Chapter Seventeen
Emeline said, “It’s eight days ago since I sent cousin Adrian a message. If he bothers to reply at all, then his letter should come tomorrow.” She waited for the tirade, muttered, “I’m afraid I sent one of the village carters, so Papa will be cross with me I suppose,” and stuck out her lower lip.
“One day,” sighed the baroness, “that lip will fall right off, Emeline. I shall have it swept up and cast out for the pigs.”
Avice nodded vigorously. “And if Papa wasn’t so mean, and bought us some of those gorgeous coloured rugs other people have on their floors nowadays, then at least your lip would have a softer landing.”
“I sometimes wonder,” said Emeline, “why I bother talking at all.”
“And I wonder,” said her mother, “why I listen. This cousin Adrian you speak of is a virtual stranger to you. On arrival here you distinctly informed me he was a dull man of prim proprieties. And what is more, he is probably dying or dead of the pestilence by now. What conceivable message have you sent the poor man?”
Emeline sat in a hurry. “I’m trying to find Nicholas. He said he’d write and tell me how he is and where he is. He hasn’t. He may be dead too.”
“I thought you hated him.”
“He’s my husband,” Emeline glared at her sister. “I’m doing my – duty. Even Papa can’t complain about that. Besides,” she admitted, very small voiced, “I don’t hate him anymore.” The glare turned moist. “Not even a little bit.”
“You’re lucky, my dear,” sighed the baroness. “To be reconciled to an unwanted husband so soon after the wedding is – fortunate indeed.”
“I am fortunate,” Emeline sniffed and hung her head. “He’s nicer than I expected. Perhaps what Peter told me was all a mistake. Brothers you know – like sisters – they tease – and say things they don’t mean. It seems Nicholas isn’t how Peter told me at all.”
“Just don’t admit any of that to Papa,” Avice sniggered. “He’ll sympathise with duty, but not with actually caring –”
She was interrupted. The door swung open with considerable force and Baron Wrotham stood in the shadowed doorway, staring down his nose as his eldest daughter. “Your principal duty, Emeline,” he informed her, “is, at present, to your parents who are housing you, and to whom you owe eternal honour as the good Lord informs us all.” The pale spring sunshine streaking through the small solar window did not reach the doorway and the baron remained framed in sombre disapproval. “And now,” he continued, “it has come to my attention that a written message has been dispatched at my expense, without it first being presented to me for approval.”
The silence created its own shadows. Finally the baroness took a deep breath, and said, “I approved the message, James. You were not at home. I therefore took it upon myself to authorise the carter, his fee, and the delivery of a message I considered quite proper.”
The baron narrowed his eyes. “Indeed, madam? And what, precisely, did this quite proper message contain?”
He held up his hand as his daughter began to answer, and looked firmly at his wife. The baroness answered her husband’s gaze. “Addressed formally to Sir Adrian Frye, it was a request from Emeline regarding the whereabouts of young Nicholas. You are perfectly well aware, my lord, that Emma has heard nothing since her husband rode off alone to London, fearing for his life. Naturally she is worried.”
“Approval during my absence might be acceptable, had I been informed immediately on returning to the house,” the baron informed her. “And this Adrian Frye is a creature of little consequence. Any such message should have been addressed to the earl. Only the father has the right to pronounce upon his son’s whereabouts.”
“Adrian has some consequence,” dared Emeline. “He was knighted, after all.”
“If you believe that your marital status gives you the right to contradict or argue with me,” the baron pronounced, “then you are, as usual, deluded, Emeline.” He paused, looking around the chamber with hauteur. “And should this young man make any attempt to reply, and to divert you from your womanly duties, you will ignore him. Am I understood?”
Emma hunched, staring at her toes. “You wouldn’t want me to be impolite, Papa? And I must – Nicholas that is – and surely he is my first duty – and since he might be ill –”
“His wellbeing is indeed your duty,” said the baron with withering patience. “I have lectured you sufficiently over the years, I believe, Emeline, and see no reason to repeat myself. But evidently you have insufficient intelligence, being female, to realise that any inquiry regarding the son should come through me, and be addressed to his father.”
“Even from his wife? And even though his papa is at Westminster and may not even know that Nicholas was in contact – or that he might have fallen ill?”
“If the Chatwyn heir is sufficiently remiss not to inform his father of such a momentous situation, then that is, no doubt, his own affair,” pronounced the baron. “How my daughter behaves is, on the other hand, at least while she resides in my home, most assuredly my affair. You will behave with propriety at all times, Emeline, and queries regarding the son, if they cannot be directed to your husband himself, must instead be directed to the earl.”
“I suppose so, Papa.”
“I intend travelling to London this week,” stated the baron, turning on his heel with a sweep of damask sleeves. “After the tragic death of her royal highness, may our great and merciful God take pity on her soul, I intend paying my respects at court before then continuing to the capital on business. I shall visit his lordship your father-in-law, and broach the subject of your husband’s predicament.”
Emeline stared at her father’s diminishing shadow. She looked up at her mother. “Is he – right? I cannot believe, as his wife, it could possibly be improper to send a message to his cousin.” Her mother looked unexpectedly cowed, so Emeline sighed, and said, “It doesn’t matter anymore. But thank you for taking the blame about the message.”
“Since your papa is, it appears, thoughtful enough to absent himself within the week,” decided the baroness quietly, “I do believe, should any reply from Sir Adrian be delivered during the next few days, we may consider ourselves free to deal with it as we decide best.”
Avice grabbed her sister’s arm. “Thoughtful? It will be bliss. Five days or more to Westminster. Two days at court. Then three days at least in London. Five or six days to return, and it could be seven if he’s tired. Oh, wonderful! Papa will be gone nigh on three weeks. I think I shall tell Martha to brush out my best blue silk.”
The upstairs solar was a drab little chamber though not bare of furniture. Although it lacked tapestries, arras or mural, there were two sturdy chairs, two solid stools, an uncushioned settle, and a window seat. The hearth was neither large nor adorned, but it gave sufficient space for a cheerfully crackling blaze. It was in the light of the fire that the baroness stood gazing at her two daughters as their faces began to thaw, to brighten, and in their smiles, to express a new dawning pleasure.
The baroness raised one finger. “I know,” she said, “but it must not be said. Three weeks indeed? But what we feel, my dears, is one thing. As long as nothing disrespectful is spoken aloud, then I feel we are entitled to our silent, and shared, opinions.”
The day following the baron’s departure, the expected reply came indeed. It was Sir Adrian who brought it himself. His approach, since three well dressed and unknown riders arrived in the village demanding a hot dinner at The Flag and Drum, was announced by a breathless youth who had run for a mile to warn his lord of strangers on the road.