A Christmas Wedding Wager (18 page)

For a long time, Emma sat stunned. Then she noticed the cold creeping up her fingers as the fire burnt down to a pile of ash and the daylight started to fade.

Jack obviously thought she had received his letter and decided not to reply.

Emma looked at the wavering words again. What could she say? She had no idea what she would have done if she had received the letter. Had her mother even broken the seal, or had she simply recognised the handwriting and burnt the letter?

There was little point in asking her father. She did not want to risk another scene. She had no desire to bring on an attack, have her father gasping for breath and Dr Milburn called to administer his pills. No, she refused to take the risk.

There was no point wasting time wondering what might have been. Because it wasn't--never could be. She had to live in the present, not dwell in the past.

Emma pressed her hands to her forehead. She had to consider that seven years was a long time. The girl she'd been then bore little relation to the woman she had become. The Jack Stanton who had shown her around the building site was not the man who had asked her to marry him and then left without a word.

'Emma, what are you doing sitting alone? Has your father taken a turn for the worse?'

Emma hurriedly stuffed the letter under the blotting paper as Jack came into the room. He had changed from his work clothes, and his cream trousers once again showed the perfect crease.

His cravat was immovably tied. The casual observer would think him a man of leisure, never suspecting that he had been clambering over stone and rock earlier.

'I was thinking.' Emma covered the letter with another sheet of paper. She would burn it later.

There was little point in keeping it, or the dressmaking bills her mother had stuffed in the secret door.

'About anything in particular? There is a crease between your eyebrows. Have you found something else in the Goose Club list to perplex you?'

'Nothing important.' Emma smoothed her forehead. 'I had a bit of a pounding head earlier and took a tisane.'

'You look as if you have been crying.'

Emma scrubbed the back of her hand over her eyes. 'A trick of the light.'

She moved to go out of the room. Her nerves were too raw. She wanted to blurt out what she had learnt, but it would only make matters worse. And how could she excuse her mother's behaviour? The inescapable fact remained that their courtship had been doomed from the start seven years ago.

'If there is anything I can do,' Jack said quietly. 'I am willing to help. Trust me.'

The words were tempting. Emma longed to lay her head against his chest and confess all--

confess to the wasted years and the times when she had longed to be anywhere but here.

Except it was not possible. She could not betray her past or her mother's machinations. Her mother had acted the way she had because she'd felt it right.

Jack raised an eyebrow, and Emma realised that silence had grown between them. Something needed to be said before she blurted out the sorry tale.

'The cook will shortly have supper ready.' Emma opted for a brave smile. 'I trust you will be joining my father and me?'

'I would like that very much.'

Still he did not move, but stood there. Emma remembered the way his hands had held her last night, and the way he had taken the time to describe his experiments this morning. She could feel the heat increase on her cheeks and hoped he would think it was because she was standing close to the fire.

'And, Mr Stanton...I am looking forward to the pantomime.' She smiled and lifted her shoulders slightly. 'It strikes me that I may have sounded ungracious before.'

He was silent for a while. 'I have never thought you ungracious.'

'You lie exceedingly charmingly. I was certainly ungracious when you appeared the other day.' Emma tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, fought against the warmth building inside her. 'I was preoccupied, not to mention annoyed at being caught in one of my oldest dresses.'

'It most certainly did not show off your charms as well as the ballgown you wore last night.

Had I seen you in that first, I would never have believed you an acid-tongued spinster.'

'But now you do?'

'I know you for what you are.' Jack's gaze held her. She noticed how his eyes had taken on a slightly deeper, richer hue. They were the sort of eyes a person could drown in.

She forced her gaze onto the blotting paper, reminded herself of what lay underneath and why there were so many things between them--too many things. 'But you thought me a terribly interfering biddy when we first met at the bridge.'

Jack gave a short laugh. 'You were doing your best under difficult circumstances.'

'And you were right to step in. The building site positively rang with activity this morning.'

The words seem to stick in her throat. Did he understand how much it cost her to say those words? 'I am grateful you are looking again at the line for the bridge. The bridge means so much to my father. Since my mother died, it is all that he has to occupy his attention.'

Jack's face betrayed nothing, but Emma thought she detected a slight softening of his eyes.

'The men reacted to your father's presence. They know who signs their pay cheques. He appears well recovered from his chill. One of these days he may consider remarrying.'

'My father?' Emma stared at Jack in astonishment. First Lucy at the ball, and now Jack.

Surely they had to realise that her father had no intention of doing such a thing? But that fact would be impossible to explain without telling them about her father's illness and how Dr Milburn had said that there was very little hope. She regarded her hands. 'My father has no plans to remarry--none whatsoever.'

He paused and his eyes grew warm. 'Should you ever need a friendly ear, Emma...'

'I shall remember we are friends,' she said slowly, comprehension dawning. He thought she was upset because her father wanted to pay court to some woman and her own position in the house might be in jeopardy. It was ironic, but it saved her from having to explain the truth.

She made sure her back was rigid. 'I value your friendship highly, Mr Stanton. I always did.'

'Yes, friends.' There was a bittersweetness to Jack's smile. 'I think you may say we are friends once again, Emma.'

'It is good to have a friend...Jack.' She felt very daring as she said his name, but it would go no further than that--light flirtation between friends, never anything beyond--as much as she might wish it. There was too much history between them, too many secrets. Even last night belonged to the past, and she had to keep her face to the future.

He paused with his hand on the doorframe, his dark eyes inscrutable. 'And, Emma, don't look back. Keep your face forward. The past is done and the future is yet to be.'

'Papa, are you sure you will be fine? Fackler has orders to send for me if anything should go amiss, or if you should start to feel under the weather.' Emma fastened a short cloak around her shoulders in preparation for her visit to the theatre. She was tingling with anticipation. The theatre--and most of all Jack.

Her father stood in the hallway, dressed in his silk dressing gown and carrying the latest news journals in his hand. Emma frowned. His face seemed pale, but it could be because he was wearing a burgundy silk dressing gown.

'Stop your fussing, Emma. I am as fit as I ever was. The cold was a blasted nuisance, but you shall see in the New Year...' Her father gestured towards the door with his paper. 'Go out and enjoy yourself. You know I dislike having several nights out in a week. I trust Lucy Charlton and that husband of hers will prove more than adequate chaperones.'

He gave a slight cough and pulled his dressing gown tighter around his body.

'Perhaps you should not have gone to the bridge two days ago.' Emma tilted her head. 'I could have reported back.'

'Perhaps you should pay attention to your own business. I wanted to see what Jack Stanton was up to. Satisfy my curiosity. See if he remained faithful to the ways I taught him.' Her father tapped the side of his nose. 'Besides, it would not have been proper for you to go on your own.'

'You let me go before.'

'I had no choice. And I had assumed you took Fackler or Annie. A woman's reputation reflects on her family, and in this case on the company. A man's private life shows the world how he conducts himself.' Her father held out his hands. 'Emma, I do want what is best for you.'

What was best for her? What she wanted, or what her father considered best? The clock struck eight, and Emma knew she did not have the time to argue.

'And do you approve of Jack Stanton's methods?' she asked, changing the subject away from her future. 'I thought the site looked clean and industrious.'

'There is not much one can do in the frost, but Stanton seems to have found work for everyone who wishes it.' Her father went over to the barometer, gave it a tap. 'If it gets much colder there will be snow, and skating on the pond. You used to enjoy such things. I can remember you and your sister coming back with rosy cheeks and pink noses.'

'That was a long time ago.' Emma's hand stilled, and she regarded her father in the looking glass.

'But I remember.' Her father put a hand on her shoulder. 'Here is Stanton. His tailor does right by him, don't you think?'

Emma turned her head and saw Jack coming down the stairs. No man had the right to look that good. It was not the clothes making the man, but the man making the clothes. The deep black of his evening suit fitted his colouring perfectly.

'Ah, Miss Emma, you are ready for your educational evening?'

'As ready as I will ever be.'

'You will find it amusing, I promise you.'

The pantomime had been amusing, and Emma had to admit that the company had been entertaining. She had not realised that Henry Charlton knew quite a bit about engineering as well as finance. His plan for a new engine was sound. He and Jack had spent a good deal of time discussing it, and possible modifications. Jack had agreed to look at the plans in greater detail if Henry supplied them.

'You look pensive,' Jack said now, as they waited in the Theatre Royal's portico for the carriage. A few of the Christmas broadsheet patterers could be heard singing out the verses of carols, hoping to entice the theatregoers to buy their wares. 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen'

vied with 'The First Nowell', a raucous but not discordant noise, somehow giving the usually austere portico a taste of the festive spirit. 'Or have you laughed too much? I know I heard a distinctly unladylike snort coming from your direction when Punch appeared.'

'There may have been.'

Emma's smile turned to a frown as she watched a ragged girl offer a sprig of holly to several of the theatregoers. Most were too busy adjusting their coats and bonnets to pay much attention.

'Something is troubling you.'

'How do you know?'

'Your brow has become furrowed and your expression intent.'

'It seems a shame that so many have so little.' Emma nodded towards the little flower girl.

'You cannot save the entire world.'

'I don't intend to, but it makes you think. Particularly at this time of year. I can see the first snowflakes falling.'

Jack gave the girl a coin, and then handed the sprig to Emma with a flourish. The little girl clutched the coin and ran off as fast as her little legs would carry her. 'There, now, does that make you feel better?'

'How much did you give her?'

'Enough to make her evening. She should be able to buy a hot meal or two.' His fingers touched her cheek, making a warmth grow inside her.

'I wish there was more I could do.'

'You are doing something. Or rather your father's company is. The railway bridge is vital to the future prosperity of this city. Without it you would see more children like that little girl.

With it, and a proper station, the city prospers.'

'I suppose you are right.' Emma looked after the girl, but she had disappeared into the night.

'I know I am right. Progress will bring prosperity. It is the only way. Think about how far we have come in the last few years.'

'But we could be doing more.'

'At least you saw the girl. You did not pass her by, and you did not offer her charity.'

There was something in Jack's voice that made Emma pause.

'Is that really so important?'

'Yes, charity can destroy the soul. People want to feel valued. That they have given as well as received.' His fingers touched her elbow. 'Ah, here is the carriage.'

Emma kept her skirts carefully away from Jack, and chatted about inconsequential things as the carriage wound its way back to Jesmond, but her body hummed with anticipation. Would he attempt to take her in his arms? What should she do if he did?

In the dim light she could see his hands resting loosely on his cane, his eyes watching her face, watching her mouth. He had to kiss her. She wanted him to. Emma leant forward, her lips parting as the carriage swung into the drive. He put out an arm to stop her falling. Her body brushed his--but she pushed away as her attention became fastened on the light flooding the carriage.

'There's something wrong,' Emma said, and a shiver went down her spine. 'Something is dreadfully wrong.'

'How do you know?'

'Father would never have the lights blazing this brightly at night. He is very mindful of the cost of candles and gas.'

'I am sure it isn't anything.'

Emma leapt from the carriage without waiting for a hand and rushed in. Fackler was there, shaking his head and wringing his hands.

'Something is wrong!' Emma did not bother waiting for any pleasantry. 'What has happened here tonight? You should have sent the carriage for me.'

'We have had to send for Dr Milburn,' Fackler said. 'Your father took a turn for the worse soon after you left. He called for his tonic, drank it, then went rigid.'

'Emma, Emma--are you all right?' Jack's concerned voice broke through her misery. 'Give Miss Emma some space, Fackler. She needs air. Your news has been a shock, a great shock.'