Miss Cheney's Charade (18 page)

Emma glanced over to where the lady in question now prepared to depart. Sir Peter offered his arm to escort Lady Amelia to the door and possibly home. Emma knew a sort of sick feeling in her chest at the sight of the lovely Amelia at Sir Peter’s side. Wealth, beauty, charm, plus a title. What chance had Emma with competition like that? Then she wondered where
that
foolish thought came from and turned to her mother.

“I have a trace of a headache. Perhaps we ought to leave. If I am to travel with Lady Titheridge in the morning, I’d not wish to be ill.” Even as she spoke, Emma felt the headache become reality.

Observing that the lady in question had not attended this evening, Mrs. Cheney agreed with haste. Shortly, Emma found herself bustled from the rooms and out of the building.

On her way home Emma tried to push the image of Amelia and Sir Peter from her mind. Perhaps he was merely trying to distract Amelia from Mr. Swinburne. Still, Emma knew the ways of Society. She possessed no fortune, nor was she a raving beauty, and certainly possessed no title. What little charm she held seemed paltry by comparison to what Amelia offered.

On that happy note she went to her room. She slept fitfully and was not sorry to leave her bed at an early hour.

Lady Titheridge possessed a venerable but well-cared-for traveling carriage. The faded leather was soft and the seats comfortable. A hamper full of delicacies her ladyship feared unobtainable along the way occupied a space next to Braddon opposite where Emma perched beside Lady Titheridge.

“Had new springs put on,” her ladyship announced to a startled Emma. “I believe in keeping up with the times, you know. Some folk turn their noses up at new ideas. Not me,” the older lady said with pride.

‘To be sure,” Emma replied faintly. She retreated into her thoughts for a bit while Lady Titheridge appeared to nod off to sleep. It was to be observed that the carriage ride seemed far smoother than that of the Cheney coach, so perhaps there was something to what her ladyship said regarding the effectiveness of the new springs.

Emma looked out of the window. She had escaped London. No reference had been made last night to George coming to Bruton Street for lesson in fencing, nor had Sir Peter said anything about needing George for anything else. She was free ... for the moment.

Her heart lightened with that knowledge even as she tucked that image of Sir Peter escorting Lady Amelia to the dim recesses of her mind. That memory was best ignored.

The journey went well, as a whole. Lady Titheridge was curious about everything. She hunted through her guide book for answers. When she couldn’t find them, she asked innumerable questions at every staging inn where they stopped along the road.

At first Emma found her amusing, then she became caught up in the quest for knowledge and also studied the terrain, the villages, and the old houses that they passed. The gently rolling hills were lush and green. Agriculture fared better here than to the north, according to the papers. From what Emma could see, she must agree.

When they passed through Dorking, her ladyship kept sharp eyes to the window and bade Braddon read the guidebook to her while they traversed the streets.

By the time they went through Billinghurst, Emma felt a rising excitement, for she was drawing closer to her dear, though absentminded, brother. They had been close in years past. Now, if he wrote at all, it was but a few words, usually requesting something.

The inns seemed much the same from one town to another. She knew only impatience at having to spend the night, before traveling southward.

Lady Titheridge commanded the best of everything, and Emma confessed to something of an awe at the bowing and scraping bestowed on the lady. And the oddest circumstance of all was that her ladyship never raised her voice, always behaved in a gracious manner, and yet was treated with utmost respect. Mr. Cheney tended to order about with a gruff voice and manner, and he assuredly fared no better if as well.

At last they reached the village mentioned in the communications from George.

Boxgrove was a pretty little place with not a great deal to recommend it—or so it seemed to Emma—although the sight of a charming timbered cottage as they entered and then thatched cottages along the road brought a smile to her face. She glimpsed an impressive church through the trees and wondered if her brother ever remembered to attend.

The innkeeper promptly suggested they might wish to visit Boxgrove Priory, it being the only outstanding sight for some miles around.

Lady Titheridge besought all information regarding the Benedictine priory established in the early twelfth century. The landlord claimed it was one of the most important medieval buildings in all of Sussex and not to be missed.

“We must see the church, which is all that remains,” she informed Emma while they marched up to their rooms. “I feel it is important to view places of distinction. I believe it to be highly illuminating.”

Emma murmured an agreement. All she could think of was the need to find her brother and persuade him not to come to London for a time.

What she might offer as an excuse had plagued her for days. At last she sought help.

“What
am
I to tell him. Lady Titheridge? I cannot simply say, ‘George, do not come home for a time. Sorry I cannot explain at the moment.’“ Emma paced back and forth in the little sitting room that joined her room to her ladyship’s.

“That is a bit of a problem. I do not suppose you could tell him the truth?” She gave Emma a hopeful look with this suggestion.

Emma paused in her steps. “It might work, actually. George is such an enthusiast about ancient things, he ought to understand my passion to view the unrolling. He might even approve!”

“What about the fencing?” her ladyship asked.

“Now, that he would not approve. At least, I rather doubt it. In spite of his somewhat irregular mode of living, George can be dreadfully stuffy at times.” Emma shared a rueful look with her ladyship and Braddon.

Braddon ventured to voice her opinion—encouraged to do so by Lady Titheridge, who felt no brain ought to be wasted.

“I think perhaps you should find your brother first, see what sort of mood he is in, then choose your path.”

“I expect you have the right of it,” Emma replied, then leaned against the window surround. “I shall go below and see if our loquacious landlord has heard of George. Usually eccentrics are food for gossip in a small community.”

With her ladyship’s wholehearted support, Emma made her way down the stairs and into the hall. Here she encountered the landlord, Mr. Gutsel, without much of a search.

“Do you by chance know of a man named George Cheney? He came to this area to dig for Roman antiquities, and his letters home are mailed from this village.” Emma worriedly clasped her hands before her.

“You be a relative?” Mr. Gutsel inquired with a shrewd study of Emma’s person.

“I am his sister, and we have been most concerned about George. He is not much for writing, and my mother’s health prompted me to discover how he fared.”

At that the landlord’s expression eased. “He was stayin’ here for some time,” he admitted. “Then Sir William invited him to lodge with him, being as how
it was closer to the field in which your brother was diggin’.” The landlord looked as though he was proud that a guest of his inn had transferred to such a residence.

“I see. And Sir William is?” she asked with the hope of learning more.

“Sir William Johnson, baronet and fine gentleman—interested in all manner of agricultural improvements. He’s no afternoon farmer. He’s drained a bit of pasture, experiments with cattle breeding, and plants crops to feed the Londoners. That was how your brother came to him, heard about the draining and hoped to find something of interest, or so he told me. Odd chap, your brother.”

“Indeed,” Emma replied while thinking furiously. “I need to see him. May I send a message? Or might I just ride up to the door to call?”

“If her ladyship were to go with you, I’d present myself, I would,” Mr. Gutsel said with a sage nod of his head. “Lady Johnson is right fond of company, as is the young lady.”

“Young lady?” Emma grew alert. “Sir William has a little girl?”

Mr. Gutsel nodded. “About your age, I’d say. Name of Beatrice.” He looked as though the mere mention of her name brought pleasure.

Curious, Emma thanked the man, then hurried up the stairs to where her ladyship rested.

“George is staying with Sir William Johnson, a baronet apparently well-liked and most prosperous. He also has a daughter about my age. Beatrice is her name. I wonder what goes on there?” She exchanged a questioning look with Braddon and her ladyship.

“We shall find out tomorrow,” her ladyship replied to Emma’s frustration.

“You do not think I might just send along a note to George, asking him to see me here?” Emma begged.

“I suppose you might. In spite of what that landlord says, I am not inclined to present myself at the front door like some ignorant traveler.”

In complete agreement a happier Emma shortly whisked herself off to find Lady Titheridge’s groom. Once located, she gave him instructions and her hastily penned message. “The landlord or about anyone, I gather, should be able to tell you where to find Sir William’s residence.”

Once back in her bedroom, she resumed her pacing. Her simple trip was growing more complex by the hour.

It was the dinner hour for Londoners, although late for the country. A fine meal had been promised, to be delivered up to the little sitting room. When Braddon summoned her, Emma listlessly returned, seating herself at the table, with little enthusiasm for the food placed before her.

“He has promised us an excellent pudding, his wife’s specialty. If you do not eat, I shall be sorry I brought you down here,” her ladyship said sharply at last.

Emma began to consume her meal at once, mortified that she was behaving like a spoiled child. Just because she didn’t trust her tongue not to trip her up was no reason to put a damper on the meal.

After the meal and the excellent pudding had been cleared away, Emma sat near the hearth, waiting. “Surely he will come?” she said to Braddon, Lady Titheridge having decided to seek her bed early.

It was close to nine of the clock when George rapped at the door to the sitting room. Braddon opened it before Emma could.

“Hello, Emma. Why are you here?” George said with his customary forthrightness.

“Ah, Mama is worried about you and wished to know how you go along.” At his disbelieving look Emma added with more haste than sense, “And you must stay here for a time, and not return to London until I send you a message saying it will be all right,” she blurted out.

Braddon tsk-tsked and shook her head at Emma.

“Explain, please,” he said stretching himself out on one of the chairs by the hearth.

“Oh. George, I am making micefeet of this. You see, it is this way.” And Emma carefully explained the situation. She left nothing out but the fencing lessons. Prudence demanded the omission there. As she had told Lady Titheridge, George could turn up stuffy over the most peculiar things.

“Hmm,” he replied thoughtfully. “Can’t say as I blame you. Must have been dashed interesting.”

“Oh, it was! Quite fascinating! And I have been allowed to draw the necklace and all the other treasures wrapped up with the body,” she declared with pride. “You must confess that I am a slightly better artist than you are, so Sir Peter is reaping a benefit there.”

“Wish the Romans had thought to bury their dead in that manner,” George said, his expression pensive.

“Are you having so little success, then?” Emma inquired with concern.

“Oh, a few coins, enough to keep one going. But not what I’d hoped.” He rose from the chair and began to pace back and forth much as Emma had done earlier. “I must find that treasure, now more than ever.”

“Does this by chance have anything to do with the fact that Sir William has a daughter, Beatrice?”

“Gutsel tell you about the family? Sir William is a great gun, and Lady Johnson is a nice lady.”

“And Beatrice?” Emma prompted, delighted to see her dearest brother in such a state over a young lady.

“She is an angel,” George replied with proper reverence. “She understands me.”

“I see,” Emma said reflectively.”I believe I should like to meet her.”

“Oh, Lady Johnson insisted you must come tomorrow.” He fumbled in his pocket, then produced a pretty little letter from the lady of the house. He handed it to Emma, saying, “She would like you and Lady Titheridge to remove from the inn and lodge with her. It’s a big house, Emma, and plenty of rooms.” Then he added artlessly, “And you could get to know Beatrice better that way.”

“I shall tell her ladyship about the proposal come morning. She has retired for the night, you see,” Emma whispered. She took the letter, placing it on the table near the door to her ladyship’s room.

“Just come,” George said as close to pleading as he ever came.

“It is a bargain, then? You remain down here in Sussex until I send you the word all is clear?” Emma demanded.

“I foresee no problem with that.” He moved to the door, placing his hand on the knob, then paused. ‘Thing is, I cannot think of asking for Beatrice with the sum Papa has promised me. Her father is dreadfully rich. I must find something to validate my claims as a student of antiquity. Since he has no son, I believe he would set me up, but that isn’t enough. I must do something on my own. Do
you
understand, Emma? God knows, I doubt Beatrice would comprehend that.”

“I believe I do,” Emma replied softly. “And do not underestimate your Beatrice. Any woman intelligent enough to fall in love with you must have more than ordinary brains.” Emma moved closer to give her dear brother a comforting pat on his arm.

George turned rather red in the face, grimaced at his little sister, then left the room.

“Did you ever?” Emma demanded of Braddon, who had remained silently in the background.

“Indeed,” the maid replied, then bustled Emma off to bed.

* * * *

Come morning, Braddon entered Emma’s neat little room with a pitcher of steaming water. “Her ladyship says to inform you that she will be pleased to visit with Sir William and Lady Johnson. She suggests that we leave for the hall shortly after twelve of the clock. I believe her ladyship would like to spend this morning viewing the Boxgrove church so praised by the landlord.”