Authors: Rachel Francis
“Tell me, Miss Jones, do you drink too much to appear lively, or to forget that you are passing five and twenty unwed?” asked Miss Morley.
Bother Mary Wingrave and Mr. Sheridan, to whom Miss Morley had been speaking, nearly spit out their wine.
Mortification crept up Miss Morley’s back to weigh down her shoulders as her insult offended more than its intended victim.
“Olive, your poor child, hold your tongue,” said Miss Jones, gesturing toward Mary’s pained face.
Miss Morley excused herself and vanished from the party.
Emily must have been frightfully shocked for Miss Jones’ sighed, “Pay no mind.
Her short life has been troubled, what with her father abandoning their family.
She took it upon herself to marry well, and lost her sweetness to the cause.”
Miss Jones exuded serenity, so much so that Mr. Sheridan, with stars in his eyes, asked, “Miss Jones, do you like urns?”
“They’re splendid,” she laughed, much to his pleasure.
With the lips all loosened by spirits, Emily had hoped for more useful information by the end of the party, but Mary stayed close enough to deter any slips of conversation, and Miss Worthing had to leave disappointed.
The next few days saw an improvement in the disposition of all at Landhilton.
The Worthing sisters had impressed their closest friends and relations, and so the Wingraves seemed to accept their company with greater grace than they had previously.
Lord Wingrave had even taken Genevieve fishing despite protests from the Lady that it was not a female’s business to fish.
With a bit of Emily’s help, they had snuck out with their tackle as she distracted Lady Wingrave by asking her opinion on the new decorative stitches coming out of Dunbarrow.
The day after the fishing escapade, Lady Wingrave seemed to have softened, and suggested they take lunch outside near the garden pond.
Lord Wingrave had set aside his work to join them and happily taught Genevieve how to whistle through a reed.
“My goodness, the post is late today,” said Lady Wingrave.
“Here comes William with it now.
They must have had a lame horse,” said Mary.
The head servant of Landhilton bowed deeply to his Lady as he explained.
“My apologies, ma’am.
The post man tore open one of his bags and had to spend time collecting letters back up again.
Yours were untouched, I made sure to ask, my Lady,” said William.
“Very good, William, thank you,” said Lady Wingrave.
He handed letters to his mistress, Miss Wingrave and several to Emily herself.
“I shall take a turn to read them, and be back very soon,” promised Emily.
They waved her off and set about opening their correspondence.
Emily examined her three letters; one from Mrs. Worthing, one from Bridget, and one in an unknown script.
Curious, she opened the last one first.
A chill set in her stomach and traveled up to her heart as she read.
“Dear Miss Worthing,
When you return to Tripton, I shall be gone.
Batteran Phelps, here at the behest of Grander Roberts, requested that I resume my former duties at Fort Jennings.
At first, I declined, when my affection for you confused my senses.
Now, having caused undue pain that could have been easily prevented, I see my folly.
I will not behave coldly to you in a misguided attempt to destroy your regard for me.
Cruelty of that kind is not in my nature, and so, I have taken myself from your acquaintance in the hopes that one day you will forget me.
Best Wishes,
Fortcaptain Elijah Wingrave.”
As quickly as she could manage, Emily ripped open the other letters in succession, looking for some sign that this impossibility had not really happened.
“Dearest Emily,
I am all confusion!
First, I am told that Mr. Wingrave is actually Captain Wingrave, and that you knew this since nearly the beginning of our acquaintance with him.
Then, that he has left for the border without seeing you again.
I am severely displeased at being so far out of your confidence, but tell me sister, what has happened?
Love Always,
Bridget.”
“Dear Emily,
I apologize for the haste in which this letter was written.
Mr. Wingrave has gone from Reddester.
I did not want you to return to this news, and expect to see him.
I’m so sorry, my darling daughter for the anguish this must cause you, for I know him to be taking up a post on the border which can be no little commitment.
Love,
Mama.”
A year could have passed Emily by, and she would not have noticed.
Mr., or Capt. Wingrave was gone from her--he had not pointedly left anyone else--as suddenly as he had arrived.
She felt her way to a nearby stone bench and steadied what was left of her nerves on it.
He had broken their promise, friends forever.
The only man she had ever trusted now crushed that faith with a few lines of stiff prose.
Emily preferred the other kind of cruelty to this, at least if he were awful to her, she could be awful in return, but this was silence.
He chose silence for himself, but also for her.
He’d taken her voice, any say she might have in the matter.
Glancing off the pages which she read and read again, Emily began to hate Landhilton and its secrets.
She would have to calm herself before facing the Wingraves again or risk being uncommonly rude to them and demanding answers.
With haste, she circumvented their picnic and escaped inside the manor, stopping to succinctly inform William that she was unwell if the Lord and Lady asked for her.
“Do you need a doctor or hot tea, miss?” he asked.
“No, thank you, just rest,” said Emily.
She shut the bedroom door behind her, folded the letters, and stowed them away in her trunk.
Then began the pacing, an outburst of all the frantic energy, and after that the despair.
Capt. Wingrave had meant to vanquish her hope.
He would not have left without seeing her otherwise.
She’d been so blind.
Of course it would end this way, did she really think they could grow old together, as friends?
Regardless of their good intentions, they had only two paths; an affair, or this, separation.
Emily allowed herself to cry, but not to wallow.
The destruction of the pitiful future she had clung to drove the pain deeper than any outward show of emotion.
Her soul was wounded, the blood of love free-flowing from the frail vessels of logic Emily had allowed when Elijah Wingrave confessed his affection for her.
“The Fates have named us Tragedy,” she whispered, staring out the window at anything that moved, from groundskeepers to leaves loosened from their branches.
Even as Emily’s personal vision crumbled, life went on to a steady rhythm.
By the time Genevieve sought out her sister, Emily was composed.
Cold and heartbroken, it was the best she could do.
“Em, Mary and Lady Wingrave seemed upset by something, do you know what?” inquired Genevieve.
“Capt. Wingrave has taken up station on the border for an indeterminate amount of time,” said Emily as she dressed for dinner.
Unbridled shock made no impression on Emily as Genevieve spluttered a denial.
“But!
He’s…
There’s not…
He loves you!”
“Not all love stories have a happy end.
Clean up, you smell of pond water, silly girl,” said Emily.
“You do not care?” said Genevieve, derision creasing her brow.
“What is done, is done.
I have no sway in this circumstance.
Close your mouth, Gen.
I do not wish to speak of it anymore.”
Genevieve fumed, but obeyed.
They understood that neither was angry with the other, but it did not matter.
Dinner at the Wingrave table passed with many stolen glances and discomfited coughs.
“Miss Worthing, you missed out on our picnic.
I hope you are well,” said Lord Wingrave.
Mary and Lady Wingrave tried to signal him, thinking that it would offend Emily to be reminded.
“I have been ill quite a bit recently, my lord, please do not worry on my account,” said Emily.
Genevieve huffed in bad temper.
“Does something trouble you?” inquired Mary.
“No,” Genevieve answered stubbornly.
Her dimpled cheeks yet untouched by great anxiety drooped in a frown.
The rest of their visit echoed that night, ending with less than two dozen words spoken by Emily to her Ladyship after the letters arrived.
Their softened hearts had once again grown hard and distant.
Emily and Genevieve left Landhilton with scarcely a backward gaze.
Emily’s brooding aura kept Mary quiet for the return journey as well, though all of them had spoken of how much more pleasant it would be without Miss Morley and Mr. Sheridan aboard.
Never had Emily been so relieved to see Charlton on the horizon.
Charlton House, rather than giving the peace Emily so yearned for, seemed intent on upsetting her with pointed questions.
Finally, she shut everyone out of her bedroom after pleading ignorance as to “the meaning of this” for the thousandth time.
She had no notion of what her family expected her to tell them.
Only Genevieve, witness to the change in Emily, left her alone.
The rest of them, never before faced with an Emily who did not care if meals were served on time or whether the wash was put away, boggled at the loss of their junior mother.
Mrs. Worthing depended on the instructions Emily left for Velma to manage the house, though they were only meant for the weeks at Landhilton.
Once, when Emily had thought the way to the kitchen clear, she’d been ambushed by Bridget who made it known that her lack of insight was unpardonable.
“Stop right there.
I’ve been trying to talk to you for over a day now without success.
Can you at least tell me if Capt. Wingrave gave you any hints at the future?” pleaded Bridget.
“His future has not changed since coming to Tripton.
Is that all?” said Emily.
“I love you, and I’m sorry,” said Bridget.
Emily sighed.
“Thank you.
I know I’ve not been the best sister.”
“You’ve always been the best sister, but right now you cannot also be our mother, and I think all of us will be better off not expecting you to be.”
She squeezed Emily’s hand and left for the drawing room where Mr. Edward would soon call.
Two days after their return, Emily heard such a crash of the front door as to require all haste in determining the source of trouble.
She stumbled down the steps to see Peter embracing Mrs. Worthing, then pulling away.
A vase lay in pieces at his feet, broken by someone throwing the door open with too much force.
“Good lord, what is the matter?” cried Emily.
Peter scowled and kept his eyes on the floor.
“Miss Wingrave has refused him,” said Mrs. Worthing, wincing in pain.
“Oh Peter,” said Emily.
“Now we are siblings scorned,” said Peter, “Give me peace.
I am retiring for the night.”
Mrs. Worthing and Emily kept their eyes on the ground until the younger sisters rushed to the commotion.
“What is it?
Is something the matter?” asked Bridget.
Mrs. Worthing explained, much to their overwhelming horror.
“How could she?” whispered Genevieve, tearing up.
“Who are these Wingraves that they break hearts so casually?”
Bridget’s consternation sent Genevieve and Emily to their rooms, the betrayal too fresh to face.
The morning brought no balm of new beginnings.
Peter, the last to arrive at breakfast, clenched his jaw and spoke aloud for the first time in hours.
“I will not stay here to face jesting and see her at gatherings.
I ride to Dunbarrow in the morning where I will purchase a commission, and go fight the Sypass, do some good, somewhere,” said Peter.
Mrs. Worthing beseeched him in alarm, “Peter, you cannot!
Do not go off to war on impulse!
Think this through!”
“If I stay here it is misery, if I go it is misery, but at least there I will not turn into a listless, privileged son, slighted by a woman who surely played at being in love.
I will still have some pride,” said Peter.
Emily understood, even if their mother did not.
She squeezed his hand.