Charles wrinkled his handsome nose. "Beans. How can you possibly concern yourself with such things as bean production, Emily? So bloody boring."
"No more boring than the details of iron manufacture, coal production, and wheat harvests," she retorted. "I am surprised you do not exhibit a bit more interest in such matters yourself. Everything you enjoy in life, from your beautiful boots to that fine hunter you bought last month, is a direct result of paying attention to the details of such things as bean production."
Charles grinned, held up his hands, palms out, and got to his feet. "No more lectures, Em. They're even more boring than beans. In any event, the hunter is a spectacular animal. Father helped me choose him at Tattersall's and you know father's excellent eye for bloodstock."
"Yes, but it was an awfully expensive hunter, Charles."
"Think of the horse as an investment." Charles gave her another quick kiss on the cheek. "Well, if there's no news for Davenport, I'm off. See you again when I need a rest from the tables."
Emily smiled wistfully up at him. "Give my regards to Papa and Devlin. I almost wish I were going up to London with you."
"Nonsense. You always say you're happiest here in the country where you've got plenty to do all day." Charles strode toward the door. "In any event, it's Thursday. You have a meeting of your literary society this afternoon, don't you? You would not want to miss that."
"No, I suppose not. Goodbye, Charles."
"Goodbye, Em."
Emily waited until the library door had closed behind her brother before she lifted the The Gentleman's Magazine off of S. A. Traherne's letter. She smiled with secret pleasure as she began to read the elegant scrawl that covered the foolscap.
My Dear Miss Faringdon:
I fear this note will be quite short but I pray you will forgive my haste when I tell you why that is the case. The reason is that I will very soon be arriving in your vicinity. I am to be a house guest at the country home of Lord Gillingham, whom I understand to be a neighbor of yours. I trust I am not being overbold when I tell you that I am hopeful you will be so kind as to afford me the opportunity of making your acquaintance in person while I am there.
Emily froze in shock. S. A. Traherne was coming to Little Dippington.
She could not believe her eyes. Heart racing with excitement, she clutched the letter and reread the opening lines.
It was true. He was going to be a guest of the Gillinghams, who had a country villa a short distance away from St. Clair Hall. With trembling fingers Emily carefully put down the letter and forced herself to take several deep breaths in order to control the flood of excitement that was washing over her.
It was an excitement shot through with dread.
The part of her that had longed to meet S. A. Traherne in the flesh was already at war with the part of her that had always feared the encounter. The resulting tension made her feel light-headed.
With a desperate attempt to hold fast to her common sense, Emily forced herself to bear in mind that nothing of a romantic nature could possibly come of such a meeting. In fact, she stood to lose the treasured correspondence that had become so important to her these past few months.
The terrible risk involved here was that while he was ruralizing in the neighborhood, S. A. Traherne might hear some awful hint about the Unfortunate Incident in her past. His hostess, Lady Gillingham, knew all about that dreadful stain on Emily's reputation, of course. So did everyone else in the vicinity of Little Dippington. It had all happened five years ago and no one talked about it much now, but it was certainly no secret.
Emily tried to be realistic. Sooner or later, if S. A. Traherne stayed in the area long enough, someone was bound to mention the Incident.
"Bloody hell," Emily said quite forcefully into the stillness of the library. She winced at the unfeminine words.
One of the disadvantages of spending so much time alone here in the great house with only the servants for company was that she had picked up a few bad habits. She was, for example, quite free to curse like a man when she felt like it and she had gotten in the way of doing so. Emily told herself she would have to watch her tongue around S. A. Traherne. She was certain a man of his refined sensibilities would find cursing very objectionable in a female.
Emily groaned. It was going to be very difficult to live up to S. A. Traherne's high standards. With a guilty twinge she wondered if she might have misled him a bit about her own degree of refinement and intellect.
She jumped to her feet and walked over to stand at the window overlooking the gardens. She honestly did not know whether to be overjoyed or cast into the depths of despair by Traherne's letter. She felt as though she were teetering on a high precipice.
S. A. Traherne was coming to Little Dippington. She could not take it in. The possibilities and risks staggered the imagination. He did not say when he would be arriving but it sounded as though he might be here within a short time. A few weeks, perhaps. Or next month.
Perhaps she should invent a hasty visit to some distant relative.
But Emily did not think she could bear to miss this opportunity, even if it ruined everything. How awful that it should be so terrifying to contemplate a meeting with the man she loved.
"Bloody hell," Emily said again. And then she realized she was grinning like an idiot even though she felt like crying. The tangle of emotions was almost more than she could stand. She went back to the big desk and looked down at the remainder of S. A. Traherne's letter.
Thank you for sending along the copy of your latest poem, Thoughts in the Dark Hours Before Dawn. I read it with great interest and I must tell you that I was particularly struck by the lines in which you explore the remarkable similarities between a cracked urn and a broken heart. Very affecting. I trust that you will have had a positive response from a publisher by the time you receive this letter.
Yrs ever,
S. A. Traherne
Emily knew then she could not possibly rush off to visit a nonexistent relative. Come what may, she could not resist the opportunity of meeting the man who understood her poetry so well and who found her verses very affecting.
She carefully refolded S. A. Traherne's letter and slipped it into the bodice of her high-waisted, pale blue morning gown. A glance at the tall clock showed that it was time to get back to work. There was much to be done before she left to meet with the members of the Thursday Afternoon Literary Society.
Emily did not find the latest rejection letter from the publisher until she was halfway through the stack of correspondence. She recognized it immediately because she had received a great many others just like it. Mr. Pound, a man of obviously limited intellect and blunted sensitivity, apparently did not find her poetry very affecting.
But somehow the news that S. A. Traherne was soon to be in the vicinity softened the blow enormously.
"Damn, don't understand why you would want to attend a meeting of the local lit'ry society, Blade." Lord Gillingham's shaggy eyebrows rose as he regarded his house guest.
He and Simon were standing in the court in front of the Gillinghams' villa waiting for the horses to be brought around.
"I thought it might be amusing." Simon gently slapped his riding crop against his boot. He was getting impatient now that he was within minutes of meeting Miss Emily Faringdon.
"Amusing? You're an odd one, ain't you, Blade? Expect it's all those years you spent in the East. Don't do to spend too long living among foreigners, I say. Gives a man strange notions."
"It also provided me with my fortune," Simon reminded him dryly.