Mary Brendan - The Silver Squire

The doorbell clattered shrilly, making Emma start and the butler appear from nowhere. He opened the door and received the post.

An enticing glimpse of sun and sky and a rattling coach drew Emma to her feet and towards freedom. ‘I’m sorry, I have another appointment and am already a little overdue. If you will excuse me…’ The words tumbled out breathlessly, for she was obliquely aware of the butler starting to push shut the large white door, cutting off her escape route. She also glimpsed Madame Dubois’s pout slackening as she realised she had been summarily rejected. But it was Richard Du Quesne’s pitiless grey gaze following her that hastened her nimble dodge through the shrinking aperture.

Once in the air, she sped down the elegant steps and, skirts in trembling fists, was running without thought for direction. What halted her several streets away was the need to gasp in more breath to put further distance between herself and those narrowed silver eyes. She backed against a wall and wrapped herself concealingly into her cloak as though still afraid she might be exposed as an impostor. A trembling hand went to the coldness on her face and came away wet. She angrily scrubbed away the bitter tears and slowly, sedately walked towards an area of railed park she could see in the distance.

She had no idea where she was but had a depressing, sinking feeling that Mrs Keene’s boarding house in Lower Place was some considerable way away and probably in the opposite direction. As she took a second slow turn around the small recreation area, she slipped unobtrusive glances at fashionable people promenading; nurses tending their young charges, while taking the late afternoon air. Most were now making for the exit, mentioning teatime or the need to be home now the air was cooling.

Emma scoured the skyline for a familiar spire or rooftop that would point her home. She sighed on finding nothing but lowering storm clouds in the west. She should really ask someone for directions but was loath to bring herself to anyone’s attention.

She approached a small wooden bench as a young couple vacated it and strolled away arm in arm. Seating herself, she drew her cloak tight about her. The sun was setting behind that purply-grey nimbus, spearing golden rays into the chilling atmosphere. She’d obviously been lost for some while. She should have accepted Matthew’s offer to wait and deliver her home, she inwardly chided herself. She would, by now, have been back at Mrs Keene’s with the prospect of eating soon.

Thinking of food made her stomach grumble. The exertion of sprinting so fast and so far had sapped her energy and left her quite light-headed. She would be late and miss her dinner…and she had already paid her shilling for it. Well, it would be salt bacon again, she wryly consoled herself.

She searched in her pocket and drew out her small pouch. Tipping the coins into her palm, she carefully counted, wondering whether she could afford to purchase something to eat on the trek home. The idea of something tasty and different made her stomach roll hollowly again, yet even that consuming thought couldn’t completely drag part of her mind out of that opulent, cool hallway and away from a man with piercing metallic eyes.

The shock and humiliation at meeting him again under such degrading circumstances were receding, allowing another worry to compete for notice. If Richard Du Quesne had recognised her but had been unwilling to embarrass himself in front of his mistress by saying so, he might not display such reticence in London on his return there.

He owned a smart residence in Mayfair; she knew that. Should he soon go to London and mention he’d seen her in Bath and Jarrett Dashwood came to hear of it…She recalled dark olive eyes sliding over her body with sly, nauseating inspection. That blackguard would make a vicious and vengeful enemy; of that she was absolutely sure. She swallowed a bitter lump in her throat, pocketed her coins and fairly bolted up from the seat as though the vile man might even now be on his way to fetch her. She would forgo food this evening and use her money for the safety of a carriage ride home, she decided.

‘Miss Worthington?’

She stopped dead, her complexion paling in terror as she slowly turned.

Richard Du Quesne walked the path towards her and, as she instinctively stepped back, he gestured appealingly.

‘Please, don’t run away again…’ he said, with a flash of a rueful white smile. ‘It’s taken me hours to find you as it is.’

Emma swallowed, still slowly retreating, even though her eyes had swept past him, taken in the plush phaeton visible beyond the railings that bordered the small park and digested the fact that it was, of course, his.

‘I’ve no intention of running, Mr Du Quesne,’ she lied quietly, while silently vowing that should the opportunity arise she would flee him with her last breath. ‘How are you? Well, I trust? I’m sorry but I have no time to chat today, sir,’ she fluently apologised, without waiting to discover how he did. ‘I have to be going now. I have an appointment and am a little late.’ She sketched a curtsey then spoiled all her confident ease by dithering over whether to walk back past him or turn and make for the opposite end of the empty park and thus enter yet more unknown territory. She settled for the unknown, whirled about and walked away.

A firm hand on her arm halted her and gently turned her about. ‘Aren’t you going to now allow me the courtesy of enquiring how you do?’

‘Why? You know I don’t associate you with civilised behaviour. I’m sure you’re little interested in how I do…as, truthfully, I’m little interested in how you do.’ She swallowed, bit her unsteady lower lip, ashamed of her unnecessary rudeness. All she had needed to say was that she did tolerably well, thank you.

She watched his light eyes darken behind lengthy, dusky lashes, then he laughed. ‘For a while, I just couldn’t conceive it to be you, Miss Worthington. Now I’m convinced it is. In three years you’ve not changed a bit.’

‘Oh, but I have, Mr Du Quesne,’ she said heartbreakingly huskily yet with a bright, courageous smile. ‘I really have changed so much.’ She felt a horrible, hot stinging behind her eyes. Please don’t let him reminisce, she silently entreated; don’t let him talk of their dear mutual friends, David and Victoria Hardinge; don’t let him mention her darling goddaughter, Lucy, or any of those things that always brought a poignant mingling of gladness and envy to torture her.

Distraction came in the shape of a raucous cry that minutes before would have drawn her towards it. Her soulful amber eyes followed the progress of a woman hawking Sally Lunn’s tea-cakes, a sweetish aroma strengthening tormentingly in the stirring evening air.

‘Are you hungry?’ Richard asked quietly, noting her exquisite eyes were fixed on the pedlar.

Emma shook her head and looked away immediately. ‘The light’s fading. I want to be home. I will be missed,’ she lied again. She almost laughed. Who on earth was there here to miss her?

‘I take it your mother is with you in Bath. Where are you staying? Why are you seeking employment?’ His staccato questions were fired at her.

She avoided his eye. ‘I…I’m not seeking work, sir,’ she said slowly, while her mind raced ahead for plausible explanations. ‘I must beg you to convey my apologies to your…friend. It was just a wager…a joke in very bad taste. Some acquaintances laid a bet that I should never have the audacity to seek a position or attend an interview. It was a stupid, inconsiderate thing to do. I bitterly regret getting involved at all.’ She gained little solace from that small truth after such fluent lies and felt her face flame betrayingly.