Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
April 1811, Highbury, Surrey, England
The sun shone high above when Anne Taylor and her adolescent charge, Emma, set out for the village of Highbury on foot that morning, despite the concerns of Emma's father and Anne's employer, Mr. Woodhouse.
"What if you should take a chill, Miss Taylor? What if Emma should twist her ankle in an unseen dip in the road?" he'd fretted.
Emma rolled her eyes behind her father's head. Anne gave her a chastising little frown before answering.
"I assure you, Mr. Woodhouse, that I'm in fine health indeed, and confident I'll remain well should the weather unexpectedly turn. Emma and I will be vigilant and will return unscathed."
Although his brow remained creased with worry, he made no further protest.
As they neared the small home where Miss Bates and Mrs. Bates dwelled, the sky had begun to cloud, but it didn't appear to be serious.
By the time they'd finally extricated themselves from the friendly but verbose Miss Bates and made their farewells, those clouds were ominous. They'd taken but a few steps when the sky opened up.
Mr. Weston, a widower in his forties and lifelong resident of Highbury, strolled out of Ford's shop as the first drops fell. He tucked his parcel under his arm and hurried over, producing two umbrellas and handing the first to Emma.
Opening the second, he offered it to Miss Taylor, who hesitated.
"I should hate to deprive you of both umbrellas and leave you to the rain," she said, wishing she'd thought to bring one of her own. Being soaked to the skin might be just punishment for dismissing Mr. Woodhouse's concerns earlier.
"Nonsense." A soft smile displayed humor lines on either side of his mouth. "I could never shield myself while leaving you to the elements."
Anne understood he was simply being mannerly, as any gentleman would in those circumstances. His words nonetheless caused her cheeks to heat.
"Miss Taylor has a point," said Emma, a worrying mischief in her eyes. "However, it's such a large umbrella; surely you can share it?"
Anne's eyes narrowed in warning before she turned to Mr. Weston, ready to dismiss Emma's suggestion. But he smiled warmly, extending his arm. As she placed her hand upon it, a quick frisson of something unfamiliar slid up her spine.
He insisted upon seeing them safely home to Hartfield, despite residing in town. Anne remained conscious of his warmth beside her as the three of them spoke of the weather, the elderly vicar, and the upcoming village assembly.
"Will you be attending, Miss Taylor?" he asked, then hurriedly added, "And Miss Woodhouse?"
Anne's cheeks heated again. She glanced at Emma, waiting for her answer. Emma looked from her to Mr. Weston before resting her gaze back upon Anne.
"Yes, Mr. Weston. I do believe we shall."
After Mr. Weston left them at their doorstep, Anne hurried to her room, crossing to the window to try to catch a glimpse of him. She could just make out his tall, broad form in the distance, cresting the hill that would hide him from further view. His legs ate up the ground in long strides, and he soon disappeared from her sight.
She settled her flustered nerves, smoothed her hair back into order, and went to find Emma.
The girl sat at the pianoforte, idly plunking discordant keys.
"Emma, you would be so much more accomplished if you practiced regularly."
Emma grinned. "But I am accomplished enough to play adequately, which is all I require. I've no need of musical skills to impress potential suitors, as I've no wish to be married. Mr. Weston was rather chivalrous today, was he not?" she continued, in an abrupt change of subject.
Caught off guard, Anne allowed herself to think about the man.
Anne always found Mr. Weston to be both courteous and congenial when their paths crossed; other than that, she hadn't previously given him much thought. She was strangely comfortable today, sheltered by his umbrella and his body.
"Indeed, Mr. Weston behaved gallantly. Although you should not have put him in such an uncomfortable position by suggesting he and I share an umbrella," she gently chided.
Emma widened her eyes innocently. "But why? I was merely being practical, and Mr. Weston certainly didn't appear to mind."
"Be that as it may, we might have taken him away from other duties in order to see us home."
"But then he would have had to walk in the rain himself, and that hardly seemed fair when he brought two umbrellas and we brought none," Emma reasoned.
"Practice your pianoforte, Emma," Anne ordered, extricating herself from the futile conversation. There would be no dissuading Emma from this, and Anne long ago learned to choose her battles wisely.
As she listened to Emma's serviceable playing, she allowed her mind to linger on Mr. Weston. He'd been widowed for many years, his wife having tragically passed shortly after giving birth.
He might be an amiable man, but she saw no indication that he sought to change his bachelor status. It would not do for her to dwell upon him, indulging herself in fantasies about being swept off her feet and carried away by a suitor. That dream had died long ago with Geoffrey.
Besides, she essentially had a family of her own after dwelling with the Woodhouses for the last twelve years. Only sixteen now, Emma still needed her, and Anne would never abandon a job half done.
She needed to put her mind to better use than romantic delusions.
Thomas Weston didn't consider himself to be an overly sentimental man. He was distraught when his wife had fallen ill and quickly passed away. The departure of their young son to live with his wife's sister and her husband shortly thereafter was an unfortunate necessity. While he'd missed the boy dearly, he believed it the best decision for young Frank. He couldn't have properly provided for his son, with the mounting debt he'd accumulated in a fruitless effort to gladden his late wife.
But that was long ago. In the heartbreaking aftermath, he'd joined his brothers in their thriving London business and become well established in trade.
He'd buried thoughts of the lost future, a welcoming family, laughing children, and a loving wife. Instead, he'd toiled arduously, keeping himself busy with his employment and maintaining the small home he owned in Highbury, traveling as necessary for work.
The thought of remarrying occasionally occurred to him. But he'd never found another woman who intrigued him as the late Mrs. Weston had; likely a good thing, as his interest in her blinded him to the vast differences in their positions and how that would impact their marriage.
Now he possessed a modest fortune and was adding to it with an eye towards purchasing Randalls, a small estate adjoining Highbury. With this prospect in mind, he had lately begun considering marrying again.
It would be a few more years before he possessed the funds to purchase the estate; the wise course would be to wait until he was situated at Randalls, then seek out a bride. He might be perhaps fifty years of age by that time, but he'd maintained his military fitness and considered himself a not unattractive man.
These thoughts slipped his mind in recent weeks but came hurtling back to the forefront as he'd walked back home from Hartfield.
When Miss Taylor's delicate hand rested on his sleeve, he'd been exceedingly aware of it, despite the lightness of the contact. He'd never been so close to her before.
He'd previously noted the gentle patience with which she always treated Emma, and the way she continued to wisely guide her as Emma neared adulthood.
Now he discovered that, although of a serene nature, Miss Taylor was warm and gracious. He'd enjoyed their conversation as they'd walked, as well as the intermittent periods when silence briefly fell before Miss Woodhouse introduced a new topic.
He arrived home, handing his damp umbrellas and greatcoat to the footman.
"Good evening, sir," greeted the housekeeper as Thomas contentedly inhaled the welcoming aromas of lemon oil, wood smoke, roasted chicken, and fresh baked bread. "Dinner will be ready within the half hour."
"Thank you, Mrs. Wheeler. It smells delectable, as always." She answered with a pleased smile.
Settled into his favorite brown leather chair by the fire in his study, thoughts of Miss Taylor continued to preoccupy him.
He couldn't yet adequately support her and, potentially, a family. He didn't wish to engage in serious pursuit until closer to his goal. He must bide his time.
But perhaps he might seek out a closer acquaintance to Miss Taylor in the meantime.
Thomas hadn't needed to engineer a way to spend more time with Miss Taylor. He was invited to a dinner party at Hartfield the very next week.
He greeted the Woodhouses and Miss Taylor, then watched the governess settle Mrs. Bates by the fire and engage Miss Bates in some subject. He admired her effortless way with people of every social class and personality.
He was quietly delighted to find himself seated at dinner next to the woman dominating his thoughts.
"Miss Taylor, I trust you are in good health?" He wished in that moment that he possessed more cleverness or charm, or both.
A pretty pink blush skated over her cheeks. "I am, thanks to your solicitousness, Mr. Weston. Miss Woodhouse and I would have fared poorly if you weren't so well prepared for the sudden storm."
Her smile arrested him, along with her deep blue eyes. "I, er, am honored to have been of assistance," he finally managed.
Thomas wanted to growl with frustration as silence descended and she looked away. What was wrong with him? Talking usually came so naturally.
He blew out a breath of relief when Mr. Harrison, the elderly vicar, summoned her attention on the other side. Taking a few slow, steady breaths, he used an old trick from his military days to settle his mind. Calmer now, he conversed with Miss Taylor for the remainder of the meal without appearing a dullard.
It was fortunate he had decided he wasn't ready to pursue her. He'd have to find a way to be more unflappable if he became so discomposed when she was near.
Anne thought the dinner party eminently enjoyable. She'd been unsurprised to discover that Emma had seated her beside Mr. Weston. At that close distance, he smelled of woodsmoke, cherry tobacco, and a mix of bay and sandalwood -- his shaving soap, or perhaps cologne? She found the masculine melange of aromas appealing.
He seemed flustered at first. After exchanging a few words with the vicar, she turned back to Mr. Weston with a smile designed to put him at ease.
"Have you any recent news from young Mr. Churchill?" she asked, aware that his son was one of Mr. Weston's favorite subjects.
His warm brown eyes immediately lit, and he launched into the latest missive he'd received. By the time pudding was served, they had discussed any number of subjects and his equilibrium seemed to have been restored.
"Shall we all adjourn to the parlor for games?" Emma's suggestion at the end of the meal was met with enthusiasm, and they began a round of charades, each of them crafting riddles for the others to decipher.
Anne listened raptly as Mr. Weston took his turn. When his turn concluded and no one had guessed from his clues, he revealed the answer. "I'm afraid I have little aptitude for devising charades," he said ruefully as he sat beside her. "I am far better at guessing them."
"Fret not, Mr. Weston," she told him with a smile. "You will no doubt acquit yourself splendidly."
When he smiled in return, the skin at the outer edges of his dark eyes creased attractively. Lines on either side of his mouth attested to how frequently he smiled, and she found those attractive, too.
Tonight he wore an elegant claret-colored velvet coat over a waistcoat in browns, greens, and cream, paired with buff breeches. His black boots were of excellent quality, though not extravagant, and they'd been polished until gleaming. His crisp white neckcloth was tied in a simple knot .
He didn't preen but was aware how to dress to his own advantage, in colors that flattered his thick brown hair, just beginning to turn gray at the temples. She always thought Mr. Weston the picture of affability, but while her mind acknowledged his attractiveness, she'd never allowed that recognition to have free rein.
It was difficult to ignore this evening as she took her own turn in the game, standing to recite her verse. Mr. Weston's eyes fixed upon her, and although others looked at her, his gaze somehow seemed more...significant. As if he watched her due to more than the game.
Anne fought off a blush and prayed for her turn to end, relieved when Mr. Knightley hit upon the correct answer and she returned to her seat, carefully avoiding Mr. Weston's gaze. She really must stop behaving as such a ninny in his presence.