Undone by His Kiss (23 page)

Buoyed with assurance, she peered out the carriage window, relishing the liberation found in confiding in her friends. The city streets pulsed with activity and Knightsbridge Millinery caught her eye as the carriage rolled past. On impulse, she rapped the roof, paid the driver and hurried to the curb. Rarely had she found a sufficient reason to spend money on herself, never mind in one of the finest hat shops in London. The funds left by her father were a bitter consolation to his neglect, but this morning her attitude had shifted and, too, she fancied a new bonnet to match her brightened outlook.

She pushed through the bustling crowd surprised to hear her name rise over the din. Mr. Moira, the kind gentleman who leased her office space, stood near the millinery door as if he’d waited to meet her there in an arranged appointment.

“Good day, Miss Shaw. Hat shopping I suspect.” He smiled, his outlandish mustache rising high on his cheeks. “Lovely morning too.”

“I confess, bonnets are a weakness.” She returned his kind greeting.

“Is the office space to your liking? The tenant downstairs isn’t giving you any trouble with his business, is he?” Mr. Moira leaned closer, as if anxiously awaiting her answer.

“Oh, not at all.” A secret thrill teased her lips. “Mr. St. David is fine. I mean, from the few times I’ve spoken to him. He seems the veriest gentleman. I don’t know him very well. Not exactly.” She shifted from one foot to the other, aware she sounded like a flibbertigibbet.

Mr. Moira merely waited, politely not noticing, his nod to a random passerby pulling his attention away and then back again.

Considering their conversation at an end, Emily took a small step. “It was a pleasure to see you. I do hope you enjoy the day.”

“My dear, the pleasure is all mine.” He glanced to the shop beside them. “I’m sure you’ll choose something special. Every lady should have pretty accessories for special occasions. One never knows what lies ahead.”

With not a word more Mr. Moira proceeded down the street leaving her to consider his fugacious appearances. Shaking the consideration away, she entered the shop, anxious to view the latest designs. Margery Danford, friend and league member, wished to own a similar boutique someday. As Emily regarded the lengths of lacy trims, bolts of fabric and feminine frippery lining the aisles, she underscored her resolve to assist Margery in realizing her dream.

Nearby a couple considered a tray of kidskin gloves. How unlikely for a gentleman to be found among the shoppers, but the two exchanged amiable conversation as if they hadn’t a care for anyone’s perception outside their private world. Emily noticed the gentleman accompanied the lady with focused intent, his unabashed adoration evident in his eager attention.

A sudden unbidden yearning squeezed her heart. To be cherished, respected, how very precious. With astute sensibility, she knew all men were not like her father and that she couldn’t define her future by her mother’s mistakes, yet love held great control. It could complete or destroy; its power imponderable. Once surrendered to the emotion, love could become one’s cage or in contrast, the uplifting emotion which allowed one to soar among the clouds. The risk of love presented a daring conundrum.

Dismissing her mawkish sentiments, she focused on the bonnets hanging on the far wall. Within steps of the display, she paused near a glass counter where a pair of silk stockings caught her eye. The ankles were embroidered by the finest needle, a single white dove design, encrusted with tiny seed pearls and silver filament. The price must be exorbitant indeed. She’d never seen such delicate work, and the gossamer beauty of the pair insisted she take off her gloves and touch the rare and extravagant craftsmanship, as if their beauty evanescent.

She’d come to purchase a bonnet, yet once she lifted the stockings, lighter than an early morning mist, she knew she must own them. Never one to indulge or covet exquisite fashion, it seemed out of character to be drawn to frivolity, but like many other decisions made this morning, Emily was resolute. Gently placing the stockings on their tissue wrapper, she carried the pair to a nearby display of capotes and turbans, setting it down to peruse the newest headgear, a delightful bonnet in deep russet and dove gray drawing her immediate interest.

Later, with spirits high and packages in hand, she entered the town house and greeted Mary. “Is my mother downstairs? I thought I might coax her outside for a walk. The weather is pleasant and she’s been so agreeable of late. I feel invigorated by her clarity of late.”

“I haven’t seen her since breakfast and with abovestairs so quiet, I suspect she may be taking a nap.” Mary glanced toward the stairwell as she replied. “I also feel encouraged by her brightened mood. If you can manage to convince her to walk outside, I’ll bake cinnamon buns for breakfast tomorrow morning.”

“It would be quite an accomplishment, wouldn’t it? At least all is well.” Emily sighed, shaking away the immediate fear they’d be thrust into another period of her mother’s unpredictable and irrational behavior. She set her packages on a nearby table and turned to climb the stairs to her bedchamber, pausing when she saw the door stood closed. How odd. Mary would have never left it thus after delivering fresh linens.

Without further consideration Emily entered her rooms, although the scene which met her halted her steps.

“What have you done?” Her mother stood at the center of the room. A riot of letters and torn paper littered the floor in every direction. There were dozens of them, everywhere. Every letter Bianca had written and Emily had confiscated lay exposed on the counterpane, dresser or floorboards. The wicker basket which once served as a hiding place, now lay overturned, the brown blanket tossed aside, a trail of ragged foolscap and discarded memories leading a path to Bianca’s indignant form.

“I can explain.” Cautioned to the delicate balance of emotion and her mother’s volatile reaction, Emily stepped closer, her voice a desperate plea as she tiptoed between the torn pages.

“Explain?” Her mother’s voice rang a shrill octave higher, the anger reverberating in the firm set of her mouth, the sharp flash of vehemence in her eyes. “What would a devious and untrustworthy daughter have to say that could ever explain such hurtful…hurtful…” Tears clogged her throat as she struggled to complete the sentence until a sob replaced the attempt and she leaned a hand on the vanity, the action causing a figurine to topple over the edge, shattering glass and all hope for a peaceful resolution among the torn papers.

“I’m so sorry. I know you want to believe things were different, not as they truly were—” Emotion overcame caution and Emily rushed forward in distress.

“How dare you?” Bianca straightened her shoulders, her disposition taking a drastic shift with the challenge to her beliefs. “You’re going to dictate how I should feel? How I was loved? What would you know? You’ve distanced yourself from ever experiencing a meaningful relationship. There is no way you could understand true love having never welcomed it into your heart.”

Emily approached with care. Her hands trembled despite her temper piqued; still she couldn’t stop the defiant words from tumbling off her tongue. “He didn’t love us.”

“You’re wrong.” Her mother’s head jerked up as if she’d been slapped, her eyes narrowed to slits. “How can you speak that lie?” She breathed in deeply and notched her chin as if to reject the words. “He loved me more than you’ll ever know.”

“You’re right, Mother.” A different tactic was necessary. “He did love us. He just didn’t love us enough. It wasn’t enough.” Speaking the words aloud after having smothered them to silence for so many years brought a downfall of tears, the stark honesty of her emotion all at once too much to bear, but she pressed her palms to her cheeks, unwilling to stop the outpouring of anger, resentment and hurt. “He didn’t want us. Didn’t choose us.” Again she wiped the tears away, her cheeks damp and her sight blurry. “And I’ve the proof. Do you remember that day in town? Do you remember how you stopped me?”

Bianca looked off into the distance, unwilling to match her daughter’s anger and confront the unwanted memory, but Emily continued regardless. “It was Sunday morning and we’d come to town to purchase new ribbons for my hair. I was excited, not only to be away from the house and out in the business of society, but because you’d also gifted me with a new bonnet.” She paused, but only long enough to take a breath and resolve emotion. “Then with surprise, I saw Papa across the roadway. He was too far away and the noise of the street would never allow my voice to carry to him, but I yelled nonetheless and dropped your hand to run to him. I wanted him to capture me in his arms so I could show him my new ribbons. He used to lift me high and twirl me in a wide circle. I felt as if I was flying.” She lowered her voice and stared hard at her mother. “And do you remember what happened?”

“Bringing up old memories tainted with your anger will do no one any good.” A strong note of acrimony accompanied the grouse.

“You caught me by a braid in hopes of stopping me. There was no traffic. No threat to my safety. You could surely see Father as easily as I could, standing near the bakery and talking to the woman beside him. I had no understanding of why you would stop me.” She let out a scornful laugh. “But I evaded your hold, anxious to run into the arms of my father. A man who rarely had time to spare for his daughter despite his daughter loved him well and thoroughly. I wriggled from your grasp and was halfway across the roadway when Papa looked up and matched my eyes.” She raised her clenched fist to fight off the rush of harsh remembrance, and then gathered her hands together in a tight clasp. “I will never forget the mask of stark anger and outrage that transformed his face. It stopped me in my tracks. There in the middle of the shopping district, where vendors rolled by with their carts and newsboys hawked papers on each corner. An eternity passed while I stood there, stock still, and watched my father reject me as if a strange orphan, another unwanted waif in the London streets, before he turned his back and handed a beautiful woman up into a carriage to follow her shortly after. The coach rolled straight past me as it departed with nary a swish of the velvet curtain.” When she ended, her voice was low and furious, deflated of all sentimental emotion.

“He had no choice, Emily. You were a child, sheltered from the reality of the situation and naïve to the ways of society. I told you all of this. I fetched you from the street and took you home and explained the best way possible, but you shut me out, closed the door to your heart. I prayed you would come to understand and accept the circumstances as years passed. But you didn’t. Your father loved you dearly yet you walled yourself away.”

The accusation reignited Emily’s temper. “How dare you imply that I carry the fault? You let yourself be strung along, never completely loved and accepted. You were always second best and compromised, happy to live in his shadow, receiving so little for having given so much.”

“No. No, that’s not true.” Equal anger lit her mother’s glare. “He loved me. He loved us both, but you pushed him away.” Bianca’s features softened, as if she somehow realized more than ever before, her daughter hurt as much as she. “The rules of his world are different than ours, still he provided for you and I. You had beautiful clothes and the best tutors. What more could you have wanted?” Her face reflected displeasure and resentment, a deep well of volatile emotion left unexplored.

“A father who acknowledged me. Who wasn’t ashamed of me. A mother who didn’t get lost in her own emotion. He might live in a different world but through his lesson, it’s a world I never wish to be part of as it eliminates genuine affection and instead perpetuates pain. My dear father, one of London’s wealthiest aristocrats quick to provide me with wealth when I wanted loyalty, affection. What a paltry consolation. Dare I ask for his name? No. I’m a bastard child. Not good enough, never good enough.” Every untapped emotion spilled forth, her deepest secrets and wounds exposed. She took a step toward her mother, her eyes intent on the last letter as it fell to the floor and Bianca jerked away. “I wouldn’t want him to ever return.” Bitterness burned in Emily’s throat as she voiced the words. “I took your letters to protect you. To somehow shield you from further pain and rejection and at the same time, propagate healing. It broke my heart to see my mother fading away, lost to delusional memories or fantastic hopes. All I could do to protect you from wishing for something that would never happen was to hide those letters. There would never be an answer. You were posting them as if you lived a dream.”

“He had no choice.”

Her mother’s voice held an otherworldly quality that alerted Emily to further worry. She softened her words though they still embodied bitter resentment. “He had choice. More choices than most and still you defend him.”

“You can’t dismiss his love because he was faced with a difficult decision, Emily. One doesn’t negate the other,” she interjected quickly.

“Nor does it confirm or excuse it.” She’d wished to guard her mother from disappointment by keeping the letters instead of having them returned by post. Instead by her careless actions, she’d created a larger chasm of misunderstanding and pain. “I’m so sorry, but I’ll never understand.” She sniffled, at last surrendering to the hopelessness of it all.

“It doesn’t matter. I must defend him.” In surprising capitulation, her mother sat on the edge of the mattress, her eyes focused out the window. “Your father was the only man I ever loved.”

“I know.” She enfolded her mother in a hug of comfort, lost in silence and reflection for some time. At last, Emily mustered the courage to speak. “I do understand and I love you so much, Mother, but you have to let him go. He’s not coming back. Writing him letters won’t bring him back. I never meant to hurt you by taking them. I thought you needed to write as a kind of therapy so you could heal and feel better, that why I never mailed them. Too many years have passed and we’ve allowed so much anger between us.” Emily sighed deeply, the question of her mother’s future lucidity teasing the periphery of her thoughts.