Looking back, she could hardly imagine that girl was her. Giving herself to love, to Sam, she’d lost all sense of herself, all sense of whatshewanted, whatshebelieved in. Everything was Sam. Sam and love.
And it was all a lie.
And then, two years later, it had come back to haunt her, and she’d almost lost herself again. Shehadlost her father’s respect and faith in her. And her trust in him.
When he’d heard the fresh rumors about her—when he’d been carefullyfedthose rumors, drip by cunning drip—he’d struggled against them for a while but had eventually succumbed. Because two years before he’d seen how blind, how reckless she’d been with Sam, and it had frightened him.
Knowing what she and Sam had done, and never havingcome to terms with it—that Sam had been a mere groom made it even more shocking to him—her father had eventually come to believe the rumors.
That she was doing it again.
The breach with Papa was like an open wound in her heart. He’d believed in the rumors and not the word of Emm, his only daughter. He’d loved her, but he had no faith in her.
That lack of faith, that betrayal of trust, or love, had cut deep.
It was another life lesson—that trust, once shattered, could never be mended. And what was the point of life if one didn’t learn from it?
She might regret Sam, she bitterly regretted how things had ended with Papa, but she couldn’t, she wouldn’t let her past destroy her future.
She had a new life now. And she would make of it the best she could.
***
Mrs. Moffat conducted a most thorough tour, giving a history of the house and family, as well as showing Emm every closet, cupboard and storeroom, and all the stores. It was the family stories that Emm was most interested in, and with a little encouragement, Mrs. Moffat opened right up, telling stories of Master Cal, who was—boy and man—very dear to her heart.
Emm got the impression of a solitary little boy, growing up under the eye of a cold, demanding father. He’d had no playfellows—his father wouldn’t allow him to associate with village boys, and his brother was ten years older and away at school.
“Very stiff-rumped was old Lord Ashendon, always knowing what was due to his consequence and not accepting anything less,” Mrs. Moffat confided. “But he did allow Master Cal to spend a deal of time in the stables, and the lads there were companions of a sort.”
“And what of his mother?”
“Oh, she died when he was a little lad. I doubt he even remembers her.”
“But his father married again...” Emm prompted.
Mrs. Moffat sniffed. “A beauty she was, and a good mother to her little girls, but”—she screwed up her nose—“not the sort who wanted the children of her predecessor hanging around. Especially not sons, when she’d only given her husband daughters.” She clucked her tongue in disapproval. “No, little Master Cal was sent off to school—just seven he was, poor little lad—and we hardly saw anything of him after that.”
“But didn’t he go home for holidays?” Even as she said it, she remembered that after their mother had died, Rose and Lily had spent all their holidays with Lady Dorothea—even Christmas.
“Not much. He usually stayed at school, or stayed with friends.” She turned to Emm with a smile. “Oh, but when he did come home, well, those little girls followed him around like baby ducklings. Master Cal it was that put them up their first ponies. Soul of patience he was with them.” The elderly woman darted Emm a sideways glance. “Make a fine father, he will, now he’s home and in his rightful place.”
Emm didn’t have the heart to tell Mrs. Moffat that he was leaving again, and who knew when he’d return.
I haven’t lived in this house since I was a boy.And where had he lived since then? No wonder he didn’t care what she did to the house. It hadn’t been a home to him at all.
Emm determined then and there that she would make this place into a home—if not for her husband, who seemed to prefer life abroad, then for her and the girls. And, pray God, for any children she might have.
Mrs. Moffat continued, “And then he finished school and was off to the army, fighting that nasty Bonaparte. The fighting that boy did—well, it was a miracle he wasn’t killed—mentioned in dispatches I don’t know how many times. Of course we all prayed for him. Now the linen press, my lady, needs a deal of refurbishment.”
The stories continued, much to Emm’s fascination, and it wasn’t until they were in the west wing, looking into dusty room after dusty room with furniture shrouded under holland covers, that she finally turned her full attention to the task at hand.
“Mrs. Moffat, what are these rooms? There seem to be a great many of them, all seemingly deserted.” For years, by the smell of stale air and dust.
“Old Lord Ashendon’s orders, m’lady. He wasn’t one for entertaining, and Mr. Henry never came near the place, neither. Not even after he became Lord Ashendon. I don’t remember when these room were last used.”
“Well, then, we must do something about that,” Emm declared. “This is going to become a family home. I want every room opened up, aired, cleaned, and the furniture inspected to see what we shall retain, what can be mended and what shall be replaced.” She shuddered. “Who knows what may be lurking beneath those covers?”
“Every room?” Mrs. Moffat faltered. Emm knew what she was thinking; it was far too much work for the few servants who’d remained to run the grand old house, many of them quite elderly.
