Chapter 35

CHAPTER 35

Emma

E mma stepped lightly along the winding paths of Vauxhall Gardens, the lanterns casting pools of soft light that painted the evening in a fantastical glow. The hum of distant laughter, the strains of music wafting from a nearby pavilion, and the faint scent of blossoms in the warm air might have enchanted her on any other day. But tonight, her heart felt heavy, a quiet unease lingering like the fog along the Thames.

Evan had been a paragon of devotion this past month—charming, supportive, and thoughtful. He had even become a generous patron of the orphanage, as he’d promised. Yet, Emma’s mind wandered again and again to that overheard conversation between him and Mr. Hatfield. Why hadn’t Evan told her what it was about? She had given him several opportunities, asking subtle questions about Mr. Hatfield’s visit, but his responses had been vague. Was it her imagination, or did he deliberately avoid the topic?

Her reverie broke as she spotted Ophelia seated on a wrought-iron bench near the Chinese theater. The delicate lines of Ophelia’s posture—her head bowed, her hands wringing nervously—told Emma everything she needed to know before a single word was spoken. She quickened her pace and sank onto the bench beside her friend.

“Ophelia?” Emma began gently, laying a hand on her friend’s arm. “What’s wrong?”

Ophelia turned toward her, her pale face streaked with tears. Her blue eyes, usually so bright with curiosity, brimmed with despair. “Oh, Emma,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “It’s my parents. They’ve settled on a husband for me.”

Emma’s heart dropped. She knew this was coming—Ophelia’s parents had been pushing for a suitable match for months—but hearing it still felt like a blow. “Who?” she asked, dreading the answer.

“The Duke of Stearns,” Ophelia said bitterly. Her voice cracked as she continued, “He’s fifteen years older than me, Emma. A widower with a child! And worse, he lives in Northumberland. They’re sending me away from everything I know, everything I care about.”

Emma’s brows knit in sympathy. “Northumberland? That’s so far… and you don’t even like him. What are they thinking?”

“They’re thinking about his title, his fortune, and his ability to elevate our family’s standing,” Ophelia spat. “Not my happiness. Not that I matter in their eyes. And I’m to leave immediately after the wedding.” She paused, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ll never see Massimo again.”

Emma’s stomach churned at the mention of Massimo, hearing the anguish in her friend’s voice made the reality painfully clear. “You… you still love him, don’t you?” She’d hoped that the months that had passed since her departure from Italy might have healed Ophelia’s heart but it appeared not to be the case.

“Yes,” Ophelia admitted, her voice trembling. “I do. I want nothing but to be with him, but my parents are aghast. To them, he’s nothing. Only titles matter, nothing else.”

Emma pressed her lips together, anger bubbling beneath her calm exterior. “They’re wrong,” she said firmly. “If he makes you happy, that should matter more than anything. Have you considered the nunnery again? Perhaps you could run away from there as you had thought about.”

Ophelia’s tears fell freely now, her hands clutching Emma’s as though she were a lifeline. “Emma, please. You have to help me. I can’t marry the Duke. I can’t. I’ll wither away in that cold, lonely castle with people I don’t love. I’ve spoken to my grandmother about joining the nunnery, but it’s impossible. I could have escaped from there, but my parents will not allow it. It is marriage for them, nothing else.” She paused, her breath hitching. “I have no choice but to run away.”

The words hung in the air, stark and shocking against the idyllic backdrop of the gardens. Emma stared at her friend, her heart pounding. “Run away? Ophelia, that’s… that’s a monumental decision. Where would you go? How would you survive?”

“I will make my way to Italy, to Massimo. Alas, I do not know how. I have nothing of value as my parents took everything after the wedding to Evan fell apart,” Ophelia admitted, her voice breaking. “But I can’t stay. I’d rather face uncertainty than a lifetime of misery. Please, Emma. You’re the only person I can trust. Will you help me?”

Emma hesitated, her mind racing. How could she promise to help with something so drastic? And yet, how could she refuse? She thought of Ophelia trapped in a marriage devoid of love, her vibrant spirit extinguished by duty and isolation. The image was unbearable. Even more so because Emma knew she’d played a big part in making it so.

“I’ll help you,” Emma said softly, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her chest. “I don’t know how yet, but I’ll think of something. And I’ll talk to Evan—maybe he can offer some advice or assistance. We can help you with funds, that I can promise.”

Ophelia’s face crumpled with relief as she threw her arms around Emma. “Thank you,” she sobbed. “Thank you, Emma. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

Emma held her friend tightly, her mind already spinning with possibilities. She could speak to Evan, yes, but would he understand? Would he see the urgency of the situation, or would he dismiss it as youthful folly? And what if helping Ophelia put Evan in a difficult position?

For a brief moment, doubt crept in. Was she doing the right thing? She thought of Mr. Hatfield’s cryptic words, the way Evan had evaded her questions. A shadow of uncertainty loomed over her happiness, a reminder that even the most charming exteriors could hide secrets.

But this wasn’t about her or Evan. This was about Ophelia.

As they sat together, Emma stroked her friend’s arm, whispering reassurances while her mind churned. She had to help her friend, but how?

The challenges were immense, but Emma refused to give in to despair. She would find a way, no matter the cost. Here's the expanded version of your scene, now extended to capture more depth, emotions, and detail.

As the carriage rattled gently over the cobblestone streets, Emma leaned back against the plush interior, lost in thought. The warm glow of the gaslights flickered through the windows, casting shifting shadows across Brigitte’s face. Emma glanced at her maid, who sat stiffly opposite her, staring out at the passing streets with a pensive expression.

“You’re very quiet this evening,” Emma observed softly. “Something’s troubling you.”

Brigitte blinked, as though startled out of her reverie. “It’s nothing, Your Grace,” she said quickly, but her voice lacked conviction.

Emma tilted her head, studying the maid who had been with her through so much. “Come now, Brigitte. You’ve been with me long enough to know you can tell me anything. Has Jeanne told you of Ophelia’s plight?”

Brigitte hesitated, her fingers twisting the edge of her apron. Finally, she sighed. “It’s just… it’s not fair, what’s happening to Lady Ophelia,” she murmured. “She’s so young and kind, and yet she’s being sent away to marry a man who’s practically a stranger to her. A much older widower, no less. How can anyone think that’s right?” Her voice grew firmer, tinged with anger.

Emma leaned forward, surprised. “You’ve never spoken so passionately about the troubles of the aristocracy before. Not unless it concerns my sisters or me.”

Brigitte lowered her gaze, her cheeks flushing. “I know my place, Your Grace. Normally, what happens to the nobility is none of my concern. But this… I’ve heard about it from Jeanna, and it makes my heart ache. Lady Ophelia doesn’t deserve this. She should be free to love and marry whom she chooses.”

Emma nodded slowly, sensing there was more Brigitte wasn’t saying. “I agree with you. But something tells me this isn’t only about Ophelia. There’s something else, isn’t there?”

For a moment, Brigitte didn’t answer. Then, her head snapped up, and she exclaimed, “It’s all of it! This whole system we live in. Aristocrats marry aristocrats, servants marry servants, and everyone is trapped in their place. Why must it be like this? Why can’t people simply fall in love and be with the person they choose?”

Emma reached out, touching Brigitte’s hand gently. “You’re right. It isn’t fair. I’ve often thought the same.”

Brigitte shook her head, her frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “But you’re lucky, Your Grace. You found the Duke, and even though your circumstances weren’t ideal at first… you’ll be happy together. I see it every day. You love him, and he loves you. At least you’ve escaped this folly.”

Emma’s cheeks warmed at the praise, though her heart ached for her maid. “Thank you, Brigitte. I only wish such happiness could be found by everyone. But what about you? You sound as though you’re speaking from experience. Is there someone you care for?” She knew who it was, of course, but she did not want to speak of it unless Brigitte wished it. She took a breath and held it, looking at her maid.

Brigitte’s face turned crimson, and she looked away. For a moment, Emma thought she wouldn’t answer, but then Brigitte whispered, “It is true. My heart is rather fond of someone. The Earl of Weston.”

Emma blinked, stunned that the unspoken truth had finally been expressed. “I see. You really care for him.”

Brigitte nodded, her gaze fixed on her lap. “Yes. And he… he cares for me, too.”

Emma’s breath caught in her throat. She had seen Jonathan visit as he usually did, and she’d seen Brigitte talking to him, but she’d found solace in Evan’s promise that he would put a stop to things if they became too out of control. She had noticed that Jonathan appeared a little less flirtatious when he was here but that appeared to have been a show. “Brigitte, does he know how you feel?”

Brigitte’s lips curved into a faint, bittersweet smile. “Yes. He’s told me he feels the same. But we both know it’s impossible. He’s a nobleman, and I’m… I’m just a maid.”

Emma reached out, clasping Brigitte’s hands. “And yet he’s pursued you?”

Brigitte’s head snapped up. “Not inappropriately. He’s been nothing but kind and respectful. He’s never asked me to do anything that would compromise my position or reputation. He… he’s a good man. And I know of his reputation. Everyone has told me he enjoys talking to pretty ladies – he told me as well. He keeps no secrets from me.”

Emma’s mind raced, conflicting emotions swirling within her. “I believe you,” she said softly. “And I believe that Jonathan is a good man. But Brigitte… this is dangerous. Your heart is already caught up in something that can only bring you pain.”

Brigitte’s eyes filled with tears. “I know. But what am I supposed to do? I can’t stop how I feel. I’ve tried, Your Grace. I’ve told myself it’s foolish, that it will never work. But every time I see him, every time he looks at me…” Her voice broke, and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “He makes me feel seen, Emma. Like I’m more than just a maid. Like I’m a person who matters.”

Emma’s heart clenched at the raw honesty in Brigitte’s words. She thought of Ophelia, of Massimo, and now of Brigitte and Jonathan. All of them trapped by the expectations and constraints of their society. The weight of it all pressed down on her like a heavy cloak. “It’s not right,” she said fiercely. “None of it. Ophelia, you, Jonathan… all of you deserve to be with the people you love. Why does the world have to be so cruel?”

Brigitte gave her a watery smile. “Because it’s the world. And people like me don’t get to change it.”

Emma shook her head. “No. I refuse to believe that. Things can change, Brigitte. They must. And I promise you, I’ll do everything I can to help.”

Brigitte stared at her, hope flickering in her tear-filled eyes. “Thank you. But please… don’t worry too much about me. I don’t want to be the cause of more trouble for you.”

Emma’s lips tightened into a grim line. “Brigitte, you’ve been with me through everything. You’ve stood by my side when no one else would. If there’s any way I can help you, I will. And Jonathan… I’ll speak to Evan. Maybe he’ll have some advice.”

Brigitte’s face turned scarlet. “Your Grace, you mustn’t! I couldn’t bear for the Duke to think?—”

Emma raised a hand, cutting her off. “Evan is Jonathan’s best friend. He and I spoke on the matter before. If anyone understands him, it’s Evan. Trust me, Brigitte. We’ll figure this out.”

The carriage rattled to a stop in front of the Duke’s estate at the edge of town, but Emma made no move to leave. She sat silently, her mind churning with thoughts of Ophelia, Brigitte, and Jonathan. All the people she cared about, trapped by the expectations of a society that seemed designed to crush happiness.

“It doesn’t seem right,” she murmured, half to herself. “It just doesn’t seem right.”

Brigitte reached out, squeezing her hand gently. “It’s not. But… thank you. For caring.”

Emma turned to her, a faint smile playing at her lips. “I’ll always care, Brigitte. And I’ll always fight for what’s right.”

With that, they stepped out of the carriage and into the house, the weight of their conversation lingering in the air like an unspoken promise.