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‘You woke Mrs Murphy?’
‘Naturally.’ He shrugged. ‘That is why one has servants.’
He was right, of course. ‘There is not much available. We have had to move once already and our spare rooms are at a premium.’
‘And they are of less than top quality.’
She bristled. ‘And why do you think that is, brother?’
He had the grace to flush. ‘Mama always managed to make do.’
A pang of guilt because of her ire assailed Emma. Their mother had been wonderful. She had kept the houses that eventually became one house as though they still had an income of consequence. Whenever something had happened, Mama would smile and say, ‘Your Papa is an impetuous man, but he is always generous and loving.’ She had said the same about Bertram, and it was true more often than not. Then Mama would shoulder the new burden with a smile on her face.
It was because of Mama’s memory and her love for her husband and son in spite of anything they did that Emma kept going, kept trying to stay one step ahead of the trade people and money lenders. Mama would want her to.
But things had become worse after Mama’s death. Both Papa and Bertram gambled unchecked, and there was no Mama to look on the bright side.
‘Mama had more to make do with.’ Emma’s exhaustion laced the words.
Right now, with Bertram standing in front of her, and knowing he would gamble away still more money and heirlooms while he told himself he was providing brotherly support and protection, it would be very easy to feel defeated. Emma squared her shoulders. She would not feel sorry for herself. She would look on the bright side and carry on. Mama would want her to.
‘We would not be in this position if George Hawthorne had not acted dishonourably or if you had held him to the engagement.’ Bertram’s voice was both accusing and whiny.
Emma looked at the brother she loved in spite of his faults and wondered when the boy who had shown her how to trout fish and joined her in madcap escapades had changed to the man standing before her. This man was weak, and he blamed others for his situation instead of himself. Regret filled her heart for what Bertram had become.
‘We had this discussion at the time, Bertram. I did what I thought best.’ She did not want to continue in this vein. It led nowhere. ‘Now, I am going to bed.’
Even as he opened his mouth to continue, she turned her back to him. When she heard his voice, she ignored it and went up to the next floor and her room. Tomorrow would be a long day with Amy to curtail and Bertram’s gambling to worry about.
Emma looked up from her third cup of hot chocolate, one of her few indulgences, as Gordon, the butler, entered the breakfast room. She smiled at the old man who had begun service with her family as a footman and was now at the pinnacle of achievement.
‘Yes, Gordon?’
‘Miss Stockton, you remember requesting us to keep an eye on Miss Amy?’
Emma set the half-empty china cup down and carefully folded her hands in her lap. Something had happened which she would not like.
‘Yes, I do.’ She was glad her voice sounded calm when she really wanted to scream in frustration.
‘Well, Miss Amy has just sent one of the hired kitchen girls on an errand.’
‘Do you know what kind?’
The butler shook his grizzled head. ‘No, Miss. The girl was gone when Cook told me. Seems Miss Amy got to the girl just as Cook entered the kitchen to prepare your breakfast.’
Neither he nor Cook could question Amy. Emma sighed. ‘Where is Amy now?’
‘I believe she went back to her room.’
‘No doubt back to bed. It’s very early considering the time we returned last night.’
She rose and dusted toast crumbs from her plain black bombazine dress. She had bought it the first year after Mama’s passing. It was still in too good a condition for her to be rid of it, although the harsh lines and dark colour were not the most flattering for her.
‘Thank you, Gordon.’ She went past him into the small hallway and made her way to the stairs before stopping. ‘Is my brother at home?’
‘Yes, Miss. I believe Master Bertram is sleeping.’ He cleared his throat, an unconscious habit he had when he thought he should say something but didn’t want to.
She would help him. ‘Did my brother come in several hours ago?’
‘Yes,’ Gordon murmured.
She wasn’t surprised. She had expected Bertram to go out after their talk last night. In fact, she would have been shocked had he not.
‘Thank you again, Gordon.’ Somehow she found a smile for him, knowing it was weak but the best she could do.
Emma turned back to the stairs and mounted them slowly, keeping her back straight even though it felt as though the weight of the world rested on her. She was not surprised by anything the butler had told her. Both her siblings had acted just as she expected them to. But the consequences of their actions would make life more complicated for her.
When she had promised Mama that she would care for them and Papa, come what may, she had never expected it to be this difficult. Now all she could do was her best.
Emma rapped on Amy’s door. When there was no answer, she entered. She was in no mood to cater to her sister.
Amy sat up in bed, her blond curls spread around her shoulders in glorious disarray, her cheeks rosy with excitement and her blue eyes dancing. Emma had no doubt Amy’s note had precipitated something Emma would not like and that Amy would like very well.
‘Good morning, Em.’ The younger girl was all innocence.
Emma moved into the room. ‘Good morning, Amy. I hear you have been to the kitchen.’
Amy blushed and Emma marvelled at how beautiful her sister was. When Amy refused to look at her, Emma sighed.
Amy tossed a curl over her shoulder. ‘I went for a bite. I was hungry.’
Emma made a moue of irritation. ‘Amy, when will you stop these high jinks? I know you gave a note to the hired girl. I am sure you sent it to Charles Hawthorne. I don’t know what you said, but it is not done. Not done at all.’
Amy’s face paled into obstinacy. ‘You carry on as though Charles Hawthorne can single-handedly ruin all my chances. Really, Em, you worry too much.’
Emma spluttered in her sudden anger. ‘You do not worry enough!’
‘Pooh!’ Amy threw back the covers and slid out of bed. ‘If you know exactly who I sent the message to, then why are you berating me? I’m surprised you haven’t sent another message telling him to ignore mine.’
‘Then you did send it to him.’
Amy’s attention snapped back to her sister. ‘You didn’t know.’
Emma shrugged. ‘A calculated guess based on what I know of you. You just confirmed my suspicion. Thank you. Now I shall send a note.’
‘Don’t forget,’ Amy said, mimicking her sister’s tone, ‘it isn’t done to send a message to a single man one isn’t related to.’
‘You should have remembered that before you put me in this position.’ Emma didn’t try to keep the tartness from her voice. ‘I have had enough of this, Amy. If you don’t behave, I shall tell Father you must return to the country.’
Amy pulled on her finely woven wool robe, for it was still cool in the mornings, particularly since Emma ordered no fires to be lit in order to save on costs. ‘You know he will not agree. I am the fatted calf.’
There was only a touch of bitterness in the younger girl’s words, but it was enough to stop Emma. Neither one of them was happy with the position they found themselves in. Neither one of them had created this situation, but both of them were paying for it.
Emma’s anger melted. Amy was only doing her best to enjoy her first and only London Season. She would be wed all too soon, sacrificed on the altar of gambling.
Unable to swallow her sorrow for her sister, Emma said, ‘You are too young for this and I wish I could spare you, but I cannot. Just as you are correct in saying Father will not allow me to send you home.’ She went to the door, turning back to say, ‘I will tell Mrs Murphy you are up.’
Emma left, feeling worse than when she’d arrived. Added to that was the requirement to send a note to Charles Hawthorne telling him not to do or respond to whatever was in Amy’s note. One complication after another.
In her room, Emma sat down at the scratched and stained writing desk and pulled a piece of thick paper from the drawer. The note to Charles Hawthorne was not easy. Several copies later, she was satisfied enough to sand the sheet before folding it into a twist. She would give it to a footman who had been born on their family estate. She could trust him not to speak of this. Once that was done, she could settle into her daily supervision of the housekeeping and accounts.
That afternoon Emma sat near the window in the parlour that looked out on the back garden, using the afternoon light to see. She looked up from her darning on a pair of silk stockings when Gordon entered and cleared his throat.
‘Yes?’ She smiled at the elderly butler.
His brow furrowed. ‘Mr Hawthorne is at the door, Miss Stockton. He says he is come to take Miss Amy driving.’
Emma’s stomach seemed to plummet in a pleasurable sensation and her fingers tingled. Her weakness tightened her mouth. The man was nothing but trouble.
‘He ignored my note,’ she muttered.
‘It would seem so, Miss.’
‘Please send him away.’
She ignored a traitorous pang of disappointment. He was not to be trusted and he was only amusing himself with her innocent sister. He was nothing to her.
‘Yes, Miss.’ Gordon said the words without inflection but the gleam in his eye told Emma he would enjoy doing her behest.
The door closed behind him just as Amy’s raised voice came from the foyer. Emma didn’t have to think. She knew if she didn’t get to Amy, the chit would take off with Charles Hawthorne and the devil take the hindmost. She dropped her darning without a qualm, even though there was the chance it might come undone. Seconds later, she was in the hallway.
‘Amy!’ She marched to the couple. ‘And you!’ She turned to glare at Charles Hawthorne.
He was dressed casually but impeccably. His navy jacket fit his broad shoulders as if it had been moulded to him. His buff breeches were equally tight, showing muscular thighs that, try as she might, Emma couldn’t quite ignore. And his top boots were shined to a mirror glow. He held his beaver hat in gloved hands.
He quirked one black brow and said with a sardonic drawl, ‘Miss Stockton, how nice of you to come and see us off.’
Emma halted several feet away from them and forced her attention from the man to her sister. ‘Amy, you are not going driving.’
Amy tossed her head, her blond curls bouncing beneath the brim of her stylish straw hat. Her mouth was a mulish line. ‘Of course I am, Em. There is nothing wrong with accompanying a gentleman in an open carriage through Rotten Row. It is nearly five and everyone will be there.’ She slanted a sly look at Charles. ‘And it will do wonders for my reputation when the other gentlemen see me squired by Mr Hawthorne.’ Her gaze slid back to her sister. ‘Even you must admit that Mr Hawthorne sets the tone.’
Emma closed her eyes briefly and wondered why she even bothered when Amy was so determined to throw her reputation to the wind. When she opened her eyes, it was to Charles Hawthorne’s ironic grin.
‘Much as it pains me to seem so arrogant,’ he said, his tone saying nothing of the sort, ‘your sister is correct. I am generally considered a paragon of fashion.’
Emma snorted before she realised it. Scarlet suffused her face but she would not let herself look away from his now laughing eyes.
‘It is true, Mr Hawthorne, that no one has ever accused you of modesty.’
He made her a mocking half bow.
‘No matter how attractive such an attribute would be for you,’ she finished before turning back to Amy. ‘You are right, it is perfectly acceptable. And the weather is delightful. I believe I shall accompany you.’
Amy’s mouth dropped before she gathered her wits. ‘But, Em, where will you sit? Mr Hawthorne drives a high-perch phaeton that will only hold two and his tiger.’
Emma considered her dignity for a second before throwing it to the wind. ‘I shall sit between the two of you.’
‘We will be tight as clams,’ Amy groused, using a term she had coined when young. She had tried to open a clam bought at the fish market and been unable to. Ever since, when something was hard to open or tight, she used the phrase. ‘Really, Em, it is too bad of you to be this way.’
Ignoring Amy’s words, Emma said, ‘I will only be a moment to get my hat and a pelisse.’
Not waiting for an answer, she hurried up the stairs to her room. She rummaged through her closet for the pelisse and hat, yanking the short jacket on without bothering to button it and cramming the hat onto her head with no regard for her styled hair. She trusted the old butler to do his best to delay them, but she was not giving that pair the opportunity to leave before she got back down.
She arrived downstairs breathing quicker than when she had left, but they were still there.
Amy continued where she had left off. ‘It will be horribly crowded with three. I wouldn’t wonder if Mr Hawthorne will be so cramped that his driving will be affected. That would not be good, for I know he is considered a fine whip.’
Still smiling, Charles said, ‘Thank you for the compliment, Miss Amy. I shall do my best not to lose your trust in my abilities.’
Emma cut him a look, wondering if he had meant the double entendre his words had implied. His countenance showed nothing but good humour. Perhaps her thoughts dwelt so much on his possible seduction of her sister that she read meanings into his words that weren’t there. Somehow she doubted it.
She moved to stand between them. ‘Shall we be on our way?’
She heard Amy’s huff of irritation and ignored it. She just wished she could as easily ignore the sense of Charles Hawthorne’s nearness. She wanted nothing to do with him yet her body betrayed her. She straightened her shoulders, determined to control herself, and marched through the door Gordon held open.
Outside was a magnificent ebony barouche that would hold four people comfortably. The top was down for the fine weather and the crest of Lord George Hawthorne, Charles’s older brother, adorned the door. The urge to turn on the odious man who had let them carry on thinking he was in his racing carriage was nearly too much to resist. He had made fools of them.
Instead, she allowed the footman, dressed in the Hawthorne livery, to open the carriage door and assist her. She sat facing the magnificent team of four matched bays and patted the velvet-covered seat beside herself to indicate Amy was to sit there.
Charles Hawthorne placed himself with his back to the horses. They were no sooner settled than he signaled the driver to start. The carriage moved forward with a smoothness that spoke volumes about the quality of the vehicle. Emma remembered riding in this carriage once with Lord George Hawthorne. She had enjoyed the movement then as well.
Her eyes met her host’s and she suddenly regretted her determination to join the pair. He had such an unsettling effect on her.
‘A tuppence for your thoughts?’
His deep voice penetrated her senses, seeming to sink into the depths of her being. There was something about this man that spoke to her of things done in dark, private places even though she deplored his morals and the way he led his life.
‘Oh, la, Mr Hawthorne,’ Amy said. ‘I am thinking of what an enjoyable drive we shall have.’
His voice tinged with irony, he replied, ‘I hope we will.’
Emma was grateful to Amy. She must have made a mistake when she had thought he was asking her. A silly mistake.
Against her will, Emma listened to the man exchange quips and banter with her sister until they turned smartly through the gate and into Hyde Park, taking their position in the throng of carriages and horses promenading on Rotten Row. Anyone who was anybody, and many who weren’t, crowded the park at this time of day during the Season. It was the height of fashion to be seen here, and Emma, always honest with herself, had to admit being here did Amy no harm.
Amy beamed, her Cupid’s bow mouth open to show perfect white teeth. She raised her gloved hand every few minutes to wave at an acquaintance. Emma decided that much as she had not wanted them to come here with Mr Hawthorne, it pleased her to see her sister so happy. Surely Amy would soon receive an offer.
Charles Hawthorne sat directly across from Emma and when she wasn’t careful, her knee brushed his. It was an unsettling sensation, she decided, as his knee grazed hers for the sixth time. Much as she hated to admit it, the experience was so startling she kept count.
