6. Chapter 6

Chapter six

I heard a thousand blended notes,

While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think

What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And 'tis my faith that every flower

Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,

Their thoughts I cannot measure:—

But the least motion which they made

It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,

If such be Nature' s holy plan,

Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?

Lines Written in Early Spring

William Wordsworth, 1798

Amelia

I was becoming far too defiant for my own good. Hiding Lord Emerson in the closet two days ago and lying to Sabrina had felt freeing. Not the same kind of freeing that I'd experienced over the last eighteen months living out of her grasp at Longwood Manor. There, I'd known I would eventually return to London and take my role as Sabrina's puppet again, that my freedom was a temporary illusion.

But to defy her commands here, in person? That felt glorious. Like a much needed victory. So long as she did not take note of my lies and subtle acts of revenge, I was safe. My family was safe.

After rescuing him from Sabrina, Lord Emerson could question my friendship with her, but I did not fear any sliver of doubt he might experience. A man of his station—and one who had little desire to keep company with either Sabrina or myself—would hardly care what my relationship was or was not with the duchess.

Still, I could not help but buzz with nerves as we all gathered in the drawing room after dinner and wondered if I had made a tremendous mistake. Mrs. Davis had asked what sort of entertainment we would prefer tonight, and Sabrina had readily volunteered us all to recite poetry, much to Mr. Davis's disappointment.

Sabrina had confined us to the library during every spare moment since I rescued Lord Emerson, determined to memorize several of Wordsworth's poems for this exact occasion. That she thought such a thing would fool the man into believing she enjoyed reading or poetry was laughable. Lord Emerson had heard our entire conversation from the safety of the closet, but even without such privilege, he would have seen right through the act.

At least, I certainly hoped he would.

He had been blind to her conniving ways in London. It had pained me to watch their courtship, made worse by the feelings that grew steadily within my own heart. The earl was a good man. He had a smile that unleashed butterflies in my stomach and a gentle voice that could carry me away from all my troubles.

But I would never confess such things aloud. Those musings were restricted to my diary, a small leather-bound piece of my heart presently tucked away beneath my pillow, and no one would ever know of the feelings I harbored for the earl.

We all settled into our seats, and Mrs. Davis stood before us. She clapped her hands once, excitement dancing in her eyes. "Poetry is an art. A play with nothing more than words. A story in need of telling! I expect to be dazzled."

One might think the woman mad with how much enthusiasm she displayed, but I had come to learn that Mrs. Davis simply had more energy than her plump body could contain. She must release it on occasion, else she might explode. That she cared nothing for what others thought of her boisterous demeanor made me like her. It also made me jealous. If only I did not fear how my secret could uproot everything I knew. That it would not affect my family.

"Now, would anyone care to go first?" asked Mrs. Davis.

Sabrina stood, her chin held high and a smile on her lips. "I shall."

Mrs. Davis gave her a gracious nod, and Sabrina made her way to the front of the room.

My heart beat as though it were a war drum. With anticipation.

With regret.

I should not have done it. I realized the mistake now, but it was too late to stop the situation from unfolding. It had been too easy, too tempting, to ignore the opportunity in the library. Perhaps no one would even notice. Sabrina certainly hadn't questioned my tutelage.

My finger tapped rapidly against my skirt as Sabrina began. Her voice sweetly filled the room, and I could admit she did have a lovely tone for poetry recitation. If only that could camouflage what was about to leave her mouth.

One stanza, then two.

I held my breath as Sabrina recited the third.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ;

And 'tis my faith that every flower

Disdains the air I breathe.

The sound of a sharp exhale came from the chair a few feet from me, and I stole a glance at its occupant. Lord Emerson sat leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his clasped hands pressed against his mouth. From this angle, I could see that his lips fought a smile.

I hadn't wanted anyone to notice Sabrina's incorrect words, but witnessing even the barest of happiness in Lord Emerson's expression cooled my regret. Perhaps, in a way, I had taken a little vengeance for us both, and that thought filled me with satisfaction.

So long as no one else noticed, no harm would be done. He would assume Sabrina had forgotten the lines and never know I had helped her memorize them incorrectly from the start. It had been an easy thing to do. Sabrina had been far too focused on remembering the words to pay attention to what they actually meant.

The duchess continued, and I kept my gaze subtly on the earl.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

Then withered, their appearance wan

Because I was standing there.

This time Lord Emerson chuckled, but he quickly recovered, covering it with a rather convincing cough. I was hard pressed not to grin. I had always enjoyed the sound of his laugh but had never been the cause of it. It sparked warmth in my chest and spread until it filled every limb.

For so long, I had tried to rid myself of the senseless infatuation I felt for the earl. After delivering Sabrina's cold letter severing their engagement, I had doubted the man would ever speak to me again. I was too connected to the duchess, and Lord Emerson had been so devastated by her rejection that I could not blame him for wishing to cut all ties with me as well.

But our exchange in the corridor, when we had discussed books so briefly, had rekindled something within me—something I needed to lay to rest for good. I could not allow my heart to reattach to him, not when he could never be mine. It was foolish .

Applause sounded through the room, and Sabrina sent a pleased grin in Lord Emerson's direction. He smiled back at her, which seemed to satisfy her greatly, leaving her oblivious to the amused twinkle in his eyes.

The moment Sabrina took her seat, his gaze swung to me. His lips rose, higher than I'd yet to see them climb since coming to Fallborn.

He knew. The man was aware of my culpability. He knew I had fed Sabrina false lines.

Drat the man's intelligence.

I held his gaze, pinching my lips together. I should have felt remorse, but there was none to be had at the moment. There was no sense of shame when I saw approval in the earl's eyes.

Until I looked away. Until I saw Sabrina grinning with pride. She could be a monster, and if I deceived her as she so frequently did others, how was I any better?

Regret coursed through me, and I sunk a little into the cushions. I never should have misled her, harmless as it had been.

"Well," Mrs Davis began slowly. "That was…wonderful." The woman's brows were tightly drawn, and I suspected she knew Sabrina's poem had not been recited with precise claim to the original, but she seemed content to ignore her intuition, turning instead toward my sister. "Miss Grace, would you care to share a poem with us?"

Grace shook her head. "No, I am not overly fond of poetry. I prefer to get lost in longer romantic diversions."

"I see." Mrs. Davis smiled. "Miss Scott, would you care to offer us a poem?"

"Oh, no," Sabrina cut in, shooting me a look that demanded I play along. "Amelia does not care for poetry, either."

Sabrina had often spoken on my behalf in London, and just as often with lies, but I had never corrected her. She wished for the spotlight, and in many ways, I had no desire for it. Tonight, though, a flickering flame within me wanted to oppose her. It had always been a simple choice to follow her commands, but something about being at Fallborn pushed me toward defiance. A dangerous notion.

I ignored my desire to correct her declaration, reminding myself of the consequences.

However, what neither Sabrina nor I had accounted for was that we were not in London. We were visiting a country estate at a house party where my sister and guardian both happened to be present, and both Rowe and Grace knew me far too well to believe the lie.

"Does not care for poetry?" said Grace, affronted. "That could not be further from the truth. Amelia is constantly reading poetry, if not novels."

"Indeed," Rowe agreed. "I have purchased many volumes myself at her request."

"I see." Sabrina shifted on the cushion, straightening her already regal pose. "She must have developed a love for reading since I last saw her."

Grace's brows furrowed, the tell-tale sign that she would not let the conversation rest, and I interjected before she could object to Sabrina's statement. "Yes, I've come to love them. When in mourning, one can find comfort in poetry and novels with more time to enjoy them."

Sabrina's eyes narrowed on me. She was agitated, and I would certainly receive a verbal lashing later, but it could not be helped.

"Then please." Mrs. Davis gestured to the front of the room with a kind smile. "Delight us with something special, Miss Scott."

Something special?

I stood and took my place next to the pianoforte. I had memorized a number of poems by Byron and even Wordsworth, but as I considered which piece to perform, none of them felt right for this moment. It seemed significant in a way I couldn't understand or explain, a turning point of sorts, though how, I did not know. The odd sensation pressed me to deliver words of a more personal nature. Words I'd written in the quiet hours in London to reflect feelings deep within my soul.

And so, I began, the words flowing from memory.

With wings I fly to mountains high

To valleys I swoop below

A witness to the beauty there

To all the world doth show

Then captured, caged, for a long age

A starless night I'm dealt

Severed from sweet freedom's wind

From all I knew and fel t

With dwindling flame and burning shame

Of the future I daren't think

For freedom's song I cannot sing

And thus my soul doth shrink

But hope, a light still burning bright

I plea the darkness lifts

That soon the endless night doth fade

Into light my future shifts

I drew a deep breath once I had finished. The room remained silent for several seconds before erupting into applause. Given Sabrina had not noticed, or perhaps understood the meaning behind the words of her recited poem, I doubted she caught the meaning of mine. That my loss of freedom fell on her shoulders as my captor. She clapped, reluctantly, but the disdain her expression displayed was likely out of jealousy.

I dared a glance at Lord Emerson. If anyone were to fully understand the depth behind my words, it would be him, a man who spent time analyzing and enjoying poetry. His clear blue eyes had lost the amused twinkle. They penetrated me to my core, seeing the vulnerability that no one else did. Searching for the truth.

Why had I exposed myself in such a way?

For a time, I had imagined what it would be like to be free of Sabrina's clutches, to freely enjoy the Season and hope for a love match. But those dreams had faded. Sabrina would never release me while she had everything to gain from my captivity. I had resigned myself to living in the shadows, at least until Grace found a match of her own. Then it would not matter if my secret was exposed. I could live out my days as a poor spinster.

It was not an ideal future but certainly better than being forever trapped in the talons of a monster.

"Beautifully done!" Mrs. Davis applauded. "You have a lovely voice and speak with such conviction." She placed a hand over her heart. "I have never heard that poem. Who is the poet?"

My heart leapt in my chest. It was one thing to recite with conviction, another entirely to reveal I had woven the words together myself. A different level of vulnerability that I could not afford .

"Oh," I said with a light shrug. "I'm afraid I cannot remember, but I have always liked it."

Mrs. Davis nodded. "With good reason. Thank you, my dear." She turned in her chair to face her son as I reclaimed my seat. "Gregory, you will do us the honor of the next one, won't you?"

"Me?" Mr. Davis sputtered, horrified by the request. "Gads, Mother. You know I am not one for reading of any kind. There are far more favorable pursuits, in my opinion."

"I am aware of your opinion," said Mrs. Davis. "It disappoints me greatly. Yet I have not lost hope that one day you will awaken from such nonsensical ideas."

"I am not asleep," Mr. Davis muttered.

Lord Emerson stood, straightening out his coat. "I will take a turn if it suits?"

Mrs. Davis smiled up at him, and the fondness I saw there warmed my heart. I knew Lord Emerson to be a man of little family, his parents both having died and no siblings to speak of. Though I now understood what it was like to lose a parent, I still had my mother, even if she mourned Papa too much to leave Longwood. I still had Grace and a number of cousins I was close to, including Rowe. I could not imagine being so alone in the world as Lord Emerson, and it relieved me that he had the obvious affection of Mrs. Davis and even Mr. Davis.

"You know I do enjoy listening to you," said Mrs. Davis. "I always save the best for last."

Lord Emerson chuckled. "Careful not to offend the rest of your guests."

Mrs. Davis swatted the air, unperturbed. "They will understand and agree with me soon enough. Go on now."

The moment Lord Emerson began, any offense I might have felt faded. I had expected the rich timbre of his voice to carry me away, as it so often did in normal conversation. But this, the way he delivered the words describing sunlight and hope, brought out emotions I had not expected. Tears filled my eyes.

Poetry could do with words what a painting could with color, stirring something within. Provoking thought and feeling. I had always known this—had felt it whenever I read. But hearing lines spoken by Lord Emerson was a new experience altogether, a deeper experience. Each word held more meaning. More purpose.

Perhaps I felt it all more directly because of the steadiness of his gaze. Though Sabrina sat next to me and could easily assume his attention was for her, his eyes never wavered from mine, as if the recitation was meant for me alone, a response to my poem. My heart clung to the idea with such desperation that fear swelled within me. Too many times I had imagined myself the focus of this man's attention, but it had always been a dream, one I knew would never be. What if dreams could become reality?

No. I would not allow such fantasies to cloud my thoughts. My heart would undoubtedly break, and I was already far too damaged to sustain another blow.