Emma’s smile faltered, and she looked thoughtful for a moment. “Perhaps,” she conceded quietly. “We’ll see.”
Brigitte set the brush down and began preparing Emma’s nightgown. “So, His Grace will come to the orphanage tomorrow?”
“Yes,” Emma said, her tone brightening again. “And afterward, we’re going to Hyde Park. He thought it would be nice to go for a walk since it’s nearby. He’s meeting a few of his associates there.”
Brigitte smirked as she helped Emma into her gown. “Will Lord Weston be among them?”
Emma’s cheeks warmed at the mention of Jonathan’s name, and she glanced over her shoulder. “I don’t believe so. Though, judging by your interest, I imagine if he were, you might offer yourself as an escort.”
Brigitte colored deeply and turned back to the vanity, picking up a brush. “I was only asking, Your Grace,” she muttered, clearly flustered.
Emma laughed softly, the sound light and genuine. “You needn’t be embarrassed, Brigitte. He is rather dashing, I’ll admit. I can see why everyone at the estate seems to moon over him. Including you, Brigitte?”
“I suppose I cannot deny that he is rather appealing. If I were not a maid perhaps I might set my cap on him also. If I were Lady Brigitte, instead of Brigitte Orlean, lady’s maid.”
Emma gasped, mock scandalized, before bursting into laughter. Brigitte joined in, their shared mirth filling the room.
When the laughter faded, Brigitte placed the brush down and smiled warmly at Emma. “It’s good to see you laughing again. It’s been some time.”
Emma tilted her head, a thoughtful expression softening her features. “You’re right,” she murmured. “I hadn’t realized how long it’s been.”
She thought back to the evening’s events—the lively conversation at dinner, Jonathan’s playful humor, Evan’s quiet attentiveness. For the first time in what felt like ages, she had felt truly at ease. There was a lightness to her heart she hadn’t expected, a sense of looking forward to the days ahead.
Yet, amidst her happiness, a shadow lingered. Emma’s gaze drifted to the nightstand, where the letters she had discovered weeks ago were tucked away in the drawer. The one addressed to “Rose” in particular haunted her thoughts.
She wondered if Evan’s frequent trips to town were tied to the letters, to Rose, whoever she might be. A part of her yearned to know the truth, but another part feared what she might uncover. If she and Evan had any hope of forging a true friendship, it had to be built on trust.
Emma sighed and turned back to the mirror. “Brigitte, do you think…” She hesitated, then shook her head. “No, never mind.”
Brigitte tilted her head curiously but said nothing, continuing to tidy up the room.
Emma’s thoughts swirled. Should she return the letters to Evan? Should she tell him she had found them? But what if he thought she had read them? What if it shattered the fragile connection they were beginning to build?
No, she decided firmly. She would leave the letters where they were for now, pushed to the back of the drawer and out of sight.
Tonight, she wanted nothing to disturb the sense of peace she had found. For the first time, she felt hope—not just for the orphanage, but for herself. For the possibility that her marriage to Evan could become something more than just an arrangement.
Emma smiled faintly at her reflection, the firelight catching the warmth in her eyes. Tomorrow would come with its challenges and revelations, but for now, she was content to let the evening linger in her heart.
CHAPTER 25
Emma
The sun was warm, and the faint scent of soap clung to the air as Emma wrung out the last of the linens, her arms aching but her spirit buoyed by the rhythmic task. The nuns were chatting quietly as they worked, their hands swift and practiced. Beside her, Sister Beatrice, a plump woman with an ever-present air of gentle authority, clucked her tongue.
“Your Grace, truly, I must insist,” Beatrice said, her brow furrowing as she glanced at Emma. “It is most unbecoming for a Duchess to do laundry. It was unusual enough when you were merely a Lady.”
Emma laughed softly, shaking her head. “Just because my title has changed doesn’t mean my hands are any less capable. Laundry is good for the soul, Sister. It gives one time to think.”
“Time to think, perhaps, but also time to ruin your hands,” Beatrice countered. “And to make your nuns uneasy. They are not accustomed to washing alongside a Duchess.”
Emma smiled as she folded the linen neatly and placed it into a basket. “Then perhaps they should become accustomed. Titles don’t wash away humility, Sister. Surely, you can agree with that?”
Beatrice sighed, her fond exasperation evident. “You are stubborn, Your Grace.” Beatrice’s eyes twinkled as she leaned closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Very well. But tell me, who or what are you so anxiously watching for? You’ve been glancing at the door every few moments.”
Emma flushed, caught in her subtle habit. She paused, her fingers trailing over a damp cloth as she spoke. “I’m waiting for my husband. He agreed to visit the orphanage today.”
Beatrice’s eyes lit up. “His Grace is coming? Oh, what an honor that will be! His presence could bring much-needed attention to our work here. Do you think he might consider becoming an official patron?”
