Lady of Lincoln (13 page)

‘No, but it was not fair of me,’ Emily persisted. ‘Had I given the matter but a small amount of thought, I should have
realized
that it was not for me to judge another person’s actions. In any case, you are on holiday here, and I am not. I dare say that if I were staying on your estate, I should find that you would be very busy and I would feel idle.’ It had seemed to be such a sensible comment when she had begun to make it. Now, she feared that he would think that she was angling for an
invitation
and she coloured.

He was sorely tempted to tease her, but his instinct told him that now would not be a good time. Instead, he said, ‘I hope
that you are feeling a little more yourself. I will take my leave, but I look forward to seeing you tomorrow on the outing to Gainsborough.’ She looked at him, biting her lip, then glanced away. He narrowed his eyes. ‘You are not thinking of forgoing that because of the tragedy you have witnessed today?’ he
questioned
. ‘You of all people need a little diversion, if only to refresh yourself so that you are ready to deal with the next crisis.’

They both stood up. He crossed to her side, took her hand and looked down at it for a moment or two. ‘You know, if you
were
visiting my estate – and I trust that you will do so, before too long – I would set aside my tasks from time to time in order to show you around. Tomorrow, you will simply be doing the same.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling as he lifted her hand to his lips.

He turned to leave, but before he did so, he looked back and said with a twinkle, ‘By the way, I’m glad Aurelia taught you that thing with the fire irons. It always helps her, I know.’

She went up to her room early in the evening and sat by the window, taking up the hem of the yellow gown. While she was sewing, her mind was free to go over the incidents of the day. She was sorry that she had been so unguarded in her words to Mrs Hughes, and yet that scene had brought unexpected
benefits
. It had brought Sir Gareth round; had he not come, she would no doubt have spent all her time thinking about the Kennedy family. She recalled Sir Gareth’s suggestion that she might visit his estate. Did he really mean it, she wondered?

Going to sleep proved to be difficult that night. It seemed a very long time since she had arranged to go out for the day on an expedition of pleasure, and she found herself feeling excited, almost like a little girl again.

Suddenly a memory came back to her from the recesses of her mind. She could not have been more than five years old, when she had wandered into the kitchen and had found cook
very busy, working at the table and calling instructions to another servant. She must have asked what was happening, because cook had turned to her, red-faced and flustered, and had said, ‘Why, Miss Emily, Master Patrick is coming home, and how I am to get all this done, I shall never know.’

Then Emily’s memory did a little skip, and she now recalled being in the nursery, and hearing the sound of a door slamming, then footsteps coming up the stairs two at a time. The next moment, the door had opened, and suddenly she was flying through the air, screaming with laughter, and grasping at a head of wavy fair hair with her chubby hands.

That must have been Patrick, she thought to herself. Somehow, her father’s constant emphasis upon the young man’s virtues had fostered memories of which he would approve, and pushed others to the back of her mind. She thought of the recollections of her brother which came to her easily: of Patrick sitting decorously at the table; going to Father’s study to read some Greek; sitting next to her in the cathedral.

Oh, but there was another memory! She had been sitting in the angel choir during the service, and getting very bored, when she had chanced to look up at where the Lincoln imp was perched. Then she had glanced at Patrick and in a flash, he had pulled a face at her of such unparalleled hideousness that she had started to giggle, and Patrick had hurriedly covered her face with a handkerchief, insisting later that she had been sneezing.

Lying beneath the covers, she laughed at the memory, then suddenly, driven by a sudden impulse, she got out of bed, lit a candle, wrapped a shawl about her and tiptoed downstairs to the drawing-room. Holding the candle so that it would throw light upon her brother’s portrait, she stared up at the young man depicted there.
Imagine him in the red and gold mess dress that he so much desired
, Sir Gareth had said. As she
contemplated
the picture, she tried hard to do that very thing. Then, picking up the candle, she turned to go. Later, she decided that
it must have been a trick of the light; but at that moment, she could have sworn that those hazel eyes sparkled with merriment. 

W
hen she woke up, the yellow gown was the first thing that she saw. The colour seemed to bring sunshine into her room, even with the curtains still closed, and after a few moments, she realized that she was lying in bed smiling.

A short time after this, there was a knock at the door and Mary, the maid, came in with a tray. Emily had told her father that she would be going out with the Trimmers and their party. Not wanting him to see her gown before it was time for them all to leave, she had taken the very unusual step of asking for breakfast to be brought to her in her room the next day. This meant that she would not have to go downstairs until she heard the door bell ring.

‘It’s a fine day, miss,’ Mary said, putting the tray down on the bedside table, then adjusting Emily’s pillows behind her when she sat up. ‘I think you’ll have a good run to Gainsborough today. Just enough rain in the night to lay the dust, I reckon.’ Having spread a little cloth over Emily’s knees, and given her the tray on which there was a slice of ham, a poached egg, some toast and a cup of tea, she turned to go. ‘Oh, miss!’ she exclaimed, halting in her tracks. ‘What a lovely gown! Is that what you’re planning to wear today?’

‘Yes, it is,’ Emily replied. Then, a little uncertainly, she added ‘It is quite unlike anything I have worn before.’

‘I should think it is, miss,’ Mary replied approvingly. ‘You’ll
look very becoming, too, if you don’t mind my saying so. May I come up and dress your hair for you before you go out?’

‘Thank you, Mary, I should be glad of your help,’ Emily replied, almost shyly.

‘I’ll just be getting your hot water, then.’

Reminding herself sternly that it was only small, spoiled
children
who insisted that they were too excited to eat, Emily applied herself determinedly to her breakfast, and by dint of telling herself that she could not be sure when or where they might be eating next, she managed to get it all down shortly before Mary came back in with the hot water.

Once out of bed, she lifted the corner of one curtain and saw that, as Mary had said, it promised to be a fine day. Humming to herself, she washed and dressed, taking a little more time than usual, so as to put off the special moment of donning the buttercup-yellow gown. Then at last, when she could delay no longer, she pulled it on over her head and fastened it, trying not to look at her reflection until it was on properly. Then, quite deliberately, she crossed to the window, opened the curtains, then went to the mirror, and looked at herself.

The gown might have been made for her. The neckline was demure, much to her relief, but the way that it was cut seemed to give length to her neck, and the bodice made the most of her curves which were, in truth, a little more modest than those of Mrs Trimmer. The colour brought out golden lights in her hair and gave warmth to her eyes; and if she had had any doubts in her mind as to whether the gown became her, Mary’s cry of ‘Oh miss, you look beautiful!’ immediately allayed them.

‘Now come and sit down, miss, and I’ll dress your hair,’ said the little maid, taking up Emily’s brush and comb. The girl worked quickly, and by the time she had finished, she had achieved a style that was both modest and becoming.

‘Thank you, Mary,’ Emily said gratefully. ‘You have done very well.’

‘I wouldn’t mind doing more of this kind of work, miss,’ the maid admitted. ‘But you never seem to need me very much.’ She sounded wistful, and Emily, who had always congratulated herself on not giving the servants extra burdens, wondered whether she had actually deprived them of some of the more interesting tasks thereby.

It was only as Emily picked up the bonnet that she gave a gasp of dismay.

‘What is it, miss?’ Mary asked.

‘My feet!’ Emily exclaimed, in a voice that was very like a wail. ‘What shall I wear on my feet?’ Her black boots were the newest and the most comfortable that she possessed, but she could not possibly wear a pair of black boots with a
buttercup-yellow
gown.

Mary thought for a moment. ‘Wait a minute, miss,’ she said. ‘I’ve got an idea.’ She left the room, and came back a short time later with a pair of light brown boots in her hand. They looked much daintier than Emily’s black ones. ‘Those would do, wouldn’t they?’

‘Why yes, if they fit me,’ Emily answered, sitting down so that Mary could help her on with them. They did fit and felt as if they would be very comfortable. ‘Where are these from?’ Emily asked.

‘They’re my best ones, and nearly new, miss,’ the maid answered proudly. ‘I’d be honoured if you’d wear them.’

‘Mary, this is very kind of you,’ Emily declared. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Certain,’ Mary replied. ‘I’ve seen how well you look after your own things, so they won’t come to harm. Besides, I’ll be right glad to think of them wandering around Gainsborough with that Sir Gareth! I wouldn’t mind a stroll in the moonlight on
his
arm!’

‘Mary!’ exclaimed Emily in a shocked tone.

‘Sorry, miss,’ replied Mary, not noticeably dashed, ‘but he is handsome, isn’t he? And what a fine pair of shoulders!’ Emily
did not dignify this with a reply; but she noticed that Mary was grinning as she helped her on with her bonnet.

The door bell sounded promptly at half past nine, and Emily’s heart suddenly started to beat rather quickly. Who would have come to collect her, she wondered. She glanced in the mirror one last time, and knew a moment’s indecision. Briefly, she wished that she was wearing one of her own,
uninteresting
gowns so that she could blend into the background, but it was too late to change now, so with some trepidation she left her room and walked onto the landing. She could see her father talking with Sir Gareth in the hall. Gathering all her courage together, she began to make her descent. The two men glanced up and both fell silent, and Emily, looking down at the baronet, saw on his face an expression that could only mean admiration.

If those were his sentiments, they were undoubtedly hers as well. Today, he was dressed in a dark-green riding coat and buff breeches, and his clothes fitted him to perfection, his coat stretched without a single visible wrinkle across the shoulders that Mary admired so much. As for his boots, Emily could not remember ever seeing any so shiny before. Mary was right: he certainly was handsome. This very thought gave her cheeks a most becoming colour as she finished her descent.

Canon Whittaker was the first to speak, and to his daughter’s great astonishment said, ‘Emily, my dear, how lovely you look! Very pretty indeed! Would you not say so, Sir Gareth?’

‘You have taken the very words out of my mouth,’ the baronet replied, lifting Emily’s hand and kissing it.

‘Thank you, Papa,’ Emily said. She had been preparing herself for all kinds of reactions from her father, ranging from a horrified insistence that she change immediately, to a sorrowful disapproval that she had squandered money on fripperies. So astonished was she at his unexpected praise that by the time she had remembered that Sir Gareth had also complimented her, it was too late to thank him without
making it sound like an afterthought.

‘I do not recall seeing that gown before,’ remarked the
clergyman
, before she could make a decision one way or the other. ‘You must wear it more often. It suits you.’

‘I am glad that you think so,’ Emily answered tentatively, replying to the second part of her father’s speech and ignoring the first.

‘Are you ready, ma’am?’ Sir Gareth asked her.

‘Oh yes, certainly. We must not keep the others waiting. Goodbye, Papa.’

‘Goodbye, Emily,’ answered her father, surprising her very much by leaning forward and kissing her warmly. ‘Have a lovely outing.’

‘You look puzzled,’ said Sir Gareth, when they had got outside. He extended his arm to her and after a brief hesitation she took it, reflecting that when Dr Boyle had done so quite recently, she had quite deliberately put her hands behind her back.

His comment took her aback, and before she could think of another reply, she found herself saying, ‘To be honest, I was preparing myself for Papa’s disapproval.’ Then she felt disloyal for voicing such a sentiment.

‘Of your gown, or of your going on an outing?’ he asked her.

‘Of both, I suppose, but chiefly of the gown, I confess.’

‘Perhaps you have tried too hard to make up to him for the fact that he lost his son,’ the baronet suggested.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked him.

‘Of course you could not become a priest instead of Patrick, but you have in every other way sought to do the kinds of things that you believed that Patrick would have done, and of which your father would have approved. The consequence is that your father has readily accepted your self-effacing
diligence
, but has never until today seen you for the very attractive woman that you are.’

‘Oh,’ whispered Emily, blushing at this mild compliment.
Glancing down at her rosy face and shy smile, the baronet suddenly felt his heart give a little lurch. If such a modest compliment gave such pleasure, he wished that he had said something more extravagant. Fortunately, since Emily could not think of a response, they soon turned the corner and saw Mrs Trimmer’s elegant barouche standing outside. A little further away, two grooms were looking after a fine black horse, a
chestnut
with a lighter mane, and a piebald pony.

Mr Trimmer and his two sons were talking to one of the grooms and, as Emily drew nearer, she could see Oliver
shuffling
impatiently, whilst James was saying ‘Papa, why can I not go on my pony as well? I don’t
want
to go in the barouche.’ Involuntarily she smiled and glancing briefly up at the baronet, saw that he was smiling too.

At that moment, Mrs Trimmer came out of her front door looking very attractive in a gown of deep rose, with a shawl of a lighter shade of pink. ‘Emily, how lovely you look, and what a pretty gown!’ she exclaimed, without a blush.

‘Thank you,’ Emily answered, a little self-consciously. ‘You are looking delightful too, Aurelia.’ She could not help
wondering
whether it was entirely appropriate that the wife of a
clergyman
should be so unashamedly duplicitous!

‘Would you like to step inside for a few minutes?’ asked Mrs Trimmer. ‘Annis and Stuart should have been here by now, but I must admit that I am not entirely surprised that they are late.’

‘They will be here quite soon, I’m sure,’ replied Sir Gareth reassuringly. As soon as they had arrived at the Trimmers’ house, Emily had drawn her hand out of his arm. She was surprised, and a little annoyed with herself, at how much she missed that contact.

‘You are very optimistic,’ murmured his sister. ‘Do you have any grounds for your belief?’

‘Oh yes,’ Gareth replied. ‘Very good grounds. The time is now almost ten o’clock. I informed them that we wanted to set
out by nine, and they are merely an hour late.’

Both ladies laughed at that. ‘Gareth, for shame!’ his sister exclaimed, as soon as she was ready. ‘Such deceit!’

‘My dear sister, you would be surprised how mendacious I can be, given the necessity,’ answered the baronet blandly.

Sure enough, moments later, and before the members of the party already assembled could go inside, Lord Stuart and his cousin came through the Exchequer gate, with a groom leading the gentleman’s horse. To Emily’s surprise, however, they were accompanied by Dr Boyle.

Dressed in a riding coat of hair brown, he looked more rodent-like than ever; and this expression was accentuated when, on catching sight of Emily, he poked out his nose and, as soon as he was close enough, exclaimed, ‘Miss Whittaker! Where upon earth did you get that gown?’

Emily flushed with mortification, a feeling which was only increased by the sound of Mrs Hughes’s smothered laughter.

Before she could say anything, however, she heard Sir Gareth’s deep voice, but speaking in the accents of a society drawl that she had not heard upon his lips before. ‘Gad, Dr Wen—’

‘Dr Boyle, sir,’ interrupted the doctor, not sure whether to take offence or not.

‘Boyle, then; where the deuce do you think she got it? Off a mulberry bush? It’s from a modiste’s of course.’

‘Yes, I dare say,’ the doctor agreed. ‘But when did you get it, Miss Whittaker, and from where?’

‘Upon my soul, Doctor, you are impertinently curious about where a lady gets her gowns,’ declared Aurelia, her brows
soaring
.

The doctor flushed an unbecoming red. ‘Just so; I beg your pardon, ma’am.’

‘It is not my pardon you should be begging,’ Aurelia told him roundly. ‘Emily will be far more forgiving than I, if she permits you to give her your arm for so much as a step today.’

‘Of course,’ the doctor answered in mortified tones. ‘My apologies, Miss Whittaker.’

Mrs Hughes was not so easily satisfied, however. Scenting a mystery, she said curiously, ‘Miss Whittaker, I trust that I too, will not be condemned for unseemly curiosity, but I confess that I should be interested to know where you procured such a charming gown. If Lincoln boasts such fashionable modistes, I might be tempted to purchase something on my own account while I am here.’

Emily stood silently, unable to think of anything to say. For her own part, she would have been happy to say from the very beginning that she had borrowed the gown from Mrs Trimmer. Now that Aurelia herself had come so powerfully to her defence however, she could not help but realize that to reveal the truth at this juncture would not only make her look foolish, it would make her friend look foolish too.

Before the silence could become embarrassing, however, Sir Gareth spoke again. ‘Annis, my dear, you have no need to question Miss Whittaker any further. I can tell you
everything
you wish to know about this gown.’ To Emily’s
consternation
, he walked slowly around her, quizzing glass in hand, whilst Aurelia tried not to look anxious. ‘Firstly, I can tell you that it was not made in Lincoln. It is from a London modiste; Mme Claudine, I would say, if I had to hazard a guess. Secondly, it displays the unmistakable stamp of my sister’s taste, and I would say that she probably gave advice on the colour and style. My guess, Annis, would be that Aurelia procured it from London on Miss Whittaker’s behalf. Am I correct, Aurelia?’