Читать книгу Marrying The Major - Joanna Maitland - Страница 6

1816

Emma Fitzwilliam slowed her chestnut mare to a relatively sedate trot just before she came in sight of the lodge gates. It was bad enough that she had ridden out without her groom. No need to make matters worse by galloping into the Harding estate like a mannerless hoyden.

She patted her blonde hair into place. Time to assume the role of the perfect lady—the role that she had long since learnt to don as easily as a pair of fine silk stockings.

Emma was longing to see Richard and his wife again. It was only a few months since the Earl and Countess Hardinge had left England for the Continent but, to Emma, it seemed like years. Surprisingly, given that Richard had been her childhood friend, it was his wife, nicknamed Jamie, whom Emma had really missed. The two women had become as close as sisters since Jamie’s marriage. Letters had been exchanged, naturally, but that always meant delay; communications with France remained, at best, uncertain, even though the war had been over for nearly a year and Napoleon was now safely installed on St Helena.

There was nothing like a long, comfortable coze—and that was precisely why Emma had come.

She urged her mare to slightly greater speed.

As she rounded the corner of the house, Emma saw a little group of figures sitting on the lawn under the ancestral oak. She started towards them, but then paused, for Jamie was not there. Two men were sitting on a rug with a very small child, much hampered by his petticoats. Goodness, how Dickon had grown. Emma barely recognised her little godson. He must be nigh on a year old by now.

Dickon’s anxious nursemaid was hovering as close as she dared, watching lest the clumsy males should mishandle her charge. Not much chance of that in Richard’s case, Emma thought, for he doted on Dickon and spent much more time with his little son than most fathers did. The other gentleman, however, seemed not to have noticed the child. He was half-turned away, apparently gazing into the middle distance.

Emma screwed up her eyes against the glare to get a good view of the second man. She did not know him, she was sure, though she could see little more than his profile. He was dark, like Richard, but his lined face looked older and much more serious—rather austere, in fact, in Emma’s opinion. She hoped, secretly, that she would not have to meet him. It would spoil the happiness of her day to meet a man who preached at her.

At that moment, little Dickon started to toddle towards the newcomer, holding out his arms and grinning toothily. His inarticulate squeals of joy at his own prowess carried across the lawn. The nursemaid started forward, arms outstretched to catch her darling before he fell. Richard—apparently unconcerned—smiled benignly. Dickon took two more steps, rocking unsteadily from one side to the other. His precarious balance was obviously beginning to desert him; his infectious grin was turning into the quivering lip that promised a wail of disappointment.

And then the stranger turned back towards the child, bending forward to catch him and lift him high in the air. In a matter of moments, Dickon was convulsed in shrieks of delighted laughter.

When, at last, the man moved to return the child to his father, Emma caught sight of his profile once more.

She could scarce believe what she saw. Why, he was almost like a different person. Playing with Richard’s child had transformed the unknown from a harsh, forbidding man into someone much younger, someone whose face was alight with laughter and a flashing smile…and all because of one tiny child.

Emma suddenly felt as if she were eavesdropping on the visitor’s innermost thoughts. Instinctively, she urged her mare towards the house.

The door opened well before she reached it. The butler stood waiting for her, his normally impassive countenance wreathed in smiles for the young lady who had been running around the Harding estate almost since she had learned to walk. ‘Good day to you, Miss Emma. Her ladyship will be delighted to learn that you have called, I am sure. If you will just step into the blue saloon—’

‘Oh, I don’t think her ladyship would have us bother with such formality, do you, Digby?’ Emma bestowed a dazzling smile on the butler. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to be announced.’ Laying her whip and gloves on the hall table and lifting the generous skirts of her blue velvet habit with both hands, Emma started to run lightly up the stairs. ‘I assume Lady Hardinge is in her sitting room?’

‘Why, yes, ma’am,’ the butler called up to the disappearing figure, ‘but her ladyship is—’

Emma was not paying attention. She was much too keen to see her dearest friend again.

She knocked quickly and entered the Countess’s sitting room without waiting for an invitation.

Lady Hardinge was seated on the low chaise longue by the bay window, looking out across the lawn towards the oak tree. ‘Emma!’ she cried delightedly. She started to rise from her place, leaning heavily on the back to push herself up. After a second or two, she abandoned the effort and sank back into the cushions. ‘Forgive me, Emma. It is rather difficult to rise from this seat. You see—’

Emma flew across the room to embrace her friend. They hugged for a long time. Eventually, Emma stood back and said, in a voice of concern, ‘Are you unwell, Jamie, that you cannot…?’ Her words trailed into nothing as her eyes came to rest on Jamie’s middle. ‘Oh. I see,’ she said, a little uncertainly, mentally calculating the months since she had last seen her friend. ‘You did not tell me you were increasing before you left.’ Emma regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. They sounded like an accusation.

‘No,’ agreed Jamie with a somewhat tired smile. ‘I didn’t—’ she reached for Emma’s hand ‘—because I wasn’t.’

Emma looked at Jamie in disbelief. Surely she was at least six months gone?

‘The midwife in Brussels said it was twins,’ Jamie explained, ‘and, judging by how tired I feel—never mind the size of me—I think she must be right.’

‘Twins?’ Emma sat down quickly on the footstool by the chaise longue. ‘But—’

Jamie patted Emma’s hand reassuringly. ‘I know it sounds rather frightening, but I’ve had time to get used to it now. And it’s not my first, remember…’

Emma forced herself to return her friend’s smile. ‘Congratulations, Jamie. I should have said so at once, but I was so…you looked so…’

Jamie laughed. ‘Richard was at a loss for words, too, when I told him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so…so stricken. I told him there was nothing to worry about. I’m as strong as a horse. And I say the same to you, Emma. Don’t worry. Please.’

Emma squeezed Jamie’s hand. ‘I promise I’ll try not to. When is it…when are they due?’

‘Ah, now, that is more difficult. In the autumn, I think, but the midwife said twins are always early, often by several weeks. So, I don’t really know. Probably not before October.’

Emma’s eyes opened wide. Jamie had sounded almost nonchalant. ‘I see,’ Emma said noncommittally. To be honest, she was not sure she really wanted to see at all. Marriage was bound to involve babies, of course, but it was such a dangerous business, besides being plaguey uncomfortable in the months before. Only a very special man would make it worth the pain and risk, in Emma’s view. Jamie and Richard were a special case—they adored each other. But to marry a man one did not love…

Emma suddenly realised she had heard not a word of what her friend was saying. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. ‘Forgive me, Jamie,’ she said. ‘I was wool-gathering. What were you saying?’

Jamie looked indulgently at her friend. ‘I was telling you about our trip. There is so much devastation, Emma, you would be horrified to see it. Houses and villages in ruins, people in rags and starving. And everywhere, mutilated men begging for a crust. We helped where we could but… Honestly, Emma, I wept sometimes at what I saw. Oh, I know we had to defeat that tyrant, but the cost was so much more than any of us could have imagined.’

Emma nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said seriously. ‘The beggars are in England now, too, and it seems that very few of us are grateful for their sacrifice. Papa said he saw several of them being driven out of town only last week. He has taken one of them on as a stable hand, but he was unable to do much for the others, unfortunately. The money he gave them will not last all that long.’

Jamie was silent for a space, thinking. ‘Your father is a good man,’ she said at last. ‘He cares for the weak.’ She looked up suddenly, her eyes alight. ‘We, too, have an extra hand in the stables now, a man to whom we owe a debt we can never repay. He helped save the life of Richard’s dearest friend. Richard was sure he was dead on the battlefield. I never told you—for Richard asked me not to speak of it—but we went to Brussels in hopes of finding the grave. Instead, we found… Well, suffice it to say that Richard is over the moon at what has happened. He says that just finding Hugo alive is more than he had dared to hope for. Against that, it matters not a whit that—’

‘Hugo? Hugo Stratton?’ cried Emma, jumping up from her stool and knocking it over in her haste to reach the door.

‘Why, yes,’ replied Jamie, puzzled. ‘You don’t know him, do you? He’s down in the garden with Richard and Dickon, but— Emma, wait!’ Jamie was again trying to lever her ungainly bulk out of the chaise longue. By the time she had regained her feet, Emma was gone.

Emma raced across the lawn, berating herself at every step. How could she have failed to recognise Hugo Stratton, the man whose wickedly smiling face had haunted her girlish dreams for months on end? The identity of the stranger had burst upon Emma like an exploding star the moment Jamie had mentioned his name…

The little group was still sitting under the oak tree. Emma smiled to herself, deliberately slowing her pace to a more ladylike walk. How apt that they should meet again under an oak, even if not the same one. Emma had climbed Richard’s oak, too, many and many a time when they were children. She knew it almost as well as she knew her own.

And much better than she knew Hugo Stratton.

What on earth was she going to say to him?

Emma gulped. Would he recognise her? She was a fine lady now, nothing like the grubby little brat he had generously allowed to tease him. She had been a mere child when Hugo left to join the army. To be honest, there was absolutely no reason why he should remember her at all, especially after all he had been through. And yet…

As Emma neared the little group, she saw that Dickon was now sound asleep in his father’s arms. Richard looked proud and happy—and just a mite self-satisfied, too. Hugo was talking quietly to Richard, his back towards Emma. It seemed that neither was aware of her approach.

She hesitated. Then, noticing the enquiring look thrown at her by the nursemaid, she lifted her head a notch and marched across the lawn, arms swinging, skirts trailing unheeded on the warm grass.

‘Why, Richard…’ she began.

Richard, Earl Hardinge, rose to his feet in a single athletic movement, the child in his arms cradled snugly all the while. He smiled broadly, nodding sideways towards the nursemaid to come and relieve him of his son. He did not speak until he had carefully transferred his burden to her waiting arms. Even then, he still whispered.

‘Emma. How wonderful to see you so soon. I had planned to call tomorrow…’

Richard’s words were cut off as Emma threw her arms round his neck and kissed him heartily on the cheek. ‘I could not wait to see you both…no, all three of you.’ As Emma spoke, she became conscious that she had not included Hugo in that number—and that Hugo had not risen to meet her. Intrigued, she turned around.

Hugo was struggling to stand up, pushing an ebony cane into the soft turf in an effort to gain a purchase for his weak legs. His head was still bent, but Emma could see from the heightened colour on his neck how much the effort was costing him. How awful for him. He had been gravely wounded, clearly—Richard had thought him dead—and he was still not fully recovered. The explanation was simple enough—and obvious now she stopped to think about it. Probably it would be best to pretend that nothing was amiss.

Emma fixed her friendliest smile on her lips and waited for Hugo to regain his balance. When, at last, he seemed to have overcome his weakness, she began, cheerily, ‘You may not remember me, Hugo, but I certainly remember the last time we met. I owe you a debt of gratitude for not betraying my presence to a certain mutual friend of ours—’ she turned back to grin conspiratorially at Richard ‘—a friend who fails to understand the significance of apple cores.’

‘I remember you very well indeed, Miss Fitzwilliam, and I was happy to be of service.’

His tone was flat and formal. And his use of her full name struck Emma almost like a blow. She whirled back round to look at this man who was so quick to reject the easy friendship she was offering.

Emma could not suppress an audible gasp. If only she had been prepared…

Hugo Stratton was nothing like the memory she had treasured. Gone was the handsome, eager young man who had smiled up into her favourite oak tree. Under his obviously new civilian clothes, this Hugo Stratton was thin and pinched, so weak that he could not stand upright without the help of a stick. The profile she had seen earlier was lined, right enough—but the lines were clearly lines of pain, not of joy or laughter. And, on the left profile that had been hidden from her, a thin purple scar ran from forehead to chin, bisecting his eyebrow and his cheek and continuing down below his collar. Heaven alone knew what damage lay below.

He stared her out. And he did not smile.

Emma swallowed hard and bowed her head politely, desperately trying to disguise the horror she instinctively felt. It was a full thirty seconds before she felt able to say, ‘How do you do, Mr Stratton?’