Joanna Maitland - Marrying The Major

A sudden burst of laughter from Kit drew everyone’s attention. Most of the dancers were soon laughing heartily, too. Miss Mountjoy looked a trifle embarrassed though she, too, joined in eventually. Emma, however, was looking daggers at Kit.

In that instant, Hugo realised that Emma was aeons older than his frivolous young brother. They would never suit—not for a moment.

A wicked thought arose unbidden. Poor Kit—her wealth would at least have kept him out of the sponging house.

‘You sent for me, Papa?’ Emma shut the study door quietly behind her.

Her father rose from his favourite chair, smiling determinedly. He carried a letter in his hand. ‘Emma, my dear, how well you look this morning,’ he said, admiring the picture she made in her simple sprig-muslin gown. ‘No after-effects from last night’s entertaining?’

Emma returned his smile. ‘No, indeed, Papa. It was most enjoyable. And I am used to dance till dawn when I am in London, you know. Country parties—even our own—are much tamer affairs.’

He pulled at his ear lobe. ‘Ah…that was what I wanted to talk to you about, m’dear. Your Aunt Augusta has written.’ He waved his letter in Emma’s direction. ‘She thinks you should return to London. Says you are missing too much of the Season. That, at your age, you—’

Emma was relieved to learn that the letter contained nothing worse. Her father’s widowed sister was a busybody of the first order. Having no children of her own, she did her best to arrange Emma’s life instead. ‘Forgive me for interrupting you, Papa, but I’ll wager I can quote my aunt’s letter word for word. At my age,’ she began, mimicking Mrs Warenne’s very proper voice, ‘I am like to be left on the shelf if I do not bestir myself to attend every single rout party. New gentleman are constantly appearing in town and it is so important to make an impression on them at the very first opportunity.’ She looked up at her father’s face through her long dark lashes. His hand had left his ear and he was trying not to laugh. ‘Do I have it right, Papa?’

‘Yes—well, it is much along those lines, I admit. But—’ he was suddenly serious once more ‘—Emma, your aunt is only being sensible. You are twenty-three years old and still unmarried.’ He must have detected hurt in Emma’s eyes, for he hastened to say, ‘Oh, I was more than happy to send all those fortune hunters to the rightabout. Not one of them valued you as he ought. But… My dear, I am concerned about your future. I am not as young as I was, you know, and when I am gone, you will be alone here.’

Emma’s eyes widened as she took in the import of his words. He shook his head a fraction to forestall the protest that had sprung to her lips. ‘I would so much like to see you happily settled, Emma. As would your aunt. And, however much you love the country, my dear, even you have to admit that it is not exactly awash with potential suitors.’ He looked sadly down at her, counting off the names on the fingers of his left hand. ‘Richard is married. Kit Stratton is a reckless young ne’er-do-well with much too fine a face. And Mountjoy is barely out of leading strings. Apart from the old widowers—who are not for you, I sincerely hope—no other eligible man has put in an appearance in this neighbourhood for years. So…much as you may prefer the country, m’dear, I’m afraid it has to be London.’

Emma was silent for several heartbeats. Then, in a very small voice, quite unlike her usual confident tones, she ventured, ‘You did not include Major Stratton in your list, Papa.’

Her father’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘No, of course I did not,’ he said brusquely. ‘The Major may be a very fine man. A hero, too, perhaps, I dare say. But he is not…’ He put a heavy hand on his daughter’s arm and warned sharply, ‘Emma, he is scarred and crippled. He may not even be a whole man.’ He reddened slightly as he realised what he had said in front of his unmarried daughter, but he was clearly too angry and too concerned to stop. ‘He is no fit husband for you, Emma—nor for any other young lady. You must not give him another thought. Indeed, I doubt he is marriageable at all. It is a pity, I admit, but there is nothing to be done.’

Emma was staring at her slippers, trying to make sense of the tumbling, whirling thoughts that her father’s words had provoked. She wanted to reestablish her easy friendship with Hugo Stratton, that was all. She had never thought of him as a husband. At least…when she was a child…but those were only a child’s romantic daydreams and long ago forgotten. Besides, the man who had returned from the wars was nothing like the fantasy she had fashioned in the schoolroom. Nothing like. With a flash of insight, Emma now saw that Hugo believed himself to be unfit for marriage. He would never propose to any woman of his own free will.

She swallowed hard. Her father must be right. He had her best interests at heart, as always.

She was about to say that she would do as he asked, when another picture of Hugo rose in her mind, a picture so vivid that he might have been before her—Hugo’s laughing eyes as they had once been. Could they not be so again? There had been a moment during that walk in the wood at Harding when he had been so close to his former self… Must he remain a bitter recluse just because he had been wounded in the service of his country? It seemed so very unfair.

‘Emma?’ Her father was now beginning to sound more impatient than angry.

Emma smiled sweetly up at him, waiting until the last remnants of his anger had melted away. ‘No doubt Aunt Augusta is right, Papa. London in the Season is the place for suitors—and fortune hunters, too, alas. I will go back and join the throng. Will that content you, Papa?’

‘Aye,’ he smiled. ‘You were ever a sensible lass, Emma. You know it is for the best.’ He sounded relieved.

Emma’s smile dimmed. ‘Oh, Papa—but what about the Derby? You said you planned to go. But if I am in London with Aunt Augusta… Surely you would not deny me the chance to see Golden Star run? You always said you named him for me.’ Her face was set in a picture of childlike innocence as she gazed hopefully up at him.

He plucked at his ear. ‘Well…’ he said, looking again at the letter in his hand. ‘I suppose it might be possible to make up a party, if your aunt agreed. I’d have to take a house nearby, of course. Too far to go otherwise. Might be a goodish notion, though,’ he mused abstractedly. ‘We could all see the race then. And your Aunt Augusta could ensure that a few eligible young people were invited to join us at the same time.’

Emma groaned inwardly at the thought of a houseful of young ladies, all carefully schooled by their matchmaking mamas, and Aunt Augusta’s choice of eligible gentlemen. But, at least, it would be a change from the interminable London round. After so many full Seasons, that was beginning to pall.

Her papa seemed to have convinced himself. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ll write to your aunt today. And I may tell her that you will be returning to London immediately, Emma?’ His raised eyebrows demanded a precise answer.

‘In a day or two, Papa,’ Emma said. ‘I should like to spend a little time with Jamie before I go.’ Her eyes lit up with sudden mischief. ‘If I try really hard, I might even persuade her to join your Surrey house party, Papa. Would that not be delightful? It was so clever of you to think of it.’

Papa—who had a very soft spot for the lovely Countess—agreed that his daughter might remain in the country for a few days more, in hopes of adding the Hardinges to his guest list.

Emma kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you, Papa,’ she beamed. ‘I had better ride over to Harding at once to begin to work on her, do you not think? And, before you mention it, I will take a groom. I am resolved to prevent you from worrying about me any more.’