Chapter Sixteen

THREE DAYS LATER, RAINS having kept Emma and Bethany rather trapped inside the cottage, she was very surprised by a knock at the front door. She stared, rather dumbstruck, at the door, the first time she felt vulnerable, living alone. There was no window close enough to the door to see who might be standing upon the stoop so then she hadn't any choice but to open the door, if she wished to know who came.

Pulling the door open showed only a young man, his shirt and breeches travel worn, carrying a large leather satchel, strapped over one shoulder and leaning against the opposite hip. He lifted his hand and presented an envelope to her. "From the post, ma'am."

"A letter?" She said, further compelled to wonder, "For me?"

"If you're her," the boy said, pointing to the script on the envelope.

Indeed, her name, Miss Emma Ainsley , was scrawled across the paper, along with her direction.

"I am." She smiled at him, bemused by this circumstance. She had never received a letter, or anything at all, from the post.

The lad tipped his cap to Emma and left, climbing up onto the nag waiting just outside her little gate.

Closing the door, Emma considered the bold script, and the very happy occurrence of receiving a letter. It dawned on her suddenly that this must be from the Smythes; perhaps they were ready ahead of schedule. She stepped into the front parlor while she carefully slid her finger between the fold of the envelope, loosening the wax seal. Sitting upon a wooden armed side chair, whose upholstered seat had frankly seen better days, she pulled several folded pages from within, and flipped these open.

The same bold script of the envelope was found inside, the strokes sure and neat.

MISS AINSLEY,

I'm not quite sure how familiar you are with the politics and procedures of parliament, but I thought it prudent to remind you that I will remain in London for the time being as the session is heating up, as it normally does before it closes for the year. Sadly, our day does not begin in chambers until late afternoon, and often we find ourselves still upon the benches into the wee hours of the morning. I tell you this, and ask that you make my excuses to Bethany, as I had promised that we would ride regularly, and that will not, cannot, be the case until parliament closes for the season.

Lest you think I am enjoying myself, I will correct you with the news that yesterday I listened to one man speak for more than an hour and a half. He did not speak specifically to the bill to be brought before the House, but only that we should be having discussion about bringing the bill before the House. Thus is my status here, annoyed, impatient, and wanting to be away from London.

You might reply to this correspondence with news from Hertfordshire, if you have any, and of the Daisies, to keep me entertained and somehow connected to you and true reality.

Lindsey

HER BOTTOM LIP HAD fallen, remained lagging while she read the entire missive. And then read it again. The Earl of Lindsey had written her a letter.

Was this an olive branch? Did she want one?

She'd managed, over the past several days, to put the entire sordid encounter into perspective. She'd made a huge mistake, one she'd not like to repeat. He had felt guilty, for his role in losing her the position at the modiste's and perhaps even for having taken her virginity, and hence, his unbelievable declaration of love.

She gave no quarter to how that bit of news had been presented, how he seemed equally as shocked as she by the words, the way his voice had hesitated as she was positive the earl's never had before. I meant what I said, Emma.

In hindsight, she was embarrassed by her behavior, many aspects of it. She shouldn't have done what she had with him. She certainly should not have liked it as much as she had, nor given it the amount of attention and recollection as she had over the last few days. She shouldn't have overreacted, screaming at him as if she were naught but some bat from hell. She could not properly justify either behavior.

Likely, she was half in love with him, but she thought she should not be. Truthfully, aside from a simmering gaze that weakened her knees and his infinite affection for Bethany, what part of him was worthy of her love? His clever political mind and his drugging kiss? The fact that he was certainly the most handsome man she'd ever known? That little boy in him who wanted only to tend bees all his days? The man who ate her not-even-close-to-perfect stew and pretended he hadn't almost choked, just to spare her feelings ?

Rubbish, all of it. Above and beyond all that, he was overbearing and dictatorial and apparently intent only on causing her grief.

I meant what I said, Emma.

Emma tightened her lip and took his letter upstairs. She tucked it into the small desk in her chambers, after she read it through one more time, running her fingers over the dried black ink of his precise script.

THE RAINS STOPPED, and the post boy found Emma and Bethany just returning from Perry Green, their conveyance courtesy of the always amiable Mr. MacKenzie. With a slight blush to her features, Emma accepted the letter, already familiar with the bold scrawl across the front. She bid a good day to Callum, and then wasn't quite sure how she managed to wait to open the envelope until Bethany was settled for her nap, but she did.

MISS AINSLEY,

I begin to believe your George Fiske might have had the right of it: putting thoughts to pen is both cathartic and engaging. Yet I am no George Fiske, of the fanciful words and earnest declarations, so I shall spare you an attempt to charm you with any such thing.

I enjoyed dinner yesterday, before our session, with Lady Marston, who inquires of your well-being. Curiously, after I'd explained your connection to Hadlee, she became rather animated, or as captivated by any subject as Lady Marston might be. Even more peculiar, her attention seemed to hover and waver between excitement and trepidation as I answered whatever queries I could in regard to your new—and, according to my godmother, her old—friend, Mr. Fiske.

I had wanted to mention to you, as we'd discussed about your lad, Langdon, that he should be presented to Mr. Talley, the stablemaster at Benedict House, when the time comes. I know very little of the boy, but Talley might serve nicely as a fine mentor. I daresay he'll learn more and better in only weeks what he might have accumulated over the years.

Signing off now, heading back to the Palace.

Lindsey

TWO DAYS AFTER THAT , the post boy gave her what she deemed an annoyed scrunching up of his youthful face, until Emma passed him two farthings, to which he lost his frown and tipped his cap to her.

MISS AINSLEY,

Thurman has mentioned that you've asked for the carriage for Friday, this week. This pleases me, as it never sat easily with me that you and Bethany were on your own there at the Daisies.

Still taunting me with the promise of his support, Lord Kingsley insisted I take dinner with him, even as our session ended well after midnight. Dinner was reserved and informal, and while I continue to express my gratitude for your assistance in warding off that aforementioned and addressed Hindrance, your absence has now rekindled her enthusiasm, and the quiet planned interlude of Lord Kingsley and myself was interrupted not once, not twice, but three times by nonsense and the woman who brought it. Thus, prepare yourself, Miss Ainsley. I may soon and again request your company.

Scattered thoughts here, but do you think Bethany might like to come to London? I imagined taking her to Bartholomew Fair, which comes 'round at the beginning of September. Kindly advise of your thoughts on this.

Lindsey

BITING HER LIP, EMMA re-read this latest letter three times. Several things came to mind as a result. First, she had to acknowledge that the Earl of Lindsey, whatever the status of their so often antagonistic relationship, was likely to be in her life for a very long time, if only vicariously through his affection for her daughter. Next, she pushed aside the not entirely unpleasant thrill that rattled her belly at his supposing he might send for her to assist him once again in his efforts to frustrate the Hindrance. Lastly, Emma's shoulders fell, realizing that as he had asked a particular question, she felt rather bound to reply to his letter. Perhaps there was no harm in it; it was only words on paper. She might more easily ignore his missives if they were indeed written in the same vein as had been George Fiske's, with efforts to woo her and beguile her with his words. But he did not; these were safe letters, ones to which she could foresee no harm in replying, although her response was forestalled by several days with the preparations for, and the coming of, her family .

By the time she did sit down to write the earl, Emma was quite intrigued by the burgeoning idea which had come to her, that she might dictate where next their relationship ventured. She could write to him as friends, not with the seething animosity that accompanied so many of their meetings and, obviously, not with any mention or hint of what she was now referring to as The Second, But Far Greater Most Inglorious Blunder . She would speak to him in the letters as if she wrote only to Mrs. Smythe or any dear friend that she might have. It would set the tone for how they might go on, Emma unable to imagine that she could successfully cleave him from her life completely. She thought that an impossibility, because of his grand affection for Bethany and for the very fact that he now possessed the entire estate from which came her present income.

DEAR LORD LINDSEY,

Be forewarned—and politely at the very beginning of this missive—that I've never written a letter to anyone before in my life. Isn't that amazing?

As it is, I will operate completely on instinct, though additionally I have it on good authority (courtesy of Mrs. Smythe) that casual correspondence is meant primarily as a way to keep persons informed, in their absence. As you've done just that, so I shall endeavor to return the favor.

First, to answer your question, I cannot imagine a child, or any person, who might not enjoy a fair. Though, truth be told, I'm not entirely sure all that a fair might encompass. However, I would trust Bethany in your care for such an outing .

As you have been apprised, the Smythes and Langdon have indeed come to the Daisies. We are all quite over the moon to be reunited finally. They are, as I feared, quite dismayed to learn they haven't really any profession within my household, save to keep me company and assist with the small upkeep. But as the weather is fine, and the summer fully upon us, we've been spending an inordinate amount of time out of doors. Langdon has already been several times up to Benedict House. He returned once, very happily, with a new nag and cart for our use, courtesy of your Mr. Talley. Assuming the instruction for this came from you, I thank you for the loan of the vehicle. And please be advised that Langdon was quite sincere in his vow to take very good care of both animal and cart to please the stablemaster.

Yesterday, the Smythes and I and Bethany, too, drove into Perry Green. I introduced the Smythes to the butcher and Mrs. Carriere, the modiste, and then to Mr. Crandall at the mercantile.

Bethany has picked up a new word this week. I wish she hadn't. It's horrible. That's the word, horrible. She has employed this as her response to any and all questions or comments, which makes even the very mundane, ‘Did you have fun reading your book with Mama Smythe?' an exercise in futility. It really is horrible. Perhaps when you return, you might teach her a new word, as our efforts thus far have proven unsuccessful.

Cordially,

Emma Ainsley

SEVERAL DAYS LATER , with news to impart, Emma did not await a reply, but sent off another letter to the earl.

DEAR LORD LINDSEY,

Writing quickly (and pardon my poor penmanship, as I've so little occasion to use it over the years) to get this sealed before we head into town, where I can drop it off at the post, without waiting for the boy. Saves me tipping him as well, which is awkward for me, as I was forever on the other end of gratuities.

Oh, but I must tell you! As agreed while we stayed in London, George Fiske visited me yesterday. Lord Hadlee and I had a charming tea in the drawing room. Officially, he is my first guest to the Daisies, and I was quite excited to have tried out my tiny, learned hostess skills, but I fear they may have been wasted on the poor man. He was interested and consumed only by those letters, for which I had run up to Benedict House and collected from Mrs. Conklin, and which I have dutifully returned to the sad man. I think he is lonely and considers me a connection to something he lost and mourns still. True, the connection is nebulous, but I feel he understood how deeply those letters had affected me and stayed with me. He promises to visit again in the next month or two.

In other news, Mr. Smythe is appreciative of your efforts within the orchard and has found a new love, I dare say. He spends countless hours there, in that wicker chair when not pruning and growing and watering. And not two days ago, he was gone for three hours to Perry Green by himself and returned, flushed of face, and still excited for the lengthy conversation he'd had with the grocer, who apparently manages his own orchard rather successfully, so that Mr. Smythe promises more apples and pears than we'll know what to do with. (I see pies and cakes and tarts in my future. )

Honestly, this letter writing is fairly easy. I find the words just spill out on the paper. (Do you care for this stationery? Mrs. Smythe and I found it in town, while Mr. Smythe wondered what was wrong with plain white vellum.)

Cordially,

Emma Ainsley

Postscript. The scribbling on the next page is from Bethany, who is just now learning what letters are all about. I'm sure you can imagine that her fingers were stained with more ink than the page. And that, my lord, is all that I am bound to pen just now, as I'm hoping to make the stationery last as long as you are in London.

EMMA RECEIVED ANOTHER letter from the earl not two days later. Privately, she wrestled with the thrill that accompanied the arrival of his correspondence, though she was sure it had more to do with the letter itself and attached no particular significance to the sender. However, knowing he was likely busy in parliament for as many as ten or twelve hours a day, she felt a certain fluttering in her belly that he'd taken even just a few moments to send a missive her way. Today her delight was only heightened by the small parcel that accompanied the letter, delivered by a different post boy than Emma was accustomed to, that she wondered if the earl had employed a private messenger. This raised Emma's brow, as the messenger must have cost more than the extravagant pennies she laid out to send each letter.

Emma tore at the wax seal and perused the earl's words.

MISS AINSLEY ,

I might suggest, as my stay inside the city might surely be of an extended duration, that we employ your lad Langdon to carry notes back and forth. He can make use of a different mount each trip—good exercise for the horses—come and go as his other chores necessitate, and you needn't then worry about the tuppence put out for each letter sent.

Yesterday was frightfully long and tortuous. At one point, Sir Lionel of the Tories spoke non-stop for over six hours. I understand how important some of these measures and debates are, but still I was hard-pressed not to cry out that he could have managed his entire argument in four sentences. A more harried, pointless, and overdone speech, I vow I have never sat through.

I hope the parcel found its way to you as well. Do not, for my sake, scrimp on the words to save the paper. I look forward very much to your exceedingly entertaining news from the Daisies. (Honestly, I neither chose nor approved the parcel-ed item, only gave direction as to what was necessary to keep my sanity while ensconced and enslaved in the city.)

Shall I send down ink as well? New pens?

Until next time.

L

LESS CURIOUS, AND MORE convinced that she knew what the package might contain, Emma tore through the brown paper and found as she'd suspected, as his words had hinted—a box of stationery paper, in the softest shade of blue imaginable. She hugged the package to her chest, though wasn't sure why she should be so excited over a box of paper.

DEAR LORD LINDSEY,

I thank you, genuinely, for the gift of the stationery and, as you see, have set aside the old to make good use of these fabulous sheets. Is it me, or does the ink flow more easily over this paper?

When I was very young, when my mother lived, she read to my sister and me quite often. But honestly, since mother has been gone, I cannot remember that I've read a book in all those years. But I have, just yesterday. Bethany was napping, and the Smythes had gone to Benedict House to visit with Mrs. Conklin, as she'd invited them to make use of the dairy next to your fine kitchens for butter making. So there I was, all alone, and had already written a letter to you, that I hadn't anything to occupy me. And then I considered the books, offered so prettily upon the shelves of the study. Oh, and what a wonderful way to spend a rainy summer day, tucked into the parlor, and with a cup of hot tea to chase the chill, and with a book called Robinson Crusoe. What a fabulous hero! What a wonderful adventure!

Do you enjoy reading, My Lord? For pleasure? If you were trapped in an empty house, no work to be done, might you find yourself digging your brain and your time into some dusty old tome? It seems to me you are not the sort to be idle, though I shouldn't think exercising your brain with words is truly useless. But then I do not know you very well at all, do I?

Emma Ainsley

EMMA,

I do enjoy reading. When I have the time .

What else would you like to know?

Apologies for my brevity. Busy morning and back in session now.

L

MY LORD LINDSEY,

Seems more like cheating, if I only ask things I might wonder about, and you answer promptly and succinctly. Some things might be nice to discover, slowly, over time, much the same as I learn something new about my darling Bethany almost every day. She will be two and a half next week. I cannot believe either that I've been blessed for so long with her in my life or, sadly, that my sister has been gone for that long. Yet, there are times that it seems only yesterday Gretchen was braiding my hair and telling me tales of my father that I was too young to recall.

We had a fine dinner last eve. Nothing at all like that pitiful stew I once tried to feed you. Perhaps you'll allow me another attempt, as Mrs. Smythe has now given me regular and perfect instruction, that suddenly pies and pastries and gravies seem not so inaccessible after all. Our neighbor, Mr. MacKenzie joined us, and Langdon had returned from London, that we had a fine full table and used the formal dining room for the first time. You will likely scold me for sitting to dine with what you assume are the Daisies staff, but you may not. I will not allow it (penned with no animosity, my lord, but only as a reminder) as the Smythes and Langdon, and now Mr. MacKenzie, are my friends.

Closing here as Mrs. Conklin has come now to begin to teach Mrs. Smythe and myself some needlework that hasn't anything to do with mending. I'm picturing embroidered table linens when next we have company.

Emma

EMMA,

Young Langdon surprised me, arriving earlier than expected, and now the poor lad must sit and wait. Ah, but something is afoot, I begin to imagine, as the boy runs straight to the kitchen, even when no scent of cakes or scones can be detected, so that I think he's quite taken with one of the Lindsey maids in the house. Hence, his early arrival and never seeming to mind the hours he sometimes must idle away awaiting my return post. Perhaps he is not idling, but working his...charm? That word doesn't seem to fit the boy, though I can find no fault at all with his occupation and temperament.

As it stands, we've still a week or more to go inside the present session. Currently, it will please you to know that my yesterday was plagued by eleven hours of dubious discussion of the Protest Against the Silver Coinage. Scintillating, I assure you. Lord save me, for having heard the word ‘metallic' spewed and sputtered no less than one hundred times then.

Should we think about employing a nurse for Bethany? Lady Marston assures me it is too soon for a governess.

Yours,

L

MY LORD LINDSEY ,

Scintillating, indeed, as I saw your argument, type-set in the Times that came today with Langdon. ‘Lord Lindsey assisted the protest, reminding his fellow and fine MPs that "the bill endorsed a plan for the future regulation of the metallic currency for this country, yet was founded on erroneous views."' Is that, then, one hundred and one instances of the word metallic? (Now 102? Dear Lord.)

Just this morning, Bethany quite out of the blue, asked where you were, and when you might visit again. Of course, I feel completely inept, and the words seem useless to a child of not-quite-three, telling her you are very busy with important (dare I say, scintillating?) work. Nevertheless, I offer that to remind you that you have an admirer, less so a hindrance, I should hope. But no, I see no reason to employ a nurse, as I am happy to care for her myself. And we have years yet, until we need to consider her schooling and what that might entail.

That is very fine news to hear about Langdon, though he has made no mention of any sweetheart up at your London house. And just yesterday, we spent several hours together, walking to and from Perry Green, and yet he mentioned no London love at all. Regardless, I had wondered if the nearly everyday trips might be too taxing for him, even as he'd assured me that in traveling at not quite a full gallop had him in one direction in less than an hour. Hmm, even as I write now, he has come to collect this letter, seeming quite anxious to be on his way. I wonder that he can stand to wait all the time it will take for the ink to dry.

Emma

SOMETIMES, SHE RE-READ his letters, even the very briefly penned ones, not quite sure what she was looking for, yet imbued with a sense that indeed she did search for something in his words. Which then had her questioning what she might be wanting from the Earl of Lindsey. And then one day, when he'd been gone for nearly a month, and they had by now exchanged at least a dozen letters, telling only of trivial and daily amusements, Langdon came to the Daisies just in time for dinner, and handed a small envelope to Emma, who hurriedly wiped her hands on her apron and snapped the wax seal and read the very few scrawled words. Few indeed, though their impact was huge.

EMMA,

Are you, as I am, ever plagued, tortured, or otherwise accosted (often most happily) by memories of our shared kisses?

L

EMMA GASPED, NOT QUITE noiselessly. Mrs. Smythe jerked around from the kettle over the fire, her cheeks flushed, her concern swift. "Aught amiss, my dear?"

Emma shook her head, covered her mouth with her hand, and used the other to press the paper to her chest.

"Oh, but you've gone as white as a ghost, Emma," Mrs. Smythe persisted, leaving the wooden spoon inside the boiling pot and coming to Emma's side.

"Oh, it's fine," Emma blathered, smiling awkwardly. "Unexpected news, that is all," she added, when Mrs. Smythe remained skeptical and alarmed. "If you'll excuse me just for a moment...?" She saw that Langdon had sat down at the kitchen table with Bethany, where Emma had been perched while she and her daughter trimmed beans for dinner.

She ran up the stairs, went into her bedroom, and locked herself within. Leaning against the door, she held the letter very close to her face, using two shaking hands, and read the words again . Are you, as I am, ever plagued, tortured, or otherwise accosted (often most happily) by memories of our shared kisses?

Oh.

Oh, my. Lowering one hand, she settled it against her belly to calm the butterflies that had taken flight.

She did not answer his question for three full days.

LORD LINDSEY,

Maybe. Sometimes.

E

EMMA,

I rather think about it, and them, and us all the time.

L

LORD LINDSEY,

Is that wise?

E

DEAR EMMA,

Possibly no. Unless I were to know it was to be repeated.

I might dwell upon it then. With greater effect and time than even now.

L

LORD LINDSEY

Repeated? To what end?

E

MY DEAR EMMA,

There is so much more I want to show you, to know with you.

L

LORD LINDSEY,

As you have important work to be about in these last days of parliament's session, we must needs retire the preceding discussion.

Hopefully, we might return to our very dear former manner of corresponding, which had seen you grousing with growing annoyance for the behavior of your esteemed peers of the realm, while I surely bored you to tears with tedious anecdotes of my little country life.

(Nevertheless, I shall continue.) Dear Langdon has begun, or is trying, to teach me how to ride one of your fine mares. I cannot say I am unafraid, or truth be known, even very interested, yet the Smythes and Langdon have convinced me it might serve as a useful skill to have. The whole side-saddle arrangement makes me feel firstly, very small and precarious upon the large beast, and then, in a constant state of fright that I will topple straight off the horse. Oh, what a long way down that would be.

Perhaps it is best that Bethany receives her introduction and instruction at such a young age, that she grows up with no fear, but only ease whenever near the beautiful animals. Assuming you might continue this time with her upon your eventual return, I thank you for your assistance in this regard.

There was a fire in Perry Green just yesterday. The sawmill at the edge of town went up in smoke, which was visible to us even two miles away. We all—the Smythes and Langdon, and Bethany and Mr. MacKenzie and myself—headed into town to see what the rising black plume of smoke was about, and if we might have been of any help. We were not, though it took many hours for any control of the blaze to be gained. Sadly, the entire building and contents were lost. There was a group taking up donations to help out the Prescott family, who have owned the mill and contributed to the community for many generations. I gave willingly, as not two weeks ago, old Mr. Prescott, whom we regularly passed on our way in or out of town, offered a whittled horse figure to Bethany when we'd stopped to chat with him.

You needn't fear that that my donation should have me begging an increase from you, as I have budgeted the remainder of the month quite cleverly to do without the humble sum I could afford to give. I have your father to thank for that, for my ability to help out another person. I was so pleased to be able to do so, and mayhap I finally understand your father's constant wish to aid and assist me. It simply feels good .

Closing now, to attempt to put Bethany down for a nap. Of late, she resists more and more, and I've had to employ new and different tactics almost every day.

Emma

MY DEAR EMMA,

Apologies to you, for my rudeness.

I skimmed over your most recent missive, looking only for some hint, some response to the robust clue of my desire to repeat our kiss and more.

I'll read your letter properly when tonight's session is done.

Yours,

L

OF COURSE, THERE WOULD be no more letters from London, as Zach expected tonight at the earliest, and tomorrow night at the latest, for this session to be finished finally. He stared at her words once again, in her last correspondence. Indeed, he thought her neat little curly script as darling as the letter writer herself and was only mildly disheartened that she'd not truly answered his initial revealing query about their kisses.

In other regards, her letters truly had been a blessing, Zach having committed so many of her words to memory. Her sometimes mention of that bounder, Mr. MacKenzie, had startled and angered him at first, until she'd at least answered that she sometimes thought of their kisses. With those words, he'd known, she was his still .

Her words, to which he eagerly looked forward each day, admittedly being disappointed if he received no visit from Langdon, had truly served to keep him grounded and sane, this particular session having worn on him so much more than in recent years.

Leaning back in his desk chair, he lifted the letter and perused it casually once again. If he hadn't already been in love with her, he would have been easily wooed by the tales of her life down there at the Daisies and the very clever way she treated a letter much as she would a conversation. She was engaging, didn't take herself too seriously, and showed so much of her true self, which he'd previously suspected their fragile affiliation might have scared away. There hadn't been a day, not since he'd left her, that he hadn't thought of making love to her, as they had, and as they would. He was beyond anxious to return to her, and finally, satisfyingly, straighten out this mess between them.