Once the door to the dining room was closed behind her she stopped, taking several deep, calming breaths. She had no idea why she had allowed him to rattle her—it was probably lack of sleep and general exhaustion that had made her so vulnerable. She was behind the other women, and she could see Miss Bonham and her companion with their arms linked, their heads close together. It looked like nothing more than an intimate chat, until she saw the panic in Miss Bonham’s eyes, the despair in the other’s, and Emma felt sympathy rush through her. It was like that, was it? There would be no happy ending for Miss Bonham and her friend—society wouldn’t even admit such feelings existed, much less condone it. Miss Bonham was being traded to the highest bidder, Brandon, and the best Marion and Frances could hope for would be if he kept his resolve, married her, and then removed to Scotland.
It wasn’t a particularly happy group of women in the salon. Mrs. Beauchamp had found the cookies and was devoting her attention to them, and Melisande’s neighbor, Elizabeth, Lady Carlyle, was leaning back in a chair with complete disregard for those around them, her pregnant belly burgeoning in front of her. She had about five weeks left, Emma decided, and her color was good—she was, as most expectant mothers were, simply tired.
The others weren’t much livelier. Melisande looked murderous, Frances Bonham tragic, her friend Miss Trimby defensive, and Emma herself wasn’t certain whether she wanted to laugh or burst into tears.
She took her seat beside Melisande and a moment later polite conversation became the norm, aided by the social lubricant of tea. “I don’t know what happened,” Melisande muttered under her breath between declarations about the weather. “I never thought he’d go through with it. I’m going to kill Charles.”
“He’s simply looking out for his baby brother,” Emma said calmly. “And I have no idea why you consider it a problem.”
Melisande let out a quiet breath of exasperation. “Don’t lie to me—I’ve known you too long. You’re. . .”
“Felicitations on your engagement,” Emma said to Frances, speaking over Melisande’s whispered speech. “You must be looking forward to the happy day.” It was the first thing she could think of to say, more of the social piffle so beloved of society, but Frances’s martyred look reminded her it wasn’t the best topic.
“They have yet to set a date,” Miss Trimby announced repressively.
Frances managed to summon a wan smile. “It’s all so new. I imagine Lord Brandon is in no particular hurry.”
Oh, my. She was calling him by his title—that didn’t auger well for the future. “I’m certain you’ll be very happy,” she said with complete insincerity. Brandon would be kind to such a meek creature, but completely bored, and Frances didn’t appear as if she’d get over her terrors easily.
Miss Trimby surveyed her with a piercing look. “Have you hurt your wrist, Mrs. Cadbury? You keep rubbing it.”
Dropping her hands to her lap, Emma felt embarrassed heat rise to her cheeks. She’d been holding her wrist where Brandon had grasped it, rubbing the skin, caressing where he’d touched her. She was going mad.
“How kind of you to notice,” she said stiffly, and then managed a smile. She recognized Miss Trimby as well as if she knew her life’s story—living on the edge of society as Emma now did, prickly and defensive and devoted to her best friend.
But Emma had lived among women who were open and honest with their affections, and she had no doubt that Miss Trimby’s feelings for Frances were more passionate than sisterly, and those feelings were returned. That was all well and good in the world Emma inhabited, but there was no way for Miss Trimby and Frances to find happiness together, more’s the pity, though if Brandon gave her the protection of his name and then abandoned her that would go a long way toward it.
And why was she so busy trying to come up with happy endings for everyone else when her own were to be forever denied? Not that she actually knew what she wished for. The chance to work, to practice medicine without having to hide behind some incompetent man, would be enough. The chance to help her friends and the women who’d survived by selling their bodies, either out of choice or necessity, would add to her satisfaction with a hard life.
She’d learned ways to compensate for the things she could never have. She had never had to resort to the kindly old lady down by the docks who assisted professional women whose less than reliable protection had failed them. In the beginning there’d been no protection at all, until the other women had taken her in hand and told her what little she could do to keep herself from the unwanted consequences of their profession, but she knew she hadn’t needed it. She would never be able to bear children, but she could revel in Melisande’s growing brood. She had no interest in the attentions of men, but she could enjoy their good poi
nts with the company of Benedick and . . . and . . . surely there must be other good men, though at the moment she couldn’t think of any. Except, strangely, Brandon.
In fact, she should be delighted that she would never have to worry about men and their invading bodies again. The one man who had stirred unwanted, unrecognizable feelings inside her was now safely out of reach, engaged. She should be feeling happy and relieved.
Instead she was anxious, uneasy, restless, wanting something and not knowing what it was.
She did know what it wasn’t. It wasn’t sitting in an overheated drawing room with a group of torpid women in the throes of various emotional upset. Melisande was still simmering with rage, even comfortable Lady Beauchamp’s love affair with the biscuits seemed to wane, and Lady Carlyle was doing her best to hide her worry about her first confinement, taking refuge in a not quite believable somnolence. Emma knew she would explode if she didn’t escape.
She rose abruptly, and Melisande stared up at her in alarm. “Is something wrong?”
“I’m exhausted,” she announced, even if she felt as tightly coiled as some hideous foreign snake. “I pushed myself a bit today, and if I’m to leave tomorrow I’ll need a good night’s rest. If you don’t mind I think I should make for my bed.”
No one in the room protested her early departure from the house party, she noticed with slightly grim amusement, though it might, perhaps, have nothing to do with her inconsequential self and more with the unhappy preoccupations of the women. It didn’t matter—soon she’d be back in her own world, facing Mr. Fenrush and his coterie of bullies, and she wouldn’t have to waste a moment thinking about the people here.
Melisande rose beside her, a smile on her face, rebellion in her eyes, and Emma knew that escape was still going to require an effort. “Of course, my dear. Would you like me to call for a maid to assist you?”
It was an infelicitous choice of words, reminding all what had happened to the young woman who had previously taken care of her, and the tense atmosphere in the room heightened.
“I’ll be fine,” Emma said firmly. “I’ll bid you all good evening, and if I’m gone by the time you arrive downstairs, then a goodbye as well.”
Miss Trimby was watching her with that peculiar fellow feeling of the classless, and even young Miss Frances looked a little distressed at her defection, which was ridiculous. She might be terrified of her new fiancée, but she could hardly think Emma might be the one to distract him.
She was ready to collapse when she finally made it to her bedroom. All her clothes were loose, designed to be easily removed without the aid of anyone, and she almost left them on the floor where they dropped. The dress she’d worn when she’d been attacked was hanging up, and it appeared that most of the blood had been successfully removed, though there were still some faintly darker patches. From now on it would be her primary work dress—even with enveloping jackets, surgeons tended to get splashed with blood. With a sigh she scooped her clothes from the floor, flung them across a nearby chair and crawled into bed, the heavy linen sheets cradling her.
She stared up at the ceiling in the darkness, only the faint flickers from the damped fire making any movement. It was warm enough there, though it would doubtless chill during the night, but in the meantime she was safe, tucked away, and if luck was with her she might never see Brandon Rohan again.
Turning her cheek, she buried her face in the pillows, letting the night close around her, and for a rare, precious time, she slept.