Chapter Seven

ONCE RETURNED TO BENEDICT House, Emma clambered out of the phaeton before the earl might have been of assistance. She would be thrilled to be well gone from him. True, he'd done her a kindness to purchase so costly a house for her, but that benevolence, offered so abrasively, seemed then not a kindness at all. And she was reminded that it wasn't his kindness at all, but his father's. Emma began to believe that he was as anxious as she to have her gone from his home. She bothered not to hide her distress and made no excuse but ran directly up the stairs without even the politeness of a by-your-leave.

The man was insufferable, she decided, and found it then impossible not to compare his dastardly nature with that of his charming father, once again finding the present earl much lacking. And oh, how she missed Michael!

Emma reached her rooms just as Mrs. Conklin was exiting the nursery next door. The plump housekeeper put her index finger to her lips. "She's just gone down for her nap, Miss. She was an angel, to be sure."

"Thank you, Mrs. Conklin," Emma replied. "It was nice of you to look after her."

"‘Tis no trouble, Miss, though truly I don't know how you'll manage when you leave."

Leave, she couldn't do soon enough, Emma thought irritably but showed this not to the kindly housekeeper. "We'll manage just fine, Mrs. Conklin. Truthfully, I'm not much used to having so much free time. We'll settle back into our old ways, just Bethany and me," she offered, though other ideas had recently come to her. She turned then, feeling him near. As Mrs. Conklin moved away from Emma and down the corridor, Emma saw that the earl had reached the second-floor landing. His face was set into the same scowl it had shown most of these last few days, yet his eyes seemed to devour her, and this severe stare sent Emma scurrying into her room.

Emma spent the remainder of the day by herself, and then with Bethany when the child awoke. She'd already decided that she would absolutely not join the earl for dinner and would bar the door if need be, but she needn't have bothered with these ponderings, for she was informed by Thurman later in the day that the earl had sent his apologies—he would be dining with friends this evening. Emma might have squealed her joy at this lucky turn, but instead enjoyed a more relaxed evening, having not to fear the earl's changeable moods and dark, brooding stare.

When Bethany had been sleeping for nearly an hour, Emma lifted her from her own bed and pushed open the door to the nursery, gently laying the babe into the tall crib. She left the door ajar, and then left her own room intent on finding Bethany's doll, which must have been abandoned or forgotten somewhere downstairs.

Tying the sash of her dressing gown more securely about her, she searched the darkened parlor and then the sitting room, but to no avail. The house was quiet at this hour, and honestly, she felt a little like a thief sneaking around, trying so hard since she'd come to this overwhelming house to go unnoticed. This was not a simple thing to do, Bethany making herself known even as Emma would rather not.

Actually, she hadn't been able to recall when last she'd seen the doll, and began to wonder if some tidy servant had only removed it from the floor of some room. She peeked into yet another room on the first floor, surprised to find what must be the earl's study. The room was large and gorgeous, with dark paneling and an entire wall of long windows, allowing moonlight to show her that indeed Bethany's doll was atop the desk at the far side of the room. She snuck in, not quite sure why she bothered to tip-toe and even less sure how the doll might have found its way here. She breathed a startled gasp as she saw that behind the desk on the wall of gleaming paneling hung a beautiful portrait of Michael.

"Oh," she moaned, and tears formed instantly. She covered her mouth with one hand just as the other grabbed hold of the doll from the desk. Oh, but wasn't he so handsome, and stately, and fine? The painting must have been done years before, as his hair showed not the liberal gray that he'd gained by the time she had known him; his eyes were as wonderfully kind as she remembered; he was depicted from the thighs up, dressed in a clever high-collared waistcoat and tailcoat and a finely tied cravat of sumptuous creamy silk. Emma smiled at the almost Byronian hairstyle, his darker locks swept forward and to the right across his forehead. "Oh, how I miss you." Her shoulders slumped. Aside from memories, too few at that, this was all she might ever have of him. She determined that she would bring Bethany here tomorrow, she would insist the child not forget this dear man.

She almost turned away, her sorrow heavy just now, but then decided to sit and visit with him for a while. With a pleased smile, thinking he might enjoy her company, she scooted behind the desk and turned the heavy side-armed chair all the way around until it faced the portrait. She sat in the chair, pulled her knees up to her chest, her feet just at the edge of the seat, and hugged the doll he'd bought for Bethany, being now within only feet of the painting.

"I wish you were here right now, my friend."

The portrait was perfect, in that it showed the hint of a smile that seemed always to hover about his lips. His eyes nearly danced, so that Emma imagined whoever had put his image to canvas must have known him fairly well. Emma smiled back at him.

ZACHARY BENEDICT STOOD frozen at the opposite side of the room, having risen from the very desk chair in which she now sat, simply to refill his brandy snifter. The door opening had lifted his gaze, and Miss Ainsley's creeping had kept him still, though a frown had come. Suspicion had faded as soon as she'd reached for the doll, which he had noticed upon his desk earlier.

Tucked in the shadows of the far corner, she had yet to notice his presence, and Zach hadn't moved a muscle to alert her that she was not alone in the room. Her gasp, when she'd spied his father's portrait had nearly startled him. And then she'd done the most remarkable thing, pivoting the chair and sitting down, staring at his father, seeming only to want to spend time with him.

Whispers of her soft words reached him. Honestly, he was a bit surprised at her referring to him as her friend. He might have supposed, as she thought herself alone with him, she might have been unguarded enough to perhaps refer to him as my love or some such nonsense. My friend gave him pause. And then all the words that followed, as she talked quietly to his father, laid out so many truths to him, most that he'd refused to see or believe until now.

"I'm going to bring Bethany here tomorrow," she was saying, "I don't want her to forget you." Zach thought she might be crying, her voice cracked as she continued, "I wish I had known the last time I saw you was going to be...the last time I saw you. I would have used the time to tell you how wonderful you were. I would have told you I cherished every minute we'd spent together. I'm sorry I was often so resistant to all the help you tried to give to me. Honestly, I didn't understand it. Maybe it frightened me a little—people are so rarely kind for no other reason than to be kind. But you were. So ridiculously kind."

Still immobile near the small liquor cabinet, the fine crystal glass held at waist height in one hand, the brandy decanter in the other, Zach waited, afforded only a view of the top of her head over the back of the chair. She was quiet for a long time, her head tilted against the leather of that chair, glancing upward. "I remember the first night you came to the inn, when my finger was broken. You were so natural, so gentle with Bethany. She'd known Mr. Smythe all her little life and had never taken to him as she had to you. Just like that. It was so remarkable to see. We don't need to talk again about the spoiling—you know well my thoughts on this, as I do yours." Zach thought he detected a hint of a smile in her voice.

Another long pause, and her tone changed, was less soft. "Your son, Michael—we should talk about your son. Honest to God, Michael," she was saying, "you did no favors to me by your descriptions of him. All that fatherly pride prepared me not at all for exactly...how different from you he is. He's so...angry, it seems. Or just obstinate, I don't rightly know. Were you like that at his age, and just mellowed throughout the years? I cannot imagine that your beloved Barbara instilled such hardness in him. Oh my God, Michael! Did you spoil him as well? Is that why he's so adamant about everything being done his way? Always being right? Looking down his nose at a person..."

Zach's eyes widened. So much revealed just here, so many opinions then to put to those sparse and wary looks she so often gave him.

She carried on, "It's not your fault though. He's a grown man, all his decisions—to be mean or not to be—are his own. But I tell you now, Michael, if I find out you somehow inferred, or outright said to your son that Bethany is your daughter, I promise you, we are going to have words when next we meet. I cannot, for the life of me, imagine where he came upon that notion—so, apologies to you, my friend, I'm blaming you until I hear or know otherwise. Yes, I've told him the truth. He doesn't believe me. I can see it in his eyes. Oh, and the best part, which I'm sure you are already aware of: he doesn't mind looking down his nose at me—a taproom jade, he thinks—but what does he do at first opportunity? He kisses me. Did you see that?" She harrumphed then, and God help him, Zach almost burst out laughing.

"You probably did. It may have appeared for a moment that I enjoyed his kiss, but Michael, I assure you I did not. Well, honestly, I—no! No. I did not enjoy it one bit. Dear Lord, he frightens the bejesus out of me. You told me he was intelligent beyond imagining, and that his honor was strung about him as armor, and something about...oh, what was it? Oh, yes, you said he ‘was impressed neither by appearance nor rumors, but rather by the knowledge and character of a person, and if they had a humble heart'. I have to tell you, Michael, your son wouldn't know a humble heart if it thumped him upside the head. He's too busy being bossy and intractable, and making people feel awkward in his presence. Again, not your fault."

Intractable? Zach wondered. Was he? He didn't know, but damn if he weren't learning so very much right now. It was as good as being inside her head, he thought. But he chewed the inside of his cheek, believing it damnably unfortunate that she held such a low opinion of him.

He heard her yawn then, a vocal and lengthy yawn, and she was quiet for several more seconds until she said, a haunting melancholy tinting her words, "I hope you've been reunited with your Barbara. And maybe you've met Gretchen and have told her how adorable her daughter is. You always said I was a perfect mother to her," she said, and tears must have come for her voice broke once more, "but does Gretchen think so? Will you tell her I'm trying my best?" Long pause now while she sobbed into her hands. "I don't know what I'm doing," he thought she said, but could not be sure, muffled and cracked as the words were now.

Jesus, but it was enough to break his heart, even as he was quite sure she thought he hadn't one.

"I miss you," she whispered one more time and then was quiet and unmoving for so long, Zach was sure she must have fallen asleep in the chair.

He shifted his weight from one leg to another, so afraid to move if she were indeed still awake. But when another fifteen minutes or so had passed and she made no movement and uttered no more words, he gingerly and with excruciating slowness set the decanter and snifter onto the top of the cabinet. Only the smallest of noises accompanied this, but in this very still room, it might have been heard, if she were awake.

She was still yet.

Zach walked silently to where she sat. Just as he came around the side of the chair, he saw that her elbow was on one bent knee, her small hand fisted and holding up her chin while she slumbered. Her other arm was wrapped around the doll, clutched tightly to her. The moonlight, which had not reached the corner in which he'd hidden, offered just enough illumination that he could distinguish the trail of tears down her cheeks and the small furrow in her brow.

What am I going to do with you?

He moved all the way around the chair, so that he faced her. He leaned his back against the wall, just near the frame of the portrait, and watched her sleep.

Possibly, she wasn't real. She couldn't be. They weren't made like this, so very exquisite, and with that beautiful heart of hers, that missed his father, and her sister, and worried that she might be failing as the child's mother. And talked to portraits in the night. Glancing sideways, he looked at the picture of his father, who at this very moment, from this angle, looked as if he were smiling upon her, as if only satisfied to be watching her sleep.

Ah, but she was stubborn, even while calling him intractable. But she'd given the why of this: she was afraid. Frightened by kindness?

It was late. He was weary. And he considered that he had much to contemplate about everything she'd revealed to him, by way of her conversation with his sire.

Loath as he was to disturb her, he knew it needed to be done. As gently as possible, he shimmied his hands under her legs and around her back and lifted her into his arms. The doll settled perfectly against her chest, and he strode from his study and through the dark hall to the wide staircase. He knew when she roused and realized her circumstance by the stiffening of her form in his arms. He climbed the stairs, and murmured, "Shh." Though she said nothing, she remained fairly rigid in his grasp now.

Zach debated if any words from him now might put her at ease, decided it was unlikely and so extended none. He reached the top of the stairs and turned right to find her rooms. The door was ajar, allowing him to give a nudge with his foot to push it fully open. He set her on to the bed, and spared her only a glance and a murmured, "Good night," lest she think him only some mute monster, an intractable one perhaps. He supposed he was glad for the total darkness of her borrowed chamber, that he might not see what expression might have accompanied her severe posture in his arms.

He pulled the door closed as he left, closing his eyes for the space of a moment, trying to imagine what, if anything, he hoped might come of their very brief but icy relationship. Would he simply deposit her at the Daisies Cottage and be done with her? His immediate internal response to this was, it seemed most prudent. But why? Why was it prudent not to know her?

Therein, he supposed, was the real answer, that he didn't want to not know her.

Maybe that was all he needed to understand right now.

THE LAST THING EMMA wanted to do was accept charity from the Earl of Lindsey, even if it were originally conceived by that greater man, Michael Benedict. But fact was fact, and she hadn't a home, or an income, or a family, and so then had no choice but to accept that he had indeed purchased the Daisies Cottage for her and Bethany.

This morning, she was plagued by that decidedly uncomfortable remembrance of last night, when she'd woken to find herself in the earl's arms. God's wounds, but how could she have allowed for something so unbearably tortuous to have occurred? Never mind that his embrace, for all its utilitarian purpose, had been perceived as warm and safe and...not wholly unpleasant. Ugh .

She could not take up residence at the Daisies Cottage soon enough.

But she had a few things to take care of first. She approached Thurman bright and early one morning, holding Bethany's hand as the babe walked in yet another pair of new shoes, courtesy of the Earl. Emma had stopped refusing, had stopped insisting, and had stopped complaining about any purchases for Bethany. There simply was no point.

The butler waited expectantly.

"I wonder if I might have use of a buggy to take into town," she inquired of the aged man. She didn't tell him which town, so didn't therefore consider that she lied to the man.

"You can, perhaps, write down any items you were in need of, Miss," he answered quite solicitously, his bushy gray brows raising a bit at this offering. "Mrs. Conklin regularly sends a footman or such to town for shopping—fresh goods, and wardrobe items, and other sundries.... "

"This is to be more of a visiting nature, making calls," she told him, while Bethany now uncurled her little fingers from Emma's hand, plopping down on her bottom on the immaculate tile floor to look at her new shoes again.

"I see," intoned Thurman, raising and lowering his head in a manner which Emma imagined only butlers managed to employ. "Peter would be available to drive you to your appointments, Miss."

"Oh, I shouldn't want to put someone out, Mr. Thurman. I'm certainly capable of handling a small buggy, pulled by any agreeable nag," she countered with a sweet smile.

"Be that as it may, Miss, Peter will take you in to town."

Emma considered arguing further, but judged the argument was perhaps more likely to succeed with a goat, rather than the almost formidable Mr. Thurman. "Thank you, sir." She scooped up Bethany. "We will ready ourselves and return momentarily."

Within the hour, Emma sat beside Peter, a man only slightly older than herself, with a pleasing personality. She held Bethany in her lap, not of a mind to further disturb the Earl's household by once again asking Mrs. Conklin to watch after the child. She had directed Peter to the King's Arms Inn—rather assertively, she'd thought—and if he was surprised by her destination, he gave no indication. She didn't know what she expected to find of her old home and workplace, but she needed to see the Smythe's and make sure they were well. Peter was indeed pleasant but not much for small talk, so Emma occupied herself with Bethany, as the trip took almost an hour. When they'd crested the last hill that would show the inn to them, Emma found herself holding her breath. But it was as she had feared, the inn was indeed still gone, only the burnt-out shell still remained; obviously no rebuilding had begun, or perhaps wasn't intended. But how would she find the Smythes?

"Miss," Peter said, when they'd stopped still a distance from the ruins, "did ye know this was gone?"

"I did," she answered, almost forlornly. "But I don't know how to find my friends—my family, really—and thought I should at least start here."

"Little Hadham would be the closest town," Peter said after a moment. "Might they have moved there?"

Emma shrugged sadly. "I just don't know." She took her eyes from the King's Arms Inn and looked at the young footman. "Would you mind driving there?"

Peter had snapped the reins over the lone horse in answer, and the gig moved again, now away from the inn. "We'll find ‘em, miss. Never you fear."

Little Hadham boasted not much more than a lone mercantile, a few pubs, and only one inn, all lying in the village just south of Hadham Hall, ancient seat of the Capells, and the Earl of Essex. Emma suggested they begin their search at the inn. But only a moment after making this suggestion, while Peter maneuvered the gig through the narrow road and sparse traffic, Emma spied the young stable hand, Langdon, walking down the road, heading to the pier down at the River Ash.

Excitedly, she raised herself on the seat and called happily, "Langdon!"

The young man looked left and right upon hearing his name but saw no one familiar and so continued walking. "Langdon!" she called out again. This time, he turned, and finally saw Emma—her arm flailing wildly in the air—and company bearing down on him. He squinted but quickly recognized her. She'd not much recalled that he ever smiled, but he did now.

Langdon approached the gig just as Peter pulled up at the side of the road.

"Miss Emma! What are ye about? Are you coming back with us?" He wanted to know, his eyes hopeful.

His question enlivened Emma. "Are you all still together? Are you with the Smythes? And Alice, too?" She hoped it were true. She was encouraged by Langdon's excitement over seeing her.

"Sure, Miss—was cheaper to share one room than have to find one yerself," he told her. "We did stay at the stables those first few days, but it were rough. Alice never stopped crying. But Mr. Smythe and me, we came into town here to see what could be had. We all pooled our money—well those who had any—and well, at least got a real roof now. But we may have to go to another town, maybe a bigger one, to find some work... for any one of us. There's nothing here." And then he smiled and nodded at the three of them in the gig, having delivered all his news.

Emma was amazed, staring rather dumbstruck for a moment. Firstly, Langdon had never strung so many words together in her presence, or to anyone, as far as she knew. Next, she was surprised, though pleasantly so, that the four of them had stayed together. They really were a little family. Her eyes welled. "Where are they?"

Within minutes, Emma was following a still chatty Langdon into a cottage at the edge of the small town, having asked Peter to remain with the gig. It had a rough and ramshackle exterior, and even before entering there was an odor about the air that was decidedly unpleasant. Inside, Emma hugged Bethany tighter, her eyes adjusting to the dimness of the interior. She heard, before she saw Mrs. Smythe. The old woman let out a howl of glee upon spying Emma and the child, coming straight at her from what Emma imagined must be the kitchen, when her eyes finally settled.

"Oh, my dear," Mrs. Smythe cried, "never have I been happier to see a soul! So worried about ye, we've been." She stole Bethany abruptly but cheerfully out of Emma's arms, crying and fussing over the little girl. "And look at ye, dressed in your finery—the both of ye!—oh, I pray he's been good to ye. Seems as much, I daresay."

Emma glanced around the house, wondering at their arrangement here, as it appeared only a single dwelling, and one of improbable character.

"What have you—?" She began but was interrupted by the appearance of the innkeeper himself, Mr. Smythe. She smiled expectantly at him as he entered the front room. He'd never been a warm and fuzzy person, but Emma did decide that he looked rather pleased to see her. "Good afternoon, sir," she said.

"Emma, girl," he acknowledged. "You're well, then?"

"Oh, yes, sir!" She was quick to assure him. "I'm so very pleased to find you all. I've worried so!"

"Won't have an inn no more," Mr. Smythe said, with a bit of a shrug to his shoulders, and a pursing of his lips. "But we've a roof for now—until Mrs. Coombs returns from London next month and again takes up her residence here. So we've time still to figure out where best to land." And he nodded. He looked to Langdon, who nodded along with his boss—former boss, now housemate.

"But that's why I'm so happy to find you!" Emma said. She touched Mrs. Smythe's arm next to her. "What are your plans? Will you rebuild? Will you find another inn to buy? Have you other property or...even monies to see you through?"

Mrs. Smythe lowered her eyes, offering only a weak smile. Mr. Smythe shuffled his feet a bit.

"Never did ‘ave much for savings. And what we did was burned up in there," he said roughly, tossing his head in the general direction of the King's Arms Inn. "But I've a mind to head south, more toward London. We're thinking there might be a need of a good and experienced manager—if you will—for all those fancier public houses down there. Maybe have need of a cook and stablehand," he finished, but it was quite apparent from his lackluster tone that he hadn't really any hope of this. "Maybe another barmaid," he added when the light from one of the doorways was briefly blocked.

Emma turned to find Alice staring at her. The young woman did not look entirely happy to see Emma, but her moods were ever mercurial, and her face—when not serving in the taproom, hoping for coin—was often hard. She was different somehow, though, Emma realized instantly, her shoulders wilted, her eyes rather lifeless. She wore a gown of somber brown—dreary was more apt—with threads that looked to have seen better days, and Emma knew this to be a huge embarrassment to the girl; ever did she love her vivid colors and loud combinations.

"Hullo, Alice," she offered hesitantly, never quite sure of her reception.

Alice only nodded, her gaze raking over Emma's finery. If she did try to smile, it appeared only as a grimace. Awkwardly, she shoved her hands into the flap pockets of her borrowed, pilfered, or scrounged-for dress .

Emma turned back to the Smythes. She looked from one to the other. She guessed they'd aged about twenty years since the fire had taken everything they had in the world. Perhaps she'd never thought so much about their specific ages but guessed Smythe, with his balding, craggy head and long face, having once been tall and thick-chested though those days were long behind him now, to have seen about 60 years by now. And his wife, that dear Mrs. Smythe, with her short and stout form, and her wiry hair and kind eyes, might have seen just a few less than that.

She approached Mr. Smythe, putting her hand on the rough fabric of his sleeve. Momentarily, she wondered if she had ever touched him at all before. She'd known him almost a decade, had worked side by side with him, knew he truly did care for her, but this felt new.

"Come with me," she said shortly. "The old earl—Michael—truly did make provisions for me. Well, likely for Bethany really." She turned to look at Mrs. Smythe, who seemed to be waiting, interested, but not yet willing to be hopeful, it seemed. "His lordship—the new earl, that is—has purchased a house for us." Emma watched as Mrs. Smythe slapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes crinkling with her upset. "No, Mistress, not like that at all, I promise. The house is for Bethany and me. Just us. I truly didn't want his money, or his help. But...but I've Bethany to think of. And Michael, well, he wanted this for us." Emma turned, and looked at an expressionless Alice, and Langdon who was nodding again, apparently in agreement, and then to Mr. Smythe, who was frowning, seemingly not in annoyance but with consideration. She continued, talking quickly to convince them, to assure them, it could work, "The house is big enough. It's close to Perry Green—likely we can find work there, though I think Mr. and Mistress, you wouldn't need to work if you'd not mind helping to take care of the house," she said, hopefully. To Langdon, "There's space for you, too. An entire floor of bedrooms I'd not know what to do with. And there's a small barn, a stable, maybe we can find a horse and gig eventually." She turned to Alice, "Perry Green has a handful of pubs—there's even a modiste, and a milliner. We can find work, I'm sure." No one said a word. Emma turned to Mrs. Smythe, "Perhaps you wouldn't mind looking after Bethany if I'm to find a job."

When they remained silent, Emma spun around to Mr. Smythe again. "Our own house again," she imagined.

His eyes lifted over her to settle on his wife. After a moment of worrying the inside of his cheek, he asked, "What say ye, missus?"

When Emma turned back again, she found Mrs. Smythe crying into a squirming Bethany, who'd thus far had been intent enough on the people and the atmosphere of this room to have been quiet, but now was reaching for Emma with a whine.

"Shh," Emma cooed, and stroked her daughter's hair but did not take her. Emma kept her eyes on Mrs. Smythe. "Won't you come with me?"

Mrs. Smythe began to nod her head against a warm but still fussing Bethany. Emma let out a happy cry. Eventually Mrs. Smythe raised her wet and red eyes to Emma. "Oh, but ye always were the sweetest thing, Emma," she said through tears. "And here ye are, still thinking of everyone but yerself. Oh, but we thank ye!" And she leaned forward, kissing Emma's cheek, and Emma squeezed her tightly in a happy embrace. "We needn't fret no more, husband," she said to Mr. Smythe.

Emma looked at Mr. Smythe. He nodded at his wife's words, and surprised Emma by gently touching her arm, a gesture of appreciation.

A quick rapping sound brought all eyes to the door, where Peter stood, wringing his hat in his hand. He looked apologetic, but said, "Miss, I hate to hurry ye, but I'm needing to get back to Benedict House—ye as well, I imagine."

"Oh, yes, Peter," Emma answered hurriedly, "I'll be along shortly—very quickly," she amended, when he appeared unsure. Emma looked at Langdon and Alice, smiling hopefully. "You'll come, too, right?"

"Of course they will!" Mrs. Smythe insisted, her tone motherly.

Langdon shuffled his feet just for a moment, his face reddening with this attention, as all eyes rested on him. "Aw, miss, I ain't nowhere else to go. Yer all I have, I guess. I can be helpful."

Impulsively, Emma hugged him, so happy to have these people back in her life. "I know you can, Langdon. You're going to love the house!" She turned to Alice. "You will love the Daisies Cottage, it's just perfect—"

"I appreciate the offer, I truly do, Emma," Alice interrupted her. "But I will be all right here."

Emma thought she looked sincere. They had never been close, but they had shared so much over all these years passed. "Alice, you must," she said softly.

Mr. Smythe spoke up. "Alice, girl, there just isn't much opportunity here, we're finding out."

Alice raised her shoulders. "There could be. I'll be all right."

"Alice," Mrs. Smythe cried, "ye must come with us. "

"You have always been fair to me, the both of you," Alice said, looking suddenly, uncharacteristically sheepish, "but I think it's time I moved on. I want—need—something other than a cottage in the dead of the country." With what appeared to be a false bravado, she added, "I've been thinking for some time now to be heading to London anyhow. What family I do have, they're all there."

Emma saw that Mrs. Smythe's bottom lip hung open. Mr. Smythe only nodded, saying nothing. Langdon was still staring at Emma.

Emma tried to think of something else to say to Alice to change her mind. But Mrs. Smythe spoke first.

"If yer sure, dear...?"

Alice nodded, trying to smile to back up her words. But to Emma, she only looked guarded and somehow peeved.

"Miss," Peter prompted again from the doorway. He seemed unperturbed, perhaps only uninterested in the scene he'd witnessed, but eager to be on his way.

Emma nodded, and retrieved Bethany from Mrs. Smythe. "I must go. I'll return, or send word, once we're settled at the house. Hopefully, it will be soon." She quickly kissed Mrs. Smythe and called goodbye to all. She stopped once more in front of Alice. "Be safe, Alice. Come back if you need to."

Alice nodded again. "Goodbye."