Anabelle Bryant - Undone By His Kiss

Jasper who’d begun to tap his fingernails against the paperwork in exasperated patience forced a smile that both men interpreted as agreement. Taking advantage of the conversational lull, he cleared his throat, reassembled the information on the blotter and launched into a fast, furious description of the steam hammer. Neither man appeared nonplussed and after a few minutes of factual reiteration of financial benefits for investment, Penwick appeared satisfied. He questioned the durativity of the invention, as well as its construction and adaptability and Jasper, due to his diligence, answered each question with thoughtful information. Before long, a rush of accomplishment and relief took control as Penwick signaled his commitment to invest in the proposal. A casual ease returned to their appointment.

“Perhaps you’d like to join us later this evening. We’ve plans to meet up with Viscount Kellaway. He’s a likeable sort who knows everyone worth knowing. I doubt Kell would mind an addition to the crowd.” Social connections through Penwick or otherwise could only serve Jasper’s business well.

“Thank you. I appreciate your kindness.” Penwick stood and retrieved his walking stick before the three men completed the meeting with a firm handshake and a commitment to meet later that evening. By no means did Kellaway, a sworn lothario and bachelor, present the entré into polite society Penwick desired, but the association was one which could lead to invitations within the ton. Kellaway knew everyone and everything that happened in the city.

Chapter 6

Emily returned from the hospital to find her mother writing a letter in the drawing room, her attention solely focused on the foolscap atop the desk. Not wishing to startle her, Emily quietly entered; a whisper of sadness accompanying the scene to winnow into her heart and remind things would never be as they once were. If only her mother could accept the circumstances and come to terms with their situation.

Emily strove to be a good daughter. She loved her mother dearly and empathized with her suffering, but it was that same heartbreak which prompted her to organize the league and work toward independence. No woman should be solely dependent on a man; no female made to feel inferior. In truth, her mother’s despair sparked the league’s formation, but the organization was fueled by Emily’s determination to reject how her mother appeared, broken and lonely. Circumstances stole her mother’s spirit and in turn, her future, all because she believed herself incomplete now.

“Emily, you’re home.” Her mother rose from the desk, a sealed paper in hand. “Please summon Mary. I need this letter posted immediately.”

Emily fought against the hollow sadness of her mother’s expectant expression. “Another letter?”

“Yes. I always write, dear, you know that. Every day I write to your father.”

A swath of uncomfortable emotion crowded Emily’s heart and she inhaled fully, as if she couldn’t gather the air needed to breathe. Mary entered and with a glance over her shoulder, Emily met the eyes of the housekeeper in meaningful communication. “Mother wishes to post another letter.” An anxious pause followed before Mary nodded and accepted the mail.

“I’ll see to it right away then.” The housekeeper bustled from the room as if her heels were afire.

“How was the hospital? Were the children happy to see you?”

Startled by her mother’s clarity, Emily found a gentle smile and sat on the chaise, patting the seat beside her. “Come here and I’ll tell you about my visit. I made a new friend today and he gave me a gift. I’d like to show it to you.”

“A gentleman? A handsome lord?” Her mother’s smile extended to her eyes, a giddy childlike note riddling her questions. “This is wonderful news. Tell me all.”

“Not a lord, but handsome nonetheless.” Emily clasped her mother’s hand now that she’d settled at her side. “And very young.”

“Age should not deter true love. Your father was fifteen years older than me and that difference never interfered with our affection,” Bianca said with finality.

Emily swallowed past the lump in her throat and strove to resurrect a cheerful tone. “My friend is perhaps seven or eight years old, our age difference too vast.”

“Oh, you had me convinced you’d met a suitor.” Her voice dropped as though she’d arrived at a disappointing conclusion.

Her mother’s forlorn reply tugged at Emily’s resolve. She didn’t wish to be a disappointment, but her heart remained conflicted when it came to matters of relationships and marriage; the joy of one seemingly causing the crisis of the other. Despite her mother’s misconception, Emily wished to be loved and cherished, but at what cost? And on what terms?

While she deliberated every emotion with extreme care, her mother’s despondency evolved into a daily struggle. Still one condition shouldn’t eradicate the other. Even the ladies of the league held a secret desire to be courted and Emily had dutifully ignored discussing relationships deferring to every aspect of independence imaginable. Perhaps, she’d wronged her friends. She’d need to be more open-minded when it came to her opinion of their future. Her intractable resolution, to remain happily unattached, could not impinge on the choices of others. The league should serve to suggest options, choices for a future not commanded by the social doctrine.

Emily assessed her mother’s dejected expression. Her solemn contemplation confirmed their discussion would go no further. The two sat in companionable silence until Mary entered with Portia Edmonstone by her side.

“Portia?” Emily rose to approach her friend, surprise and puzzlement causing her quick reaction. “The league doesn’t meet on Wednesdays. Is everything all right?”

“Yes, of course. I’ve a little matter to discuss and hoped you’d spare a few minutes for tea and conversation.” Portia’s usual sagacious demeanor seemed absent, her eyes expressing a different message than her words.

“I’ll leave the two of you. I have matters to attend.”

Emily’s eyes followed her mother’s brisk retreat, uncertainty causing new worry to blossom.

“Has she gotten any better?” Portia whispered, though they stood alone in the room.

“I’m afraid not.” Emily motioned her friend closer as they moved to sit near the fire.

“What a silly expression. You are fearless, afraid of no one or no thing.” Portia offered a smile of reassurance. “I’m sure your mother will improve in time. My aunt suffered a similar depression after my uncle passed. It was nearly a year before she showed any emotion other than sadness.”

“Maybe.” Doubt forced the word out in a mutter. “I wish she would accept Father is gone. That way she could plan for a happier future. It’s been over two years and she seems to get worse by the week. And it’s not just sadness or despondency.”

“I daresay her heartache is palpable.” Portia patted Emily’s hand in comfort. “She looks so lost at times, but then on the occasion she appears almost hopeful, as if she believes your father will return.”

“I know. Some days she’s right as rain, her demeanor cheerful. The most troubling aspect of her condition is found in its unpredictability. It causes me grave concern.”

Portia was her closest friend, yet Emily had never confided the particulars involving her parents. It didn’t seem appropriate, nor would she want the circumstances repeated to any person, ever. Not that she didn’t trust Portia. She was the closest Emily had to a sister. Yet secrets sometimes had a way of finding a path to daylight when they were best left hidden in a dark drawer. In that, Emily reserved her deepest regret and emotion for evening, when she snuffed the candles in her bedchamber and wept herself to sleep.