One part of her was pleased to be able to stay in this lovely home, even if only for one night, especially since there was no alternative. She knew not a soul in this mammoth city. But another part of her—the part under the influence of Aunt Harriett—kept warning her how dangerous it was to be staying with a strange man. What would she do if he tried to take liberties with her? He was so tall, and she was so small.
Her closest friend back in Upper Barrington, Anne Forester had shared with Emma her six elder brothers' advice on how to thwart unwanted advances. They instructed Anne to kick or to knee the offending man in that unmentionable part of his anatomy. Emma decided she would not hesitate to do that to Mr. Birmingham if he should press those kinds of attentions upon her.
"Let me see," Mr. Birmingham said when they reached the upper floor, "which of these blasted chambers is the yellow?" He stopped and looked down at her. She was still linking her arm to his yet attempting not to show how stunned she was that Mr. Birmingham was not familiar with every room in his own house.
"Studewood did say the yellow room, did he not?" he asked.
She nodded.
His eyes squinted at the door to the second room. "This may be it." He opened the door to a rose-coloured bedchamber, then shook his head. "Not yellow. Perhaps it's across the corridor." On wobbly legs, he crossed the hallway and opened the door opposite the red chamber. "Ah! Here it 'tis."
Not without trepidation, she swept past him and entered the chamber. She was nearly overwhelmed by its beauty. The bed was swathed in pale yellow silk. A brocade of the same shade covered the walls, and more of the fine yellow silk hung at the chamber's two tall casements. The fireplace, where Studewood was succeeding at starting a fire, was surrounded by a creamy marble chimneypiece adorned with a turquoise porcelain clock. Near the fireplace reposed an elegant chaise of apple green silk, and beside it, her portmanteau. What a home this was! How fortunate was Mr. Birmingham.
Studewood's presence lessened her alarm. Surely, no man would compromise a young woman’s virtue in front of his servant. Then she recalled how placidly Studewood had accepted the news that she would be a guest tonight. Was bringing home strange women a customary occurrence for his master? Her heartbeat accelerated as she stealthily glanced at Mr. Birmingham whilst appearing to examine the writing desk, a small gilt table in the French style. He seemed completely disinterested in her.
Thank goodness!
As the coals began to burn, Studewood got to his feet and addressed her. "This should keep you warm all night, miss." With a nod, he left the chamber.
She was about to order her host to leave her sleeping chamber when a curious thing happened. He yawned deeply, eyed her chaise, and collapsed upon it.
For a frightful moment, she thought he had died. Her heartbeat hammering, she raced to the chaise and bent over Mr. Birmingham.
And he started to snore!
She recalled that bosky Jeb Hickman of Upper Barrington had a propensity—after over indulging in spirits, which he most lamentably did with frequency—to fall into exceedingly deep slumber in the most unexpected places. Once in Squire Peterfund's trough, another time in the back of the Widow Pennington's pony cart, and more than once in a pew at St. Stephen's!
What was she to do? She cupped a hand to Mr. Birmingham's arm and shook him. He snored some more. The next time she shook him harder. He snored louder. Oh, dear. It was not likely she would be able to rouse him.
She could hardly sleep in the same chamber with a man. Perhaps she could cross the corridor and sleep in the rose chamber. As disappointed as she was to leave this room—especially now that the fire was warming it—she went to the rose room. Though it was even lovelier than the yellow chamber, it felt as if she were standing on a frozen moor. A servant must have left the window open. She strolled across the room and closed the casement. Hugging her own arms, she left the room, knowing she could not sleep there.
From the moment she'd seen her portmanteau in the yellow room, it had seemed like she was meant to be there. The way it claimed her was almost like some kind of Divine proclamation.
Who was there to find out she had (quite innocently) shared a bedchamber with a man? Just so long as Aunt Harriett did not discover the truth. Standing there in front of the fire, Mr. Birmingham snoring in the background, she could almost hear Auntie say, "Once lost, a lady's good reputation can never be regained."
In this, Auntie was likely right. What manner of man would offer marriage to a sullied lady? Emma did not want to impede her chances of being some man's wife. She did so long to be married. Before Uncle had invited her to London, Aunt had encouraged Emma to wed. It had been most unselfish of her, too, because Emma knew Aunt Harriett didn’t want her to leave.