Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

W hen the butler closed the door behind Emma, a sense of finality settled over her like a heavy cloak. It felt as if she had indeed left a crucial part of herself back at that castle, her thoughts heavy with what might have been.

She glanced around the small foyer of their London townhouse and sighed deeply, the familiar surroundings feeling strangely foreign after the emotional turmoil of the house party. The suffocating journey back had taken an entire day, and while the carriage ride had been quiet and tense, now, at least, she was grateful for a momentary respite from her parents.

As she began to ascend the stairs to her own room, she passed her mother's slightly ajar bedchamber door. The raised voices that sifted into the hallway halted her ascent. It sounded like an argument—a serious one.

Against her better judgment, Emma paused by the door, her curiosity piqued despite herself.

"Are we really going to do this right now, Tristan?" Her mother's weary voice floated through the gap. "We've barely dropped our traveling coats after a long journey," she added, her tone laced with exhaustion and frustration.

"I do not care!" Her father's voice boomed back, filled with anger and impatience. "Another investment wasted. The money I spent on the journey to this house party… Her new dresses… All of it, wasted ! Do you know what lengths I went to secure us an invitation in the first place?" He raged on, his voice growing louder with each word.

The voice of reason in Emma's mind urged her to walk away, to avoid subjecting herself to the painful words that were sure to follow. Yet, her feet remained rooted to the spot, and she continued to listen, unable to tear herself away from the harsh reality unfolding behind the slightly ajar door.

" You promised she would make a match this time. But here we are, right back where we started, Caroline," her father's voice boomed, the disappointment palpable in his tone.

Emma had sensed the brewing storm during the silent, tense carriage ride back to London, and now it was clear that her mother was bearing the brunt of it.

"I'd had hopes, Tristan. I'd tried my best," her mother responded in a small, defeated voice, the sound of it tugging at Emma's heartstrings.

"Well, your hopes and best weren't enough," Tristan retorted harshly. "How do you intend to take responsibility now, woman?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the tense air.

A soft whimper echoed through the room, and then there was silence—a heavy, suffocating silence that seemed to stretch endlessly. Emma found herself holding her breath, her heart pounding in her chest.

"First, you fail to give me a son," her father finally broke the silence, his voice laced with bitterness. "Then you give me a daughter, and now you cannot even marry off that waste of a daughter. What good are you then, woman?" His words were cruel, spoken with a venom that shook Emma to her core.

"I should have had a son, Caroline!" The Baron's voice erupted once more, his anger seemingly boundless.

And her mother gasped in horror at his words, the sound of it piercing the silence like a knife.

"A man of my stature should have had a son!" he continued, his face graying.

Caroline raised her head, her eyes filled with a blend of defiance and despair, and Emma could only wonder what words would follow. "Tristan?—"

"Don't you dare," he cut her off sharply, his voice cold and cutting. "Don't you dare call my name. You have no right. You have lost it. As you have failed as a wife," he added, his tone venomous, each word laced with accusation and contempt.

The harshness of his voice, the utter lack of compassion, painted a vivid picture of the daily trials Caroline endured. His words were more than just insults; they were verbal lashes, stripping away dignity and self-worth with brutal efficiency.

Emma could bear it no longer. The pain of listening to such relentless cruelty was too much. She turned away from the door, her heart heavy and her spirit shattered by the weight of her father's scorn not just for her, but for her mother as well.

Instead of retreating to her bedchamber as she had initially intended, Emma decided she needed to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the house. She was still quite weary from the trip, but the need to be as far away from her parents as possible overrode her fatigue.

Descending the stairs back to the foyer, she asked for her coat. As Antoinetta appeared with the garment, concern etched on her face, she asked, "Is all well, Miss?"

"I desire a walk," Emma declared, her voice firm yet hollow, reflecting her need for respite.

"Then I shall join you," her lady's maid responded immediately, offering not just her assistance but her companionship.

Together, they walked along the cobblestoned streets of London, observing the hustle and bustle of the evening. Horses, carts, and carriages passed by, each engaged in the ceaseless rhythm of city life, delivering people and goods through the winding thoroughfares.

Antoinetta, who had always possessed an uncanny ability to read Emma like a book, did not pose any questions as they walked. She simply kept pace beside her, providing silent support. Her presence was a comforting constant in the whirl of Emma's world.

Emma appreciated the silence that enveloped them. It was not the oppressive silence of her family home but a soothing, healing quiet that allowed her thoughts to settle and her heart to ache less fiercely. And as they walked, Emma felt a profound gratitude for Antoinetta. Without her quiet strength and unwavering support, Emma doubted she could survive the trials imposed by her own family.

As Emma's gaze wandered through the dusky London streets, her thoughts meandered just as aimlessly until a particular figure caught her attention. From a distance, his posture and the way he stood—his back turned to them—struck a chord of familiarity in her heart. Her breath hitched with a mixture of hope and a sudden surge of excitement. Could it be him? Could it possibly be George?

Her heart skipped a beat in anticipation as she watched the man turn around. But as his features came into view, her fleeting spark of excitement quickly drained away. It wasn't George. The disappointment was palpable, sinking heavily into her chest.

This jarring moment brought a startling realization: this was the first time she had allowed herself to think of George since their departure from the house party. Until now, she had steadfastly refused to indulge in thoughts of him, too afraid of the pain and longing that might overwhelm her. The memory of their last encounter, the intensity of his gaze as she had climbed into the carriage, haunted her. Had there been real longing in his eyes, or had she merely imagined it in her desperate hope for something more?

With a heavy sigh, Emma and Antoinetta turned a corner, leaving the figure behind. Emma was painfully aware of the turmoil swirling within her—a tangled mess of dashed hopes and unresolved feelings. She felt adrift, unsure of her path forward and how to reconcile the conflict raging inside her.

George stood by the Firman carriage, his silhouette etched against the sprawling estate behind him. The crisp morning air had a bite to it, a sharp contrast to the warmth emanating from the carriage as Olivia, wrapped in her travelling cloak, approached him with a look of concern etching her features.

"Are you quite certain you do not wish to accompany us back to Town, George?" Olivia's voice held a note of worry as he assisted her into the carriage.

"Quite certain," he replied, shaking his head with a firmness he hoped conveyed more assurance than he felt.

"You lot go on ahead," George encouraged with a half-smile, trying to ease the palpable tension.

Olivia's eyes lingered on him, filled with unspoken words and a depth of concern that nearly swayed him. However, before she could articulate her thoughts, Jane, already settled within the confines of the carriage, leaned forward. Her expression mirrored Olivia's.

"George, are you entirely sure all is well? You need not be alone. We would gladly prolong our stay, should you require our company," Jane implored, her brows knitted together in sincere concern.

George couldn't help but notice the collective worry shared between the women in his life. "One would think me a mere child, given the excessive concern," he quipped, hoping to dispel the weight of the moment with light-heartedness. Their smiles, though identical and warm, failed to mask their lingering doubts about his well-being.

"I merely wish to savor a bit more of the country's fresh air before I subject myself to the suffocation of London," he added, his tone light yet tinged with an undercurrent of earnestness.

"As you wish, my man," came Alexander's voice, rich and reassuring as he finally appeared. Alexander had been detained, offering last-minute directions to his steward. Stepping briskly toward them, his presence was commanding, and his concern for George was evident in the sharp gaze he now fixed upon him.

"All good, then?" Alexander's question, pointed and filled with unspoken understanding, lingered in the cool air, expecting an honest testament from George.

"All good," George affirmed, his gaze locking with Alexander's in a moment of silent understanding. He then firmly shut the carriage door and stepped back, offering a final wave as the vehicle began its journey down the gravel path.

He lingered there, watching the carriage until it turned a bend and disappeared from view, the sound of hooves and wheels gradually fading into the morning stillness. With a deep sigh, he turned and made his way back to the grand entrance of the castle.

As he walked, George's hand absentmindedly slipped into his pocket, seeking the familiar shape of his cigar box. Instead, his fingers encountered the unexpected texture of paper. He drew it out, and his brows relaxed as he recognized the letter—Emma's letter, intended for Alexander, yet never delivered by his own hand.

Against the tide of his better judgement, he unfolded the letter once more. Emma's elegant script leapt from the page, each loop and line a testament to her grace, yet now it seemed almost to taunt him. George's grip tightened, the paper crinkling in his clenched fist as a surge of emotion overtook him.

Compelled by a sudden urge, he dashed toward the staircase, his steps resounding through the hall as he ascended two at a time. "Stevens!" he called out forcefully, his voice echoing up the grand stairwell, seeking the immediate attention of his valet.

"Pack my bags. We are returning to Town at once," George declared with a tone of urgency as soon as Stevens appeared.

Within the hour, George was seated in his carriage, the horses galloping briskly as the familiar scenery of the village blurred past the windows. Yet, a particular sight caught his eye, prompting him to rap sharply on the carriage roof. "Halt here, if you please," he instructed the coachman.

He alighted with a swift grace and approached an old man's crafts stall, a spot he had visited once before. The old craftsman looked up, his weathered face breaking into a warm smile. "Ah, Your Grace, you honor me with a second visit," he greeted, his voice rich with cheerful reverence. His eyes darted around, then added, somewhat wistfully, "I do not see the lovely lady though."

"She has returned to her home, I'm afraid," George responded, the words carrying a hint of his own regret.

And I'm following her , he mused silently, his eyes scanning the array of goods. His gaze settled on the Aztec painting he knew she would adore. As he reached for it, a rush of anticipation surged through him.

"I am certain the lady would love this," the old man remarked with a knowing smile as George handed over the coins. There was a sly glint in the craftsman's eyes—a look of mischief mixed with wisdom. A sparkle George couldn't quite read.