24

One Month Later

Emmie rolled over and contemplated the empty spot in the bed next to her. She sat up. It must be after eight. Jeremy would have gone down to the stables already. He was surprisingly disciplined when it came to spending his mornings there. She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. Things were still not quite right between them.

Ever since their falling out, her husband’s polite consideration had increased to an almost alarming degree. He even brought it into the bedroom now, the one arena where previously he had been wholly unbridled in his passion for her.

Not anymore. Her monthlies had been over with for a good week before he had courteously asked her if she had reached the end of her current chapter. When she had answered him yes, he had inserted her bookmark for her and set her book aside, asking her if she would be agreeable to his “husbandly attentions.”

She had answered the affirmative again, somewhat bewildered by his manner. Then he had rolled on top of her and, well, you could not describe what followed as polite precisely, but it had certainly been the most “hands off” approach to proceedings that he had ever employed with her.

He had not sworn once, and he did not even squeeze her posterior, or mouth her breasts as he normally did. From what she could tell, his eyes had been closed for most of it and his mouth tight shut. He had barely made a sound, and this had so constrained her that Emmie had stifled her own, an unnatural proceeding that had frustrated her and made her feel quite out of step with her own body.

Worst of all, after they were both breathless and spent, he had apologized , as though what they had done was something she might not have enjoyed. Then he had climbed out of the bed and disappeared to his own rooms, leaving her a mass of confusion.

Half an hour later, returning from the bathroom, she found him once again sat up in her bed, reading The Haunting of Jennings Hall as though the strange interlude had never occurred. Odder still, he was wearing a nightshirt, something she had not heretofore known he so much as possessed.

Before extinguishing the light on his side of the bed, he had kissed her cheek, wished her a good night, and turned his back to her. The next morning, she had put it down to a mere aberration, the result of some strange mood or him not feeling quite right, maybe something like indigestion.

Then the same thing had happened the following night, and two nights after that. And now it had been the pattern for a whole month. She did not know what to think. Was it simply that they were settled now into married life? Had he grown so accustomed to her person that he no longer wished to fondle and fuss over her as he had done before?

Did her charms no longer torment and please him as once they had? The thought was a lowering one, and besides, somehow, she could not quite believe it. There was still his vast Venus collection for one thing. Those hefty beauties did nothing more than hang on his walls all day and he had never tired of them . No, it could not be that, surely.

It was not even as though she could turn to anyone for advice. Dearest Pinky, in addition to be quite caught up in homemaking at present, would be flummoxed by such a predicament. Moreover, Emmie did not think she could embarrass her oldest friend by broaching such an indelicate subject.

There was no one else she could ask. Strangely, Lord Atherton flashed into her mind for an instant. He had imparted some very interesting information about Jeremy at their wedding. His words drifted back into her head, making her flush. You embodied his every physical ideal.

She found herself hoping he was still coming to Vance this summer. He had said a few things she could use further elucidation on. That throwaway line about Charlie Symonds for one, and something else… What had it been?

Suddenly, she sat up, remembering the other thing Atherton had told her about Jeremy. I never suspected it as a callow youth, but I think he has always been…left out in the cold. Emmie caught her breath. So, she was not the only person such a thing had occurred to. Had she been right that day on the beach, when she thought he looked like a little boy, looking in on a party he was not invited to?

If so…then Jeremy Vance was lonely. He must have been lonely all his life. That was why he had taken his supper in the nursery with his son. It had seemed so strange to her when Teddy first told her that about the sophisticated and urbane Jeremy but now it made perfect sense. So, he did want companionship from a wife, even though he had not asked for that.

She supposed that, really, his actions should have revealed that to her since they had come home to Vance Park. The book club, the sleeping in her bed, the unlocking of the connecting door, the private dining room, all of them should have been clues for her to solve the puzzle.

This excessive civility, though, what had brought that about? She couldn’t even explain why it bothered her, for he had always been attentive and courteous in his manner toward her. No , she corrected herself firmly. That was not strictly true. That was more of a recent development. He had not always been polite.

He had not been polite when he led her into that conservatory and kissed her so hard he had bruised her lips. He had not been polite when he had made her the talk of the season by monopolizing her attention and cornering her at every ball. He had not even been polite when he had turned up at Winkworth Street that day and proposed to her with such casual assurance.

He had known she was over a barrel, and he had been almost gleeful of the fact. Gleeful , because he had her where he wanted her, cornered into a trap of her own making and desperate for escape. Escape that he could offer her on a golden platter if she became his wife.

Emmie gave her head a faint shake as she tried to make sense of it all. He still bewildered her. The man was so confusing . She had thought, after his engagement to Lady Amanda Liversedge, that his pursuit of her must have been a cruel sort of jest. That he had chosen to alleviate his boredom by making sport of her, only to drop her flat and leave her broken-hearted at the end of it.

But now… Suddenly, she was not so sure. She was not sure of anything . Taking a deep breath, she allowed herself to think of… that night. She touched her lips remembering the desperate way he had kissed her in that conservatory, how afterward he had buried his face in her neck, his grip on her, almost painful, when he had held her so tight, as though he never wanted to let her go.

Then she remembered his face at the top of the staircase as his engagement was announced. His eyes glittering and hard, that cold, brilliant smile. She had thought the contempt she could see blazing there was directed toward her, even though he had not so much as glanced her way. But what if—she caught her breath—what if his contempt had been directed toward himself?

It was true, he had kissed her since that night with urgency, with passion, and with need. Not recently, it was true, not now he was being all measured and civil with her, but on their wedding night, he had trembled when he touched her. He had been desperate for her, but it had still not approached that level of…of… Words failed her .

Anguish . Could it have been anguish? she wondered now, tears springing to her eyes. Just for a minute, she allowed herself to consider the possibility that Jeremy Vance had been in pain that night at the Hawfords’ ball when he knew what was about to unfold. When he knew that after that night, they would never be together again.

Emmie sobbed. She could not help it. She snatched up her pillow to muffle the sound.

Surely not. Surely… Lowering the pillow, she tried to recall if she had ever heard the precise circumstances behind Jeremy’s engagement. It was no good, it was all a pain-filled blank. She remembered the congratulatory applause, the excited whisperings of what a picture-perfect couple they made, and precious little else.

Someone had whispered that the man stood alongside Lady Amanda was her father, Earl Tipton. Someone else had mentioned their families were long acquainted but that was nothing unusual among the aristocracy. Emmie had nodded, a painful, forced smile on her face. In one gloved hand she crushed her dance card between her fingers, in the other, her fan sticks had given with a loud snap.

Emmie could not even remember the carriage ride home afterward, though she was sure Mrs. Laverdale must have had some choice words to impart. If she had, they had made little to no impression. All she really remembered was knocking on her father’s study door the next morning and requesting an interview with him.

That was when Emmie had told him that she was not cut out for high society and that he would receive no lofty offers for her hand. Her father had been disappointed but not terribly surprised by this news. He was always a realist. The chance of her making some dazzling match had always been slim.

Mrs. Laverdale’s services had been dispensed with. Emmie had attended no more balls, and it had been the following week that her father had started bringing a “promising young man” from his firm home to dine with them. That man had been Humphrey. The rest, as they say, was history.

A knock on the door startled her. Lottie bustled in. “Your bath is ready, milady.”

“Oh, thank you, Lottie.”

As Emmie lay in the tub, immersed in water up to her chin, she realized she could not allow things to carry on as they were in this unsatisfactory manner. Something would have to be done, moreover she would have to do it. But what? What could she do to shock Jeremy out of his boundless civility?

Their wedding night being much on her mind, it was perhaps not surprising that his words in the bathroom at Winkworth Street drifted suddenly into her mind . What was it he had said? Something about wanting to watch her take a sponge bath? Crouched over it with your hair pinned high on your head. You would look just like a bathing Venus . Those had been his words.

She sat up, remembering the kindling look in his eye when he had voiced this thought. He had been in deadly earnest; she was sure of that. He really had wanted to see her play out such a scene. Considering how much she now knew he enjoyed watching her at her dressing mirror, it made sense that he would desire such a thing.

Did she have the nerve to do it, that was the question. At this point, Lottie entered the bathroom, carrying fresh linens. “I’ve set out your pale blue dress for today, milady, the one with all the pretty lace, as you’ve got visitors today and then your tea party at Miss Pinson’s.”

“Lottie,” Emmie began airily, in a complete change of subject. “Do we have such a thing in the house as a sponging bath?”

Her maid looked surprised. “Yes, milady. I believe there’s one in the cupboard over there.” She walked over to it and removed a large round tray. It looked much superior to the one at Winkworth Street, which had been a cheap affair. This one looked weightier and more substantial. “Here it is.”

“Just the thing!” Emmie said brightly.

“I should have offered its use to you, milady, only I thought you might appreciate the luxury of a full bathtub.”

“Oh, I do,” Emmie assured her. “’Tis only in this hot weather, sometimes a quick wash between a change of clothes is useful.”

Lottie nodded and replaced it where she found it. “If you ever want me to make it ready, just let me know, milady.”

“Thank you, Lottie.”

“And the pale blue dress?”

“Oh, that will be perfect. You always pick out my outfits beautifully.”

Lottie looked pleased. “If the weather holds, you could take your parasol and new lace gloves to match.”

“Do I own a parasol?” Emmie asked in surprise.

Lottie gave her a reproving look. “I set out all the lovely things from that most recent parcel, milady. Laid them all out for you to see in your dressing room. All sorts of accessories were included this time, lace caps, fichus, and bonnets. A quantity of fine things.”

“I own so many lovely things now, I’ve quite lost track,” Emmie admitted guiltily. “The dressing room shelves must be quite full.”

“There’s still plenty of room,” Lottie said complacently. “And so, I told his lordship when he asked.”

“You did?”

She nodded. “He always wants to know if there’s anything you might be needing. I told Mrs. Cheviot, and she agrees he’s quite the doting husband these days. She said we’ve never had such a picture of domesticity here at Vance, not in her lifetime, what with him squiring you to church on a Sunday, taking you to visit his tenants, and dining out with your neighbors once a week.”

“Well, one must do one’s duty,” Emmie responded vaguely. Was this really what passed for the height of domesticity in these parts? Things were certainly done very differently in grand houses.

She and Jeremy had so far been to dine with their nearest neighbors, Nellie and Amos Tavistock, an elderly brother and sister who lived at an elegant residence called Vance House. It had once belonged to the estate but had passed to his half brother on the event of their father’s death.

The Tavistocks, who rented the house from Nye, were a very good-humored pair and Emmie had liked them a good deal, though she had secretly been surprised to hear that such an old and respectable pair could be Jeremy’s favorite neighbors. She supposed his smart set of friends were all London-based, but still she felt some confusion.

From the outset he had told her he wanted her to cultivate closer relations with his neighbors and accordingly she had accepted all invitations they had received in the vicinity. So far, they had dined once at the vicarage, and had received invites from The Grange and Benham Hall to sup with the squire and the Needhams respectively.

From what she could discern, this seemed to be the sum total of “county” families in the vicinity. To be honest, Emmie could not remotely see how entertaining these few straggling neighbors would take up a good deal of her time. Yet Jeremy had made it sound like such a large undertaking.

“I’ve asked Mrs. Cheviot to invite the Tavistocks and Reverend Ryland and his wife to dinner one night this week. They are pleasant company, and we must have some society for Mr. Wimble and Mr. Penrose while they are here after all.”

Lottie looked unconvinced. “Miss Blanche Pebmarsh would probably put more of a smile on that dismal architect’s face than that old Miss Tavistock,” she opined.

Emmie laughed. “Jeremy said we should invite the Pebmarshes only after we have first dined with them next week.” She had been introduced to the misses Pebmarsh outside church a couple of weeks previously and privately thought Mr. Wimble would be wildly intimidated by both of them. Miss Delia was hearty and eager with a loud laugh and Miss Blanche was self-assured and rather dismissive.

“Who is calling on you this morning, if I might make so bold?” Lottie asked curiously as she approached the bath with a drying cloth.

Emmie stood up and was promptly enveloped in the wide square of linen. “The Rylands,” she responded, “and then later, Mrs. Needham and her daughter are coming over from Benham Hall.”

Lottie nodded her head knowingly. “Ah yes, Mrs. Needham is an invalid, is she not, poor lady? And her daughter”—Lottie’s face took on a disapproving expression—“a cold, uncaring sort of girl.”

Emmie turned in surprise. “Is that what you’ve heard? Jeremy described Mrs. Needham as perfectly charming and her daughter as pleasant enough, though very reserved.”

Lottie sucked in her cheeks. “It’s not for me to say, but I’ve heard a tale or two from the servants over at the Hall,” she said darkly. “That girl’s got a spiteful streak, make no mistake.”

Emmie’s eyebrows rose. Well, these two sounded a good deal more controversial than the vicar and his wife and the elderly Tavistocks. “I shall certainly be interested to meet them.”

Her visit with Mrs. Ryland should have been a comfortable affair, for this was their third or fourth meeting now, but as she had brought along her husband, things remained on a more formal footing.

Mrs. Ryland was a middle-aged woman of comfortable appearance whose keenest interests were her two sons, her husband, and the good of the parish, in exactly that order. Reverend Ryland was a stern man, tall and stooping. He had a remote, detached air, as though he was always thinking of something else which was far more important than the present. She found it hard to imagine him as a father of two boys.

Emmie elected to meet them in the music room, as the doors opened out onto the terrace, affording them a delightful view of the south lawn as well as letting in a nice breeze on a sunny day such as today. Higgins brought in the tea tray, and they sat and conversed for half an hour or so before the vicar asked if he might be permitted to walk outside and clear his head. He had written a sermon before setting out and his study had been rather stuffy.

“Of course, Reverend Ryland, please take as long as you like. It’s so lovely out there today,” Emmie responded kindly.

“Charles suffers so with his bad heads,” Mrs. Ryland confided, leaning forward.

“What a shame! I expect he has an extensive correspondence to keep up with.”

“Oh yes, he is always most assiduous to his duties.”

Without the vicar’s presence, both ladies relaxed somewhat. Emmie told Mrs. Ryland all about Pinky’s new cottage, and the vicar’s wife promised to go and call herself to welcome the lady into her new home. “We have seen her in church and look forward to having her as an active parishioner. Naturally, you will miss having your friend close at hand,” Mrs. Ryland sympathized. “My unmarried sister moved in with us for six months after my oldest, Clarence, was born. How I missed her when she returned to our father’s house! There is nothing like female companionship for a woman.”

“Yes, it is true. Though I am fortunate in that I will still see a good deal of her.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Ryland mused, “your primary difficulty will be cultivating acquaintance in the vicinity that are not wholly beneath you. We live in a very quiet corner of the world, and I’m afraid there are no comparably grand families in the neighborhood to compare to the Vances. You’ve met the squire, of course, Squire Pebmarsh,” she said thoughtfully. “He is a widower of some sixty years and lives at The Grange with his unmarried daughters, Miss Delia and Miss Blanche Pebmarsh.”

“Oh yes, I have met them, but only briefly. We are going to dine with them next week.”

Mrs. Ryland continued as though she had not spoken. “Now, Delia, the elder, never married and is past prayer for it now. She’s quite hopelessly eccentric and never goes anywhere without a rabble of ill-behaved spaniels.” Emmie nodded, thinking Delia might not be so bad.

“As for Blanche, she’s quite her father’s favorite but terribly unconventional. She’s broken off at least two engagements to my knowledge and spends most of her time in the stables. Not what I would consider ideal company for you, Lady Faris. but there have been Pebmarshes at The Grange since the days of Edward VI. They are a very old and established family in the area.”

“Oh, I am sure,” Emmie murmured obligingly.

“No doubt you will be guest of honor at their dinner party. They’ve always been terribly keen to include Lord Faris in their social sphere, but over the years he has so seldom accepted any invitations to dine with us all.” She shot a strangely speculative look at Emmie. “I believe at one time people did rather wonder if Miss Blanche might not be angling for a third proposal from that quarter…”

“Oh indeed?” Emmie replied politely. “I look forward to getting to know them all.”

Mrs. Ryland looked a little disappointed by her tepid response. “Of course, things are different now, and that is why everyone is so terribly thrilled that you are mingling with us locals. It is such a shame our little circle is not wider for you. Now, let me think, who does that leave? Of course, there is Benham Hall and the Needhams…”

“Mrs. Needham is coming over to visit with me later,” Emmie volunteered.

“Oh, now she will make you a most suitable acquaintance, Lady Faris,” she exclaimed, sounding pleased. “Angela Needham is a truly lovely woman. Always so gracious and such refined manners, despite the hard life she has had, and the cross she has to bear,” she concluded cryptically before taking a sip of tea. “She rarely ventures out from Benham Hall these days due to her ill health,” she sighed. “ Such a shame. She has always had a delicate constitution from what I understand.”

“What a pity,” Emmie replied dutifully. “Hopefully today is one of her good days.”

At this point, the vicar drifted back in through the open doors and walked over to inspect the framed cameos on the wall.

“Now, you must not be offended if she does not stay long with you,” Mrs. Ryland rattled on. “It will be purely due to her health. If her son, Edgar Needham, was at home, he would certainly have fulfilled the social obligation, but he is in London on business, which leaves only the daughter.” Mrs. Ryland pursed her lips, her nostrils pinching. “It cannot be expected that Miss Halperston will put herself out on anyone’s behalf,” she said bitterly. “The daughter is from Mrs. Needham’s first marriage, you know,” she said with stress. “And quite different to her half brother, who is always so tender and solicitous to his mother.”

“Mariah,” her husband said reproachfully, turning about to face them. “That is not kind. Miss Halperston has many duties at home, looking after her sick mother and running the household. It can hardly be expected that she should have time for social calls.”

“Now, Charles, you know how unfeeling and hard that girl is! Why, many is the time when we have discussed the matter in perfect accord!”

Reverend Ryland sucked in his cheeks. “Mariah,” he said warningly, “you will give Lady Faris the impression we are sad gossips.”

“No, no,” Emmie protested. “You are among friends here.”

The vicar relaxed and Mrs. Ryland looked appeased. She turned impulsively back to Emmie. “Oh, I almost forgot!” she exclaimed. “I wrote to Lady Sharpe, as I said I would, proposing your name as a nominee for our little committee and what do you think?”

“She agreed to look me over?” Emmie suggested, thinking of what Jeremy had said about Lady Sharpe. The vicar gave a small cough.

“She, well, she proposed that you invite the ladies to hold their next gathering here at Vance Park,” Mrs. Ryland said, a little color creeping into her cheeks. “Then, as one of the points of business, we could hold a vote on your proposed membership.”

The vicar looked a little embarrassed. “Please understand, Lady Faris, my wife is aware this is an unconventional request, but Lady Sharpe is”—he hesitated—“a somewhat forceful character.”

“I am not offended,” Emmie responded not entirely truthfully. In truth, Lady Sharpe’s “request” sounded to her rather rude. It seemed more like a demand to use Vance Park as a venue. Still, Jeremy wanted her to join the ladies’ committee, so she would have to swallow down her feelings on the matter. “Please let Lady Sharpe know that I would be delighted to host the next committee meeting here at Vance.”

There were smiles all around. Still, Emmie did not feel altogether sorry to see the backs of the Rylands. She wondered, rather wistfully, how Teddy and Pinky were getting on that morning at their sketching lesson. Would they be roaming around the grounds or romping down on the beach by now? She doubted somehow that Teddy would be wholly focused on his lesson.

She knew where Jeremy would be, of course. He would be down at his racing stables until lunchtime. If it was not for the imminent arrival of Mrs. Needham and her daughter, Emmie would have considered walking down there to join him there.

In truth, as his wife, she ought to show more of an interest in his horse racing, she decided. From what Mrs. Ryland imparted, at least one of the squire’s daughters spent all her time in the stables. She found herself wondering, if Teddy had not demanded to meet Miss Ballentine, would Jeremy have naturally gravitated toward Miss Blanche Pebmarsh in time?

The thought disturbed her so much, she got up out of her chair and wandered out onto the terrace. Standing there in the sunshine, she decided to take a turn around the garden to while away the time before her next visitors arrived.

It was already very warm, and she could hear the gentle buzz of bees as she walked along next to the flowerbeds. Shielding her eyes with her hand, she contemplated the blue sky. There was not a cloud in sight. She wished devoutly that the same could be said of her marriage.