“My darling gel, I’m so glad you came,” Sophie’s cheeks were blooming red and her eyes sparkled happiness in their faded blue depths. “I was afraid that perhaps you wouldn’t, considering what you went through…” Her voice faded, and she glanced sorrowfully at Emily.
“Aunt, it’s not your fault that it happened, and I have refused to dwell on it overmuch. I came because I adore you, and I wanted to make sure that you were well and comfortable.” Emily smiled at her aunt and took a hand in hers, feeling the papery dryness of old skin beneath her youthful fingers.
“I could have sent for you early on, made sure that you weren’t exposed to your father’s distasteful habits – or his friends. I should have.” She nodded decisively to herself, obviously upset with her lack of action in the past. “There was so much I could have done. Your mother, rest her soul, would have wanted you to have a season, a coming out – she would have wanted you to be with me… But I simply didn’t realize how awful it was going to be –”
“Sophie, dearest – please do not overset yourself. It is done, and we must not contemplate what could have or should have happened. We must simply enjoy what we have now, and look to the future.” She smiled down at her aunt, then got up and walked around the bed to the settee.
“My dear Emily, even you know that there’s not much future here for me,” Sophie said, amusement in her face. Emily turned to look at her and started to protest, but Sophie shushed her and waived a hand. “Oh please, Em! Don’t lie to an old woman. I know I’m dying, and I’m at peace with it. I’ve had a full life, and have done most of what I wanted, even though it wasn’t always what I should have done. It suits me that I’m to pass now – and that you’re here with me to make the end of it less boring.”
“Well, then – while we’re making things less boring, Aunt, would you like some more tea?” A chuckle laced Emily’s voice, and she poured a cup for herself. Turning, she saw her aunt’s eyes flutter closed for a moment, then open slowly.
“Yes, I think tea would be nice. And then a nap… I seem to be a bit sleepy.” Sophie’s voice was soft and muted, and she sighed. “I seem to be a bit sleepy most days, honestly.”
Emily brought over the cups for both of them, and sat. “Would you like for me to read to you, Aunt?”
“That would be lovely.”
Anthony found the both of them sleeping a few hours later, Sophie propped up in her bed and snoring softly, and Emily curled up on the end of the bed, a book propped open in her hand. Apparently, poems of Byron and Shelley had caused a sudden attack of napping.
Gently touching her shoulder, he smiled as Emily sighed and rolled over, a confused, then guarded look on her face as she focused on his face. She put the book down, rubbed her eyes of sleep, then got up and patted her hair.
“My lord, I am sorry – I fear that I lost track of time and needed a nap.”
“It is quite alright, Miss Campbell. I came to let you know that dinner will be served in an hour or so, and the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Whitloe, will be there for you to meet. You will be joining us, I hope?”
Emily quietly moved away from her aunt, making sure not to touch any part of Anthony. She felt suddenly closed in, hemmed in a way, and he was much too large for the room, and much too close to her. He backed away from her and allowed her passage toward the door to her suite of rooms. She stopped just short of turning the handle and turned, her head bowed.
“I will be – happy to join Mrs. Whitloe and yourself this evening for dinner. I shall be down shortly.” She glanced up and saw that Anthony’s face was unreadable, then she quickly turned the handle and was gone as quickly as a summer breeze. Anthony’s jaw tightened, then relaxed just as quickly. There was plenty of time – no need to rush things.
An hour later found two rather somber faces sitting around a table with a third that couldn’t stop laughing. Mrs. Whitloe was a cheerful woman filled with laughter and joy for the world at large; and she felt no need to contain herself and not spread the joy to others. She happily chattered for both Emily and Anthony, and filled the two in on the local gossip around the town of Bramblebriar.
Having no occupation to keep her mind from wandering, other than to listen to the daily goings-on of the village, Emily found herself scanning the dining room, seeing the familiar shapes of family heirlooms and new statuary which must have been added by his lordship once he took over the properties. She was pondering a china shepherdess when a comment broke through her reverie and startled her.
“I say, Miss Campbell, you must have been off wool-gathering, I’m afraid.” Mrs. Whitloe chortled. “I asked if there is a young man that might be coming by to visit you from Devon?”
“No, Mrs. Whitloe. I have no young man. I am not in the market for marriage.”
“But why not, my dear? You are young, and handsome enough to catch a score of young beaux should you like it.”
“That is the issue there, Mrs. Whitloe – I don’t like it. Besides, one must have a dowry to have a marriage proposal. I do not possess such an illustrious thing as that. Pretty I may be, but as I am not matched with any other descriptive than that of poor, I feel certain that there will not be vast quantities of marriageable bachelors pounding at my door for me.” Emily glanced over at Anthony to find his eyes dark and angry, almost brooding, at this comment. Startled, she looked down and concentrated completely upon her soup.
“Well, be that as it may, young lady, there are quite a few young men out there with a decent income who would be more than willing to take a lovely young woman such as yourself to wed. You simply need to be seen.” Mrs. Whitloe’s eyes lit up. “We are having a harvest party next week! And as Lord Emberton has graciously allowed us the use of the hall, you have no reason but to come and join in the fun! Do help me coax her to join us at the party, my Lord.”
“Indeed Miss Campbell – it is normally one of the high points of our little town season. You must join us – if only to give your Aunt Sophie stories and descriptions of what everyone wore.” Anthony was rewarded with a small smile and a wistful expression on Emily’s face as she imagined what her aunt would think.
“All right. I suppose I have a serviceable gown I can use for the party.” She smiled again and looked at Mrs. Whitloe. “I may have to impose upon my and you regarding it, to make sure that it’s workable.”
“Of course, my dear,” Mrs. Whitloe chuckled, “Anything to help you out, lovey. I’m certain we shall have you the belle of the ball soon enough.”
Dinner continued with little further conversation besides decoration and general hospitality, until Mrs. Whitloe commented “Of course, it was different with the old Earl living here.”
All movement stopped from Emily, and Anthony stared hard at the older woman, who was oblivious to either of them.
“He couldn’t have given a jot for the town or those living in it – only thought of himself and his pleasures… Ahhh… It was a horrible time to be living in town then, and I can’t imagine being a servant up here.” She glanced over at Emily and, seeing her rapt attention, mistakenly took it for interest. “Since you’re from Devon dear, I doubt you heard of what happened here five years ago. I had lived here for a good ten years, after having married Mr. Whitloe, and we very near starved a few years because the crops weren’t being tended properly. His Lordship wasn’t interested in husbandry. Oh no, he was interested instead in gambling away his father’s fortune.
“Hadn’t always been this way, you know. He’d met a lovely young woman when he was very young and they were quickly married. Rumors are that she was in the family way when they said their vows, but everyone quashed the idea. He was in love, in either case, so it wasn’t anything anyone gossiped about for too long. His lady, Eleanor, what a lovely young thing – she kept his feet on the ground. It was said that she balanced his unruly side, and he gave her a beautiful baby girl… Goodness, it must have been, oh, twenty-five years since.
“It was a happy family that lived here. They visited the village weekly, took care of the people there, and it was generally thought that the town had never been so prosperous. As my dear husband would say, the worst always comes at the best of times…
“Eleanor took sick when her babe was aught but seven. No one knew that it could be contagious – until the little girl got sick with it as well. Smallpox ravaged them both and scarred the chit on her chest, and took her dear mum away from the both of them. It attacked the village as well, and we lost quite a number of people. It was a difficult time, and when the village looked to his lordship for support, there was none to be had. He’d gone round the bend with grief, and even the sight of his daughter, precious though she was, couldn’t console him. His heard had died, and there are those in the village who say his sanity died with him.”
Mrs. Whitloe warmed to her story then. “He started having parties at his house with the lords and ladies from London. At first, all seemed normal, though the parties did include some of the lesser desired people from town. The village was hopeful that this was a sign that His Lordship was feeling better, coming to grips with his loss – and yet… The windows were never uncovered, and the house was permanently darkened inside. It seemed that no one ever saw either his daughter or him, and it was whispered that there were dark goings on in the house.” Emily paled at this.
“Séances were held each week, and it was said that he was trying to bring Eleanor back from the dead. His dear little girl refused to be a part of it, and she hid in her rooms most times, seen to by the servants. When it was finally realized by His Lordship that Eleanor was well and truly gone from him and would never come back, he started having gambling parties and threw himself into what seemed the most unsavory crowds possible.
“Almost monthly the deterioration of the village and the house were seen by those both within and without, and there was worry that His Lordship was going to do either himself or his daughter a harm with all the goings-on. Year in and year out he ran further and further into debt with his creditors and gambling pals. It got to a point where, when the young girl turned twenty, he had become so drunk and debauched at one of his parties, he auctioned her off to the highest bidder to try and ease the noose around his neck.”
Mrs. Whitloe shook her head. “It was a sad state of affairs that night, I can tell you. A runner came from the house to let us know at the Parrish that His Lordship had finally gone round the bend, that his daughter had been forced to flee for her very virtue and life, and that in a fit of despair and horror, he had hung himself and crashed through the glass at the top of the stairs in the main hallway.”
Glancing up, she found that her audience was now weeping into her napkin, and Lord Emberton looked fit to be tied. “Did I say something amiss? I do apologize for oversetting you, my dear Miss Campbell. I don’t know where my mind went. I do like a good story, but I should have known that it would have upset you, as you’re still obviously tired from your journey.”
“Mrs. Whitloe, you will have to excuse me,” Emily said quietly. “I’m not used to hearing my father’s exploits bandied about so openly. I think I need to lay down for the rest of the evening. Thank you for an – educational evening.” With every ounce of dignity, she got up slowly and left the table, leaving a horrified-looking Mrs. Whitloe, and a very angry-looking Anthony.
Rushing through the house, Emily’s vision blurred with tears. She could still hear Mrs. Whitloe’s words ringing in her ears, and could not seem to keep a sob from erupting from between her lips. Her hand fisted into her mouth to keep from making further noise, and she hurried to her chambers at the end of the far hallway, the ghosts of horrors gone by nipping at her heels.
No comments:
Post a Comment