving some thought to renovating Windhaven."
Emma frowned a little. "Is that practical? I fear it
would be shockingly expensive, and I thought you wanted—" She stopped
short. "Oh, forgive me. Of course, the decision is yours alone."
"Indeed, it is not. Sometimes, Emma, I wish you will
remember that you are going to be my wife, not merely my housekeeper." He
had not meant to sound so sharp, and when Emma flinched, he strove to gentle
his voice. "I value your opinion, my dear. Would you prefer to live closer
to London as I once suggested?"
"It would be pleasant to be nearer to Cousin
Harriet," Emma conceded. "Lucy could be presented, which is something
she has wanted forever. And Chloe, too, is of an age when she should be meeting
some eligible young men."
"So she is," Trent said. He jerked abruptly to his
feet, finding this talk with Emma far from satisfactory. Yet she was being
everything a man could desire, sweet, quiet, deferring to his every word. Was
there such a thing as a woman being too obliging?
Feeling strangely irritable, he stalked to the window and
stared moodily past the curtain. Emma continued to knit, allowing the
conversation to fade to nothing. But Trent did not find it a companionable
silence. Rather, it engendered in him a restless feeling similar to those
endless, nerve-grinding days when his ship had stood becalmed, waiting, praying
for even one small breath of wind.
Catching a blur of movement beyond the panes, Trent edged
the curtain further aside. It had snowed again last night, covering the ground
with a fresh layering of white. Lucy, Lathrop, and Chloe were romping through
the garden like children.
Even through the glass, Trent could catch the faint echoes
of laughter, Lathrop's dismayed protest as the two ladies outflanked him,
pelting him mercilessly with snowballs. When he scooped up a handful of snow
himself to retaliate, Chloe and Lucy fled, shrieking.
Trent did not know what caused Chloe to suddenly glance back
toward the house. It was almost as if she sensed him standing by the window.
Her green coat dusted with snow, her rosy, flushed features framed by the large
poke-front bonnet, she darted in a little closer, like some graceful snow
maiden.
Gleefully, she bent down to scoop up another handful of
snow. Her dimples quivering with mischief, she flung it at the window. Although
protected by the glass, Trent started back involuntarily at the sudden shower
of white. She wrinkled her pert nose at him, pulling the most saucy face before
she turned and raced back to the garden.
The urge to fling open the casement, climb out, and offer
pursuit was strong. He could imagine so clearly overtaking her, spinning her
around in his arms until the winter air echoed with her bright laughter. Trent
caught himself reaching for the sash. He stayed his hand, both puzzled and
disturbed by the yearning that flooded through him.
Perhaps it would be better when he returned to his ship. He
was becoming as giddy as a schoolboy, forever wanting the world to be all
holiday as it was near Chloe. Responsibility and duty were two words he had
nigh forgotten this Christmastide.
He forced himself to forget about joining Chloe in the
garden, instead returning to resume his position on the settee. He spent the
rest of the afternoon stoically thinking up new topics for conversation and
watching Emma's needles go click, click, click.
Lathrop had gone off to the stables for his daily ride. Lucy
did not seem disposed to accompany him, much to Chloe's dismay. These past few
days she had come to dread being left alone with Lucy, hearing her confidences.
Chloe's beautiful older sister could seem to talk about
nothing but love, or rather her lack of it, insisting over and over again that
she stood in no danger of losing her heart to Charles Lathrop.
After their walk in the gardens, Chloe made haste toward the
servant's entryway to shed her wet boots by the kitchen fire. She had hoped to
outstrip Lucy, but Lucy ran to catch up with her.
When Chloe heard her sister draw breath to launch into
speech, Chloe forestalled her with an imploring gesture. "Oh, please,
Lucy. I really do not think I can bear to hear again how much you are not in
love with Mr. Lathrop."
Lucy's rosebud-shaped mouth drew down into a pout. "I
wasn't going to say anything of the kind. Really, Chloe. You have been cross as
crabs of late. I don't know what is the matter with you." After a pause
she added mournfully, "Nor me either."
When Chloe refused to venture any suggestions, Lucy bridled
defensively. "I know it is imprudent to spend so much time in Charles's
company, but I cannot seem to help myself. I always want to be with him.
When he is gone, I catch myself listening for his footfall on the stairs.
I spend all my time daydreaming, thinking of what I'll say to him when next we
meet, all the little things I cannot wait to share." She groaned. "Am
I quite mad, Chloe?"
Chloe could only shrug helplessly. If Lucy was indeed
insane, Chloe feared that her own mind was similarly afflicted. Lucy's description
of her behavior toward Mr. Lathrop too nearly matched Chloe's experience with
regard to Will Trent.
She and Lucy trudged through the snow in silence. But just
as they arrived at the kitchen door, Lucy pulled up short with a faint sigh of
despair. "Oh, it's no good pretending any longer. I know what has happened
to me." Lucy stamped her foot, her cornflower blue eyes blinking back
furious tears. "Despite all my best efforts, I have gone and fallen in
love with that wretched man."
Love? Could that possibly be what was tormenting poor Lucy?
If that were so, then what about Chloe, whose symptoms were so much the same?
No, that was utter nonsense. She could not possibly be falling in love with the
man intended to be Emma's husband. Chloe shrank from the very notion, finding
it too dreadful to contemplate.