‘Was it a literary debate?’ Emma asked quite interestedly.
‘Er…no,’ Matthew laughed. ‘Nothing quite so highbrow, I’m afraid, my blue-stocking Emma. It concerned the siting of a new water pump in the village and how division of the cost is to be made between tenants. Of course, once universal agreement was reached, we had to drink to it…’
‘Of course,’ Emma smiled, pleased and relieved that such an amusingly improbable incident was responsible for his hangover. ‘And as the pump is not yet operative you were forced to settle for whisky rather than water.’
Matthew laughed. ‘That’s my Emma,’ he said, with a gentle touch at her face. ‘Actually, the toast was with ill-gotten geneva,’ he revealed, sliding a finger to cover her lips.
Emma sensed her heartbeat quickening as their eyes held. She smiled against the light caress, then asked quickly, ‘And how are your children? I believe I’ve already had a quick brush with your little dog.’
‘Ah, Trixie…’ Matthew muttered with a laugh. ‘I heard Maisie chiding Rachel for allowing the dog back onto her bed. She’s a rapscallion…’
‘Your dog, your daughter, or your servant?’ Emma asked with a laugh.
‘All three at times…but thankfully not usually together,’ he answered, with a rueful shake of the head.
Their tea arrived and Maisie poured and distributed it all the while sending brooding glances at them both. Reproof, almost warning was apparent in Matthew’s glassy hazel eyes as he and Maisie exchanged a look before she quit the parlour.
‘My apologies for Maisie keeping you on the path,’ Matthew smoothly said. ‘She is a little wary of strangers. But she’s a good girl…’
Emma’s tawny head turned, alert to a muffled noise…a snort of humour or anger from the hallway. Matthew gave no sign he’d heard yet, passing idly by the door, he pressed it firmly shut.
‘Well, Emma,’ Matthew said with a distracting smile. ‘Drink up your tea for there are things to be taken care of: the children above stairs, the dinner, but most importantly, you…’
‘Well, do you think Rachel and Toby much grown?’
‘Indeed. I should never have recognised either of them,’ Emma truthfully admitted. Then, finding nothing positive to add, fell silent again. She gathered her cloak about her as the breeze stiffened and turned her head to gaze out over darkening hedgerows and fields.
The dogcart shuddered and swayed over potholes as they travelled on towards Bath, and her evening’s lodgings. Matthew had not quibbled when, over dinner, she’d informed him that she must seek a place to stay. He had simply asked, quite gravely, whether she had the means to pay for her board. Learning that she did had seemed to relieve him.
Mrs Keene’s rooms in Lower Place, on the outskirts of Bath, were the most fitting place for a gentlewoman to overnight, he had then decisively informed her. But now, as they journeyed on in amicable quiet, she knew Matthew was hoping for some complimentary comment about Rachel and Toby. Yet, on meeting the children again today, Emma had been surprised and disappointed.
Rachel was now nine years old and Toby seven and they no longer bore any resemblance to the bonny children she recalled meeting two years ago.
One mild autumn afternoon the Cavendish family had joined her in Hyde Park for a last stroll together before they quit London for Bath. She and Matthew had exchanged good wishes, reluctant farewells and promises to write, while two fair-haired children, neatly dressed in navy blue clothes, had refused to scrunch through the glorious red-gold carpet underfoot as others were, and stood quiet and solemn. On cue, they had politely shaken her hand before their father led them away.
Today, she had uneasily watched Matthew half-heartedly chiding two grubby-faced urchins for failing to wash or neaten their attire before they sat down to dine with their guest. Reluctantly, almost surlily, they had stamped away to be returned by Maisie some few minutes later in a slightly improved state.
Emma had freshened herself for dinner in a small upstairs chamber, thanking Maisie for the washing water and cloth and receiving little more than a terse grunt for her courtesy.
The meal, prepared by Matthew’s cook—an elderly widow who lived but a few yards along the lane, he had conversationally told her as they ate—had been plentiful and delicious. Roast mutton and veal and a boiled chicken had joined dishes of steaming vegetables and sweet blackcurrant tarts on the dining table. Wine had been set out and although Matthew had poured a glass for both Emma and himself, his own goblet had remained virtually untouched—something Emma had found inordinately reassuring.
Despite Emma’s attempts to talk to the children they’d seemed reluctant to cease chewing for the few moments a response would take. On asking about their lessons, Rachel had informed her with a grimace that Miss Peters at the Vicarage tutored them. As for a friendly enquiry on special aptitudes, neither had given the matter much thought before admitting to knowing of none.
Their fond father had then deemed them too modest and defended their ignorance with recalled good marks in English or arithmetic. But with lowered heads they’d simply set enthusiastically about their meals with an air of concentration that precluded further questions or table manners.
The elderly dun mare pulling Matthew’s dogcart stumbled into a rut, throwing them together. Matthew steadied Emma with a sturdy hand, then raised her slender fingers, touching his lips briefly to them. ‘It’s so good to see you,’ he said softly.
It was his tactful way of saying that an explanation for her presence was long overdue, she realised. ‘I have quit London to avoid being married to a detestable man,’ she informed him simply, gazing over a flat, dusky vista. Instinctively her fingers tightened about his, at the oblique reference to Jarrett Dashwood, as though drawing from his strength.
‘I guessed it to be something like that,’ Matthew said softly, reining back so that the mare slowed its steady trot.
Emma looked at her fragile hand resting in his large fingers. ‘My parents have arranged for me to wed someone in the hope he will set to right my father’s debts. The man is a notorious blackguard.’ Her voice shook with strengthening outrage. ‘I had never believed they would act so brutally. The matter was concluded before I had even a hint of it. I will have none of their plots. They have treated me shabbily…abominably…’
‘They must be in grave trouble to do so, Emma, I’m sure.’ His thumb smoothed gently at her wrist. ‘I’m very happy and flattered that you felt you could turn to me for support.’ His voice became husky. ‘Does this mean that you would now reconsider my offer of marriage?’
The air between them seemed to solidify. It was what she wanted, wasn’t it? She had fled Rosemary House late at night instinctively to seek him and these were the words she had prayed he would utter. She heard herself say, ‘I need time to think, Matthew. I’m confused…plagued by ambivalence. I feel guilty for abandoning my parents, yet, at times, I’m sure I despise them almost as much as Jarrett Dashwood.’ Even with the lowering dusk, Emma could discern Matthew’s abrupt pallor. The cart jolted as he reflexively tightened his grip on the reins and the mare pranced.
‘Dashwood? Dashwood wants to marry you?’
The disbelief was plain and made Emma smile a trifle wryly. ‘He has expressed a desire for a sedate, mature spinster to wed. She must be biddable and, I’ve no doubt, so grateful to attain the marital state, she will not challenge him about any of his disgusting goings-on. I imagine he has no more use for her than as a brood mare.’
Matthew gave her an ironic, sideways smile. ‘Biddable? You, Emma?’
‘Exactly,’ Emma agreed, matching his rueful tone. ‘My mother has a persuasive way with my attributes when she scents a bachelor…whatever his character.’ She sobered and gazed