Page 67 of Marry in Haste
She’d been content enough at the Mallard Seminary, but never really happy. She’d been granted refuge there seven years ago and was grateful. She’d loved working with the girls, but they passed through the school and went on to make new lives for themselves, no doubt never giving Emm or any of the teachers another thought.
Emm’s future prospects had been depressingly predictable. Now, married to Lord Ashendon, she had no idea what the future would bring. It was exciting... and a little daunting.
“You will be able to visit your friends when you visit my aunt.”
“I know.” But it wouldn’t be the same. What friendships she’d made had developed through proximity and habit, mostly.
He glanced at her maid, sitting quiet as a mouse beside her. “You will too... er—”
“Milly,” Emm told him.
Miss Mallard had told Emm that Milly should wear her thickest coat and take a rug, as she’d be riding at the back of the carriage, but Lord Ashendon had handed Emm up, then turned to Milly and indicated she was to ride inside as well.
The conversation for the next few miles was general and a little stilted, consisting mainly of comments on the passing scenery. Milly’s presence prevented anything intimate or personal from being discussed, for which Emm was grateful.
Was that why he’d seated the girl inside, or was it kindness on his part? It was a cold day, and his coachman was wrapped and muffled to the eyebrows.
She hoped it was kindness.
At the first stop to change horses, Lord Ashendon produced pillows and rugs from a compartment inside the carriage, saying, “Get some sleep, if you can. It’s a long journey and we won’t arrive until long after nightfall.”
Emm and Milly wrapped themselves warmly and snuggled down. The carriage was comfortable and beautifully sprung. Milly dropped off quickly, but Emm found herself feigning sleep. She was too aware of Lord Ashendon. At first he simply watched the scenery slip by, then his gaze came to rest silently on her. She could feel the weight of it, even though her eyes were shut.
Was he also thinking of the wedding night to come?
She was wound tense as a spring.
A blast of sound woke Emm from a fitful doze.
“Hawkins, requesting the gates be opened,” Lord Ashendon explained.
“We’re here, then?” She tried to peer out but could see only the carriage lights and shadowy darkness beyond.
She heard the coachman grumbling, “Who? Who? Lord Ashendon and his lady, of course, who did you think! And you knew we was coming so why the ’ell didn’t you ’ave the gates open and waiting?” The gatekeeper mumbled something she couldn’t make out, and the gates opened.
The carriage passed between two large brick pillars and continued along an avenue of twisty old trees so ancient their branches met overhead. It was like passing through a tunnel.
“Yews,” Lord Ashendon commented. “Planted by some long-dead ancestor.”
Ashendon Court came into view. Lights were blazing from a dozen windows. “It was originally built in the sixteenth century, a manor house, but my great-grandfather had it extended and modernized last century. He added the wings. But you’ll see it all in the morning.”
The carriage halted and half a dozen servants came running down the front steps to greet them. Lord Ashendon introduced them all to Emm, then said, “Mrs. Moffat, the housekeeper, will show you to your room. Wash, refreshyourself, and when you’re comfortable, come down to the dining room. You must be famished.”
Emm wasn’t in the least bit hungry. Quite the opposite.
Entering the house, she followed the housekeeper and caught a glimpse of what must have been a medieval hall. A great, gloomy cavern of a room, it was paneled in dark wood with an arched, smoke-darkened ceiling crisscrossed with heavy wooden beams. The walls bristled with weapons—swords, blunderbusses, pikes, shields—and antlers. Knights, or rather their suits of armor, stood sentry at each corner of the room, watched over by the dull, reproachful eyes of a dozen or more mounted and stuffed animal heads and half a dozen portraits of dour and disapproving gentlemen—presumably her husband’s ancestors. A roaring fire blazed in a huge old stone fireplace, the light thrown by its flames causing the knights and weapons to glitter and the dead eyes of the dead beasts to gleam.
“This way, my lady.”
Emm followed the elderly woman upstairs.
Twenty minutes later she was seated at one end of a long, highly polished table. Lord Ashendon sat at the other end. Servants flowed back and forth between them, serving what the housekeeper called a simple meal: soup, roast chicken, a dish of vegetables and a custard tart. And wine, several different kinds, one with soup, one with chicken and so on.
Emm ate very little and drank even less, though she knew that wine might help relax her. It might also cause her to throw up. There was little talk exchanged—they were seated too far apart for it to feel in the slightest bit conversational, and she wasn’t about to shout commonplace pleasantries at him.
After what seemed like an age, Lord Ashendon made a gesture and the servants silently withdrew. He set his napkin aside. “You’re not eating.”
“I’m not hungry.” The serpents were back, writhing in her stomach.
