It was another mess Nicholas had made, another calamity Stephen had had to fix for him, and Stephen was so weary. He was sick at heart, furious with himself, with his brother, with Miss Wilson for being so trusting and gullible.
He staggered off to find his brother, hopefully to extinguish any other fires before Nicholas could fan the flames.
A knock sounded on Emeline’s door, but she didn’t rise to answer it. She couldn’t. She was too numb and unable to move.
She felt old and worn out, a woman past her prime who had no one to help her, no one upon whom she could rely. Every endeavor she’d attempted had failed. Every dream had been dashed.
The knock rapped again. The knob turned, and a housemaid poked her nose in.
“Miss Wilson?”
“Yes?”
“A letter came for you.”
When Emeline simply stared, unspeaking, the girl walked over and handed it to her. Emeline didn’t reach for it, and the girl glanced about and laid it on a table.
“Are you ill, Miss Wilson? May I bring you something?”
“I’m a bit under the weather, but I don’t need anything. Thank you for asking.”
“Perhaps a pot of tea? Cook has a blended remedy that would settle your stomach.”
“My stomach’s fine. I’m just weary.”
The girl left, and Emeline was cynical enough to wonder if she’d been fishing for gossip. Was she, at that very moment, racing down to the kitchen to tattle over Emeline’s reduced condition?
Emeline had thought herself so smart, so furtive in her affair with the earl, but if Lt. Price had been aware of it, the entire staff had probably known. There was no more vicious group than servants who’d had a colleague raised above them.
Had they all been informed of the earl’s engagement—with Emeline the sole person who hadn’t been apprised? Had they watched her make a fool of herself, while gleefully waiting for her folly to crash down around her?
Emeline glared at the letter. She couldn’t imagine who had written, and she couldn’t bear to pick it up. It would only contain more bad news.
Finally, she rose, and she trudged over to see that it was from a school in Cornwall. It was the last one to which she’d applied, and she’d been expecting to hear that she was too inexperienced or too old or that they’d hired somebody else.
She tugged at the flap and was stunned to find that it was the exact opposite of what she’d anticipated.
They wanted her! The position started at the end of the summer, and the major benefit was a two-room cottage. They were hoping she could come right away so she could acclimate before classes commenced. If she replied in the affirmative, they would send coach fare.
She pressed the letter over her heart and held it there, as if the words could imbue her with the vigor she needed to accept. Leave Stafford forever. Travel across the country with her sisters in tow. Build a life for herself among strangers. Yet what other option was there?
Lord Stafford was tossing her out of the manor, and he had suggested temporary lodging over the blacksmith’s barn. Lt. Price would move her there, but she would soon be relocated to another village.
Considering what she’d given to the earl, the proposed resolution was paltry compensation and much less than what she deserved, but who was she to argue?
She had no one to blame but herself for her current predicament, and she ought to be grateful that the earl had tendered any reparation at all. He could have just had the maids pack her bags and put them out on the road.
What reason was there to stay at Stafford? Aside from Josephine with whom she was only casually acquainted, she had no real friends. Her neighbors feigned cordiality, but when push had come to shove, they’d abandoned her in the earl’s driveway for a bag of seed and a jug of ale.
Why would she remain?
She wouldn’t, but her decision had naught to do with her neighbors or their opinions.
In the future, Lord Stafford would occasionally visit the estate. He’d bring his bride. Emeline might bump into him as he rode by on the lane. She might have to observe as he lorded himself over a crowd during the harvest festival.
She couldn’t abide the notion of seeing him with his simpering wife on his arm. According to his brother, the earl wanted the whole world to take note of his winning Lady Veronica.
Well, the world could notice and laud him, but Emeline didn’t have to. She—who had convinced herself that he was perfect—knew his true character. She recognized the cruel monster behind the handsome façade.
As she pondered his despicable treatment, she grew angry.
Why was she being such a meek lamb? She’d never been timid or shy, and she’d done nothing wrong—except fall in love with a libertine who didn’t reciprocate her intense sentiment.
Was she to suffer his awful behavior without complaint? Was she to slither out the rear door as if she was ashamed?
She wasn’t ashamed! And she wouldn’t hang her head and mope as if she was the miscreant in the sordid affair. Lord Stafford was a scoundrel, and Emeline wouldn’t pretend any differently.
She had many comments to share with the exalted Earl of Stafford, and he was going to listen to every one of them. She had no brother or father to stand up for her, so she had to stand up for herself.
After he left for London, she’d have no chance to speak with him ever again. If she didn’t tell him what she thought, she’d regret it forever.
She hurried to her writing desk and penned a reply to the school in Cornwall. She accepted the post and agreed to travel upon receipt of the coach fare. Then she stormed into the hall, eager to hunt down the earl.
There were few servants about, and those she encountered didn’t know where he was. She started searching floor by floor.
Wherever he’d gone, she’d
