The kitchen stood empty. Her heart sank. She was about to return to her room when she found a tray covered with a cloth napkin. Peeking beneath the fabric, she sighed, and her stomach made more unladylike noises. Upon the tray sat a feast of bread, cheese, and cold chicken—no doubt left there for her.
Emma flopped lifelessly down on the table bench and nibbled on a piece of cheese. Her throat, clogged with unshed tears, caused her to spit the cheese out into a napkin. Emma’s stomach still made noises from being empty, but eating didn’t agree with her, and she pushed the tray away. Visions of her papa, alive, smiling and laughing with her, pained her insides. Where was her papa’s body now? Had he died alone in a hotel room in a country full of strangers?
“Oh, God,” she cried. “Why did you have to take him? He’s all I have in this world.”
Once upstairs again, Emma climbed beneath the covers and let her mind wander to her years spent in this room. Many nights Emma would lose herself in her readings. She especially loved the novels written by the English writer Jane Austen. And if she were not reading, she would be lost in daydreams about the characters from the stories and how she would become a young woman of Society and be whisked off her feet and fall helplessly in love with the dashing Mr. Darcy.
But now that could never happen. Her papa had promised to take her to London next year, after she turned ten-and-eight and had graduated from Miss Beauregard’s, to seek a husband for her. Yes, she had wanted to travel to London and beyond. And even though she hoped to marry one day, she knew her future husband would have to be a patient and understanding gentleman because she was a bit eccentric and liked to do some unexpected things.
Emma liked reading and writing, daydreaming, and even doing numbers. Many of her friends told her that when she married, her husband would forbid her to do that sort of thing. She would have to learn her hoops and how to play the pianoforte, two things she was appallingly bad at. Every time she tried to embroider she pricked her fingers and bled all over the delicate muslin. Miss Ipswich was always scolding her in front of the other girls for her clumsiness, and that made her insides burn.
The pianoforte lessons were worse. When Emma played she was told she sounded like a sick goose, as if they knew what a sick goose sounded like. Mrs. Gertrude, the cook, her only true friend here, explained they were all jealous because her papa was one of the richest men in America. Emma did not think that was it, because most of the girls here had rich papas. Except for Penelope, who had a rich mama.
Penelope confided to her once that when a girl married she had to obey her husband and share his bed, and she might even have to let him insert his sugar stick between her thighs. Penelope boasted she once saw her mama and her lover doing such a thing. Emma’s body shivered at the thought of sharing a bed with a man, not to mention where she thought his sugar stick was going to go. And why would he want it to go there anyway?
She liked to sleep alone. It was a luxury, and she liked luxuries. And Emma planned on sleeping alone as long as she lived, even when she married.
Her last words before sleep and exhaustion overtook her were, “Please, Lord, let today be a dream, and tomorrow please bring my papa home to me.”
CHAPTER THREE
“I knew I should have hauled your ass overboard when we first set sail,” Thomas moaned as Myles barged into his cabin. Fortunately for them, they had booked two cabins aboard the merchant ship The Weymouth, bound for Boston, and were now somewhere on the Atlantic. Giles, Thomas’s valet, was with them, but as usual Myles traveled without his.
Thomas had sailed on the first available ship because he needed to get as far away from England as he could before he changed his mind about the whole Hamilton affair. And Myles invading his privacy now was just what he didn’t need. “Make yourself comfortable,” Thomas ordered, “and do not disturb me.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Myles replied as he took a seat in the only chair in the small cabin.
Thomas settled in his bunk with the correspondence he’d received prior to his departure. His eyes squinted in the low candlelight. No matter how many times he read the letter, the words and their impact did not change one bit.
Dear Duke of Wentworth,
I received your letter, and I must admit to being in shock over my papa’s untimely passing. Could you please explain to me how he died? I had just received a missive from him the previous week, and it seemed as if naught was wrong. I am pained with grief at the loss of my dear papa, and not knowing how he died is only adding to the numerous knife thrusts shredding my heart.
A bit overly dramatic, Thomas mused. He still envisioned a young girl crying copious tears and shrilling like a banshee when her needs were not met in a timely manner. After sighing loudly and ignoring Myles’s questioning stare, he continued reading.