He paused before opening it and crossing the threshold with his bride in his arms. Some twenty-seven years ago, also at the beginning of summer, his father had carried his mother through this same doorway. What had he been thinking in that moment?
Did he believe the obstacles before them would simply disappear? That their two, vastly different worlds would somehow blend seamlessly? Eli could not deny similar hopes this night. He'd done the difficult thing and had managed-by some miracle of fate-to marry the woman he loved. But will she stay? Will she be able to live a simple, humble life?
His father could have if it came down to it. He loved Claymere and had hoped to be able to move his bride from the gardener's residence to the manor here; but if that was not possible, he had found contentment and happiness within the stone walls that made up the cottage.
It was his father's parents who could not abide his choice. They had forced him to choose-not between the life of an earl or his wife, but between his family and his wife. He would have been abandoned not only in fortune but in name as well, never welcome evermore in the home of his childhood.
Eli could not fault his father his choice. Neither had his mother faulted him, though she had never stopped loving him-and hoping.
Emily does not face that same ultimatum. Surely that improved their odds.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside. Emily stirred in his arms, snuggling her face deeper into his chest. For a moment he considered spending the rest of the night on the sofa, holding her thus, but he wasn't certain how she would feel upon awaking to that in the morning.
Instead, he continued on through the main room to the first of two bedrooms, the larger one, likely still small by any standard she was used to. He placed Emily carefully on the bed and removed the slippers from her feet, then took a quilt from the end of the bed and tucked her in. Before leaving the room, he watched her a minute, still in awe of his good fortune. The luckiest man alive. He bent to kiss her forehead, then walked quietly from the room. Morning would be upon them soon enough, and with it the first tests of their marriage.
Emily awoke feeling positively ravenous. The smell of bacon wafting from some other part of the house set her stomach to growling and made her decision not to linger abed any longer an easy one.
A wardrobe stood on the opposite wall. Intending to dress, Emily arose and walked across the bare floor. The doors stuck a bit at first, but she managed to open them, only to discover the piece entirely empty.
Of course. She felt suddenly foolish. Eli had told her no servants were in place yet, and even when the two they could employ did arrive, it was not as if she would have anyone to tend to her clothing or help her dress.
No matter. She might not know how to cook, but she was certainly capable of dressing herself. Emily turned a slow circle about the room, noting the simple white curtains, blank walls, and Spartan furnishings. There was nothing frilly or fancy about the space. Her mother would have been horrified, but Emily found the plainness did not bother her. The room was clean and had everything she might need, if not want. She had imagined far less when thinking of the sort of home that awaited her.
She spied her trunk near the door and upon opening it discovered her favorite dress at the top. The gossamer fabric and lace edging the pale blue bodice and sleeves seemed a stark contrast to the humble room. How long would such a gown last, if she was to be expected to work in it? A pang of homesickness struck, and Emily longed for the kind, thoughtful maid who had attended her. No doubt she had been thinking of Emily when she packed, guessing, perhaps, that a favorite dress would be much needed today.
Telling herself to cease being so mawkish, Emily replaced yesterday's white gown, crumpled from travel and sleep, with the blue dress.
Once dressed, she realized she could not wash-there was no water in the basin, and no rope to pull or servant to summon to bring any. Instead, she sat at the small dressing table and decided she must do something about her hair. The floral circlet her sister had arranged so carefully was now a matted mess of wilted blooms. Emily removed the pins holding it in place and tore it from her hair, inadvertently pulling several strands loose from their arrangement at the same time. The resulting style was a sagging chignon with long, wild spikes spiraling out in every direction.
"Like Medusa," she muttered crossly, then took the remaining pins from her hair, until the tangled mass descended well past her shoulders.
Leaving the dressing table, Emily returned to her trunk to locate her brush. After digging through the entire contents, she gave up finding it without removing everything. She gathered an armful of clothing, carried it to the unmade bed, and tossed the load upon it. This she searched through and, not finding the brush, repeated the process again until her trunk was emptied and the bed piled high with shoes, gowns, shawls, bonnets, petticoats, and chemises all strewn about wildly, as if an animal or a very small child had been amongst them.
And still no brush.
Her stomach growling with hunger, Emily returned to the dressing table and used her fingers to comb through her tangles as best she could. Gathering her hair was another matter, one she found exceedingly difficult without a brush. Three times she tried pulling the masses back and twisting them into a simple knot, only to have more pieces escape than stay.
Her arms ached and drooped. On her fourth attempt she stabbed the back of her head with a pin, cried out, let go of her half-done hair, and burst into tears.
It was thus that Eli found her, head buried in her arms, sobbing at the dressing table.
"Forgive me entering," he said. "I knocked, and there was no answer, but I could hear you were in distress."
Emily cried louder, embarrassed, and angry with herself at her inability to do such a simple task. She felt frightened at being so far from home, pledged to a life with a man she knew so little of and who could not give her the things she was used to.
There it was again. That snobbishness she so loathed in others. She did not wish to be notoriously picksome as her mother, but feared she was. I am just as bad. I am spoiled and utterly wretched.
"What is it, Emily? What is so terrible this morning? I haven't shaved yet, if it will make you feel any better. Perhaps I look a little more like my old, hairy self."
She raised her head to look at him through the glass but saw only her own, splotchy face, puffy eyes, and disastrous hair. "I do not look like myself," she cried, then buried her head again. "Please go away, Mr. Linfield."
"Eli," he corrected. "Please," he added more kindly. "And that is the one thing I will not do. I will not go away and leave you in distress. Besides, our breakfast is growing cold. So please tell me what is troubling you and let me do what I can to help, so we can begin our day together."
"You can't help." She shook her head and did not look up.
"You don't know that unless you ask." He placed a gentle hand upon her shoulder. It was warm and comforting and somehow made her feel the tiniest bit better. This was Mr. Linfield, the groomsman. He would not judge her for how she looked. Yet, she found that she cared a great deal about how he saw her. She wanted to be beautiful for him. Beautiful and capable. I don't want to let him down.
Swallowing her pride-if she'd any left-and mustering her courage, Emily lifted her head and met his gaze in the mirror. "I am pathetic," she whispered. "I cannot even arrange my own hair." She swallowed, awaiting his disappointment or perhaps laughter.
"I am quite certain you can," he said easily. "It will take some practice, is all. Would you like me to help you today-not that I'll be much better at it. But perhaps, between the two of us … "
She nodded, relieved at his answer and grateful he had not judged her, not aloud at least.
"All right." He took a deep breath and looked down on her head, as if preparing for an invasion of some sort. "Hand me your brush. You must tell me if I am not using it correctly or hurting you. After all, I've only experience with horses."
"I can't find my brush." Her voice sounded small and forlorn, as if she was five years old instead of a grown woman. I have been acting like I am five. For the moment, with her emotions so on edge, she couldn't seem to help herself. Emily turned in the chair and inclined her head toward the mess of clothing and shoes haphazardly strewn across the bed. "I've made a mull of everything."
"Not everything." Eli's brows arched as he looked at the pile. "Though near everything does seem to be on your bed. No wonder your trunk was so heavy. I did not realize it held so much. Was the brush not in your valise either?"