her tummy, Emma watched the girl pay for her purchase. She knew her feelings were all out of proportion to the situation, and she tried to be reconciled to the loss. It was just a fan, she told herself, and that young lady surely had more reason to own it than she ever would. Even had she bought it, Emma didn’t know what she would have done with the thing. Hang it on the wall, she supposed, where it would only collect dust.
It’s the springtime of that girl’s life , Emma reminded herself. A time when a peacock fan was of some use to a young lady, a time of parties and dancing and romance, a time of hopes and dreams and plans for the future—a future that was exciting and fun and full of possibilities.
Her own springtime had passed by years ago, if it had ever existed at all.
Emma’s mind flashed back over the past dozen years. She thought of herself at eighteen, nineteen, twenty—of being desperately in love and hoping Mr. Parker felt the same, waiting for a declaration of love and a proposal of marriage that had never come, watching him marry someone else.
Then dear Aunt Lydia had gotten sick. Emma thought of the five years she’d spent caring forher, waiting and hoping so desperately that the old woman would get better, and then watching the casket as it was lowered into the ground.
And now there was Lord Marlowe, who had no intention of publishing any of her books, who hadn’t even read them. Five years of hope and hard work, slaving over a typewriting machine every night, had come to naught.
Such was the pattern of her life. She had spent her entire youth waiting and hoping for things that never happened. Now she was thirty.
The young ladies were coming toward the door. Emma stepped aside and turned, watching that absurd, extravagant peacock fan go out the door with its new owner, and something cracked inside of her.
Too late , she realized. She’d spent so many years putting off what she wanted until it was too late.
With that thought, all the emotions she’d been holding back since leaving the publishing house surged up within her like floodwaters rising. She pressed her gloved fist over her mouth, trying to maintain her composure, but it was a futile attempt. Like water breaking a dam, all her outrage and all her despair came flooding out. Much to her mortification and horror, Emma started to cry.
Chapter 4
Men wonder why women cannot behave in a rational fashion. What they fail to understand is that we do.
Mrs. Bartleby’s Essays on Domestic Life, 1892
I n regard to his family, Harry considered himself a tolerant man, but by God, there were limits. Four days of his sisters lauding the talents and charms of their house guests at every opportunity, and Harry’s tolerance was gone. Melanie’s woeful hero worship, Nan’s mediocre singing, Felicity’s marriage-minded eyes, and Florence’s inane conversation were threatening to destroy not only his good humor, but his sanity as well.
By Monday morning, when he was informed their house guests would be accompanying them aboard Rathbourne’s yacht, where he would betrapped in their company for an entire day and evening with no place to hide, Harry knew something had to be done. But he didn’t know what.
He couldn’t send the silly girls packing back to Dillmouth. His mother would cry, a dreadful prospect. His sisters would simply set about finding a fresh lot of potential marriage partners for him, which was even worse. Their social standing would dip yet another notch, for Dillmouth would do Harry some sort of injury for the slight to his daughters and nieces. In short, the whole thing would become a sorry mess, and Harry tried to avoid those whenever possible.
Unfortunately, sorry messes did not always avoid Harry. When he stopped by his offices to sign those Halliday contracts before departing for Rathbourne’s water party, his plans went awry, his day went to hell, and Harry found himself in a very sorry mess indeed.
It all started
It’s the springtime of that girl’s life , Emma reminded herself. A time when a peacock fan was of some use to a young lady, a time of parties and dancing and romance, a time of hopes and dreams and plans for the future—a future that was exciting and fun and full of possibilities.
Her own springtime had passed by years ago, if it had ever existed at all.
Emma’s mind flashed back over the past dozen years. She thought of herself at eighteen, nineteen, twenty—of being desperately in love and hoping Mr. Parker felt the same, waiting for a declaration of love and a proposal of marriage that had never come, watching him marry someone else.
Then dear Aunt Lydia had gotten sick. Emma thought of the five years she’d spent caring forher, waiting and hoping so desperately that the old woman would get better, and then watching the casket as it was lowered into the ground.
And now there was Lord Marlowe, who had no intention of publishing any of her books, who hadn’t even read them. Five years of hope and hard work, slaving over a typewriting machine every night, had come to naught.
Such was the pattern of her life. She had spent her entire youth waiting and hoping for things that never happened. Now she was thirty.
The young ladies were coming toward the door. Emma stepped aside and turned, watching that absurd, extravagant peacock fan go out the door with its new owner, and something cracked inside of her.
Too late , she realized. She’d spent so many years putting off what she wanted until it was too late.
With that thought, all the emotions she’d been holding back since leaving the publishing house surged up within her like floodwaters rising. She pressed her gloved fist over her mouth, trying to maintain her composure, but it was a futile attempt. Like water breaking a dam, all her outrage and all her despair came flooding out. Much to her mortification and horror, Emma started to cry.
Chapter 4
Men wonder why women cannot behave in a rational fashion. What they fail to understand is that we do.
Mrs. Bartleby’s Essays on Domestic Life, 1892
I n regard to his family, Harry considered himself a tolerant man, but by God, there were limits. Four days of his sisters lauding the talents and charms of their house guests at every opportunity, and Harry’s tolerance was gone. Melanie’s woeful hero worship, Nan’s mediocre singing, Felicity’s marriage-minded eyes, and Florence’s inane conversation were threatening to destroy not only his good humor, but his sanity as well.
By Monday morning, when he was informed their house guests would be accompanying them aboard Rathbourne’s yacht, where he would betrapped in their company for an entire day and evening with no place to hide, Harry knew something had to be done. But he didn’t know what.
He couldn’t send the silly girls packing back to Dillmouth. His mother would cry, a dreadful prospect. His sisters would simply set about finding a fresh lot of potential marriage partners for him, which was even worse. Their social standing would dip yet another notch, for Dillmouth would do Harry some sort of injury for the slight to his daughters and nieces. In short, the whole thing would become a sorry mess, and Harry tried to avoid those whenever possible.
Unfortunately, sorry messes did not always avoid Harry. When he stopped by his offices to sign those Halliday contracts before departing for Rathbourne’s water party, his plans went awry, his day went to hell, and Harry found himself in a very sorry mess indeed.
It all started
Similar Books
