“Back to Little Snoring?!” Milli was aghast. “Emma, you cannot be serious!”
Their sleepy village certainly was aptly named, for nothing exceptional ever truly roused the place to wakefulness. But what the parish lacked in excitement it certainly made up for in quaintness and crisp fragrant air and…well, she was sure some other delightful commendation would occur to her later. At any rate, Little Snoring wasn’t rife with snobbery and sooty air, that was the point. “Milli, I assure you I am quite serious about missing home.” It was not as if she would find a husband here.
“Well, not I,” Milli replied with warmth. “I might petition our uncle to keep me here indefinitely.”
“I daresay your petitions will fall on deaf ears.”
To that, Milli gave a good humored snort and changed the subject.
A subject Emma barely followed, for she had become aware of a twinge along her spine. The twinge of an unwelcome gaze.
An absurd notion. She shook the sensation off at once and refused to look about her. Who in heaven’s name would want to watch her? Plain Emma Rose of Little Snoring? Nobody. She gave vent to a self-deprecating snort and allowed Milli’s chatter to distract her from her strange fancies, and from the gnawing certitude that something very wrong was afoot in London.
Chapter Two
Exsanguination
My dear Mary,—I have decided to take the veil. What do you think of my becoming a nun? Does the priory have an extensive library? Yours affectionately,
Emma.
When Emma entered the breakfast room, after changing into a long-sleeved pale green dimity, she was greeted by the footman, Reid, standing at the door. The Haywoods were already seated at the table, her uncle with the London Gazette under his nose and her aunt chewing absently on a buttered roll, perusing the Lady’s Magazine.
Her uncle acknowledged her entrance with an impatient grunt and pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat. It was exactly five minutes past the hour, which meant that Emma was only five minutes late to the morning meal. Unfortunately for the ladies, though he had suffered a marked loss of his hearing, he had forsaken none of the punctiliousness and discipline instilled in him during his tenure as a lieutenant in the British Artillery. “I suppose your sister has had no success in the urgent matter of selecting a morning gown and now keeps herself upstairs, hmm?”
“You may suppose that, uncle.” Emma raised her voice far above what was normally considered genteel or necessary so that he might hear her. She smiled at Reid as he placed a mug of warm chocolate on the table for her.
“I might venture to Wakefield’s Vaults on Fleet Street,” said Mr. Haywood, scanning his newspaper. “Old port and sherry at reduced prices, hmm. Well, that’s a matter of course when merchants go out of business.”
Emma offered no reply, well aware that her uncle expected none. She liked her uncle well enough, but she was rather more fond of Aunt Sophie. It was really too bad the old dear was so terribly flighty. Her aunt, irrespective of company and conversation, would ofttimes stare off as though she’d gone to sleep with her eyes open, a habit that quite vexed her husband. That was doubtless the reason they seldom exchanged more than a single word—he too piqued to gain her attention and she too timid of voice to overcome his deafness. It seemed to Emma a poignant espousal of both comedy and tragedy, and she often wondered if that was what marriage was: tragedy lightly seasoned with comedic divertissements. Her aunt and uncle appeared tolerably satisfied with their arrangement, so who was Emma to fault or pity it. Her own parents were nothing if not comfortable in the tedium of their own peculiar satire—Father adored Mother from behind his precious encyclopedias, and the thick smoke of his brierroot pipe, and she was always far too busy chewing the cud of her neighbors foibles to notice her husband’s distraction. They were happy enough in their situation, as were her aunt and uncle.
The Haywood’s townhouse was rather a humble affaire compared to the grander homes along the fashionable streets of London, far from boasting Grosvenor standards, but they were still and all very comfortably situated. They had never been blessed with children and, despite her uncle’s gruffness, Emma believed he rather enjoyed the company of his nieces, for all he considered Milli’s unpunctuality a fatal flaw.
Mr. Robert Haywood had, on retiring from the army, become a tradesman and had done very well for himself. They dined regularly with their neighbors and never wanted for invitations to soirées, much to Milli’s delight. Except that delight was rudely suspended today, for they were engaged to dine with the Stapletons this evening.
Emma sighed, her shoulders slumping imperceptibly, as she thought about their social engagement. The Stapletons were, like her aunt and uncle, an older couple—even their sons were old and married—and sadly there was never a guest at their dinner table who wasn’t on the very verge of caducity. Emma was reconciled to the prospect of a long and stultifying evening at the loo table. She imagined that Milli was already contriving an excuse that would consign her safely to her bed all night—a mild case of dyspepsia, no doubt.
As if her thoughts had summoned the minx, Milli suddenly flounced into the room in a handsome white muslin. Her arms were covered by sheer sleeves, and her chest and neck were demurely contained in observance of morning dress etiquette; though, if one were to consult their uncle on the matter of ladies fashion, it was his opinion that modern styles were tending towards extreme indecency. Their uncle deplored the dearth of fabric that stood between the flesh and the cold, and what little there was was sheer besides, to say nothing of the low necklines.
Mr. Haywood’s silent disapprobation, incited either by the state of Milli’s undress or the lateness of her arrival, was, at length, disarmed by his niece’s happy chatter. He unfolded his brow with a sigh and continued reading his paper. That venerable brow, however, was not to remain smooth long. He shook his head and gave a grunt of worry as his eyes flew across the paper.
“What is it, my dear?” his wife asked, uncharacteristically startled from her daydream. “Is something amiss at the Stock Exchange?”
He ignored her, whether by design or distraction, and continued reading diligently. After breakfast was concluded, he shut himself away in his library. It was only his youngest relation that did not find his behavior curious.
“Confound this noxious London weather!” Milli set her chocolate aside with a feigned grimace and a delicate arm thrown dramatically across her brow. From beneath this porcelain arm she peeked woefully at her aunt and sister. “I don’t feel at all well, you know. I think I ought to stay abed tonight.”
“Dyspeptic, are you?” Emma offered an uncharitable smirk. “How shall the Stapletons bear your absence, my dear?”
Their aunt merely nodded her understanding as Milli valiantly extricated herself from the breakfast table and glided from the room with a stamp of pain etched upon her thespian brow.
“I shall have Jenkins prepare a negus for her,” said Aunt Sophie, twisting her hands together.
“Do not trouble yourself, Aunt.” Emma gave her aunt’s hands a reassuring pat. “I shall see to it myself.”
Her aunt smiled, grateful, blissfully ignorant of Emma’s true objective which was to ignore her sister’s malingering.