Year of Folly Read online

  “The green dress, tonight?” Will asked, with a hopeful tone.

  Bridget nodded.

  “Mm. Lovely.” He kissed her cheek and picked up his own jacket and went off on his own affairs. It left Emma alone with Morgan, who sat behind the Inverness Courier newspaper. A day-old copy of The Times was folded by his elbow. As he read, he rubbed at his forehead.

  “Do you have a headache?” Emma asked him.

  “Yes,” he said shortly.

  “From all your lack of drinking, I suppose,” she murmured.

  “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “Not sleeping makes your head ache?”

  “Usually, yes.” He said it distantly, his gaze upon the broadsheet.

  Emma put the remains of her crumpet upon the plate and reached for her tea, instead. She realized with a start that she had eaten breakfast three days in a row, now, and had enjoyed it. “How often do you not sleep well?” she asked him.

  “Often enough.”

  “Why?”

  Morgan’s gaze lifted and met hers. “Should you not be preparing for the dinner party?”

  “It is eight o’clock in the morning.”

  “Is that not how long a lady of society primps for such an occasion?”

  “You know very well it is not. You attended your share of seasons, Morgan.”

  “I hated all of them,” he said flatly.

  “Is that why you never married? Debutantes are not to your taste?”

  “You are direct, aren’t you?”

  “You’re family.” Emma allowed herself an unladylike shrug.

  “Then you would not subject a duke to such cross-examination?”

  “They respond better to outright flattery,” Emma admitted.

  “That is the type of man you find appealing?”

  Emma sipped her tea. “I don’t think I’ve ever considered what I find appealing,” she admitted. “My choices were limited, after all.” She couldn’t prevent the wry note in her voice.

  Morgan lowered the newspaper to the table. His gaze was steady. “Why were you bundled off to Inverness, anyway?”

  Emma drew in a breath. Let it out. “That, Morgan Davies, is none of your business.” Her cheeks heated, betraying her.

  Morgan lifted a single brow. “I see.” He got to his feet. “I, too, have work to tend to. Please excuse me, Miss Emma.” He hurried away.

  And she was alone once more.

  It was an indeterminably long day. Emma tried reading, only the books in the family library were dusty and uninteresting. She didn’t want to read uplifting volumes about morals and discipline, or dry treatise about science. She was surprised to find many titles about business and finance. One, by Mr. Thomas Robert Malthus, was entitled Principles of Political Economy, Considered with a View Towards Their Application.

  Economics. Were these Morgan’s books, then?

  Emma didn’t open any of them. She didn’t know what she might like to read, even if she’d had the entire world of books to choose from. Unlike Catrin, who couldn’t take her nose out of books, or Annalies, who couldn’t lift her gaze from her easel, or Blanche, who was obsessed with her beloved France, Emma didn’t have a hobby or interest. She could paint a little, and sewed rather better, yet neither of them filled her with passion.

  After a lunch eaten alone in the morning room, because the staff were busy preparing the dining room for the evening, Emma returned to her room and rested on the bed, her gaze upon the old ceiling. She traced the cracks in the paint.

  If this had been London, she would have had at-homes to attend, or a luncheon event to distract her. A walk in the park, perhaps. There was always something to do, in London.

  Eventually, Emma drifted into a light sleep. She woke, feeling hot and clammy, because the late afternoon sun blazed through the window, falling upon the bed where she laid.

  One of the new-style alarm clocks sat on the bedside table. It was one of the clocks Ben had bought and stolen into Sharla’s room to scare her awake in the middle of the night during a gather, a few years ago. The clock announced it was nearly four o’clock.

  Emma rang and asked for hot water to bathe. While she waited for the water, she began her preparations for the dinner party. She felt disoriented and uncomfortable, her senses muffled by grogginess which she could not seem to shake. Everything was out-of-kilter, here. People worked all day. They worked on Saturdays. They thought about business and socialized with commoners and considered them good people.

  No one drank, either. Not even brandy. Not even Will indulged, and brandy had once been his favorite thing.

  Nothing was familiar. Customs and expectations, things Emma could count upon, such as men withdrawing after dinner to drink and smoke, didn’t happen here.

  As she dressed for the evening, Emma considered returning to London. Only, the season was nearly at an end, and Lilly would be…well, she wasn’t sure how Lilly would take the news that Emma had arrived in Inverness, then quickly left once more. But Mama Elisa would be upset, and Emma hated upsetting her.

  Perhaps she should return to Marblethorpe. At least there she knew everyone and the days were predictable, even if they were stodgy and boring. There were no single ladies at Marblethorpe. No society gentlemen.

  Emma paused, her evening dress in her hands, consider the unpleasant truth. The ton clearly did not want her, she was a stranger here in Inverness, and even Marblethorpe held no appeal to her, anymore. She did not for a minute consider traveling to Northallerton to visit Lilly. It would take time to become accustomed to even thinking of Lilly in terms other than an older and staid cousin.

  It left Emma with precisely nowhere to go.

  She lowered the dress, her gaze upon the lace in the window, which made elongated patterns in the late afternoon light, as she let herself absorb the bitter truth.

  What else could she do but persevere and make the best of it?

  She’d had practice at ingratiating herself upon company who looked down upon her. This was not the first dinner party where she had been seated far down the length of the table from the host.

  The maid, Cookson, whom Bridget had assigned to Emma while she was here, tapped upon the bedroom door and entered, forcing Emma to concentrate upon dressing for dinner.

  Preparing for society parties was something Emma was practiced at. It was familiar. She selected her gown and the jewelry and gloves and headpiece to go with it, and the longer silk fan. Cookson was competent with evening hair styles and pinned her hair into a high crown of curls and pleats, with pearls wound throughout, pinned with her silver and rhinestone pins.

  The use of pearls in her hair necessitated pearls elsewhere. Emma wound the longest string around her throat and used her silver hair clip to hold them in place at the back of her neck. At the front, the four rows of pearls sat at the base of her throat, except for the lowest strand, which hung two inches lower. As the neckline of the gown was lower still, it was a pleasing effect. “It is still too white,” Emma decided.

  “Oh, miss, this one, in between the pearls?” Cookson picked up the silver and diamond pendant from the traveling jewelry box.

  “Yes, that will do, thank you.” Emma held still while Cookson fastened the chain shorter than usual, so the pendant hung neatly between the strands of pearls.

  Emma stood in front of the long mirror while Cookson adjusted the drape of the dress over her bustle and sorted out the train.

  The dress was a Worth gown, made with apple green satin over which was hung a layer of black netting with black bead embroidery. The lines of the dress were simple, while the embroidery ran with flourishes in long lines down the body of the skirt. The same flourishes met in the center of the bodice in a pleasing symmetrical pattern, which made a sharp vee shape coming to the point of the basque.

  The pearls, in comparison, were conservative and exactly right. “My emerald earrings, I think,” Emma murmured, as she studied the details and the overall effect of the dress.

&
nbsp; Cookson handed her the earrings one by one.

  When Emma was satisfied, she took her fan from Cookson and slid the ribbon over her glove, to rest on her wrist. “I don’t know when the evening will end,” she warned Cookson. “I can see to myself tonight, though.”

  “Thank you, Miss Wardell.” Cookson held the door for her and Emma swept through, and down the hall to the stairs. From the top of the stairs she could hear the murmur of guests.

  She was late.

  Chapter Four

  All the guests had arrived and still Emma had not entered the drawing room, where pre-dinner drinks were being served. Morgan would have rolled his eyes over the minor impropriety but couldn’t, for he was busy making sure he spoke to everyone in the room at least once before dinner was announced.

  He knew the moment Emma arrived, for most of the murmured conversations came to a halt as people looked around at the new arrival.

  Morgan shifted a half-step to the left to check the drawing room door.

  Emma had not adjusted her clothing to match the more relaxed and utilitarian ensembles favored by local ladies, including Bridget. For the four days she had been at Kirkaldy, she had donned a different morning dress and afternoon dress each day, and a different evening gown for dinner, too. All of them were sophisticated, colorful and embellished garments one typically saw in London during the Season.

  Tonight was no exception. The black lace dress sparkled as beading caught the light from the lamps. The pearls about her slender throat gleamed. Their color matched the long fan hanging from her wrist.

  Will separated himself from the tight ring of local landowners huddled together discussing the upcoming annual lamb sales. He moved over to where Emma stood at the door and held out his elbow. As the host of the evening, it was for him to escort Emma around the room and introduce her to the guests.

  Morgan made himself turn back to the conversation he had been having with Lister, the council mayor. Lister only spoke Gaelic, which required Morgan’s complete attention. In addition, tonight, more than most nights, Morgan could feel the ache of too little sleep in the bones of his head.

  Will quite naturally brought Emma over to meet Lister, as one of the highest-ranking guests in the room. Emma held out her hand and Lister bowed over it. “I am delighted to meet you, Miss Wardell.”

  Emma’s eyes narrowed, even while she kept her smile in place. Morgan could see the puzzlement there, and a hint of irritation.

  “The mayor says he is delighted to meet you,” Morgan told her, in English.

  “Thank you,” Emma told Lister, her tone stiff.

  “She does not have the Gaelic?” Lister asked him, his voice quavering with age.

  “Not a shred,” Morgan replied.

  Emma’s eyes moved to Morgan and Lister, following their quick exchanges, even though she could not understand what they were saying.

  “Time was, a cultured and educated young miss knew all the languages,” Lister said, with a sigh. He patted Morgan’s arm. “You’ll have to amend her lack, hey?” He nodded at Emma and moved away.

  “Did I…offend him?” Emma asked, horrified.

  “Not directly,” Will said, his tone awkward.

  Emma’s horror, Morgan realized, was quite genuine. She was appalled at the idea of giving offense, of alienating anyone. Moving through London society as the adopted younger daughter of a peer, she would have to navigate disapproval based purely upon her birth. It would be natural to develop an acute sensitivity for avoiding social transgressions.

  Bakersfield, the butler, cleared his throat. “Dinner, ladies and gentlemen.”

  The conversation buzzed once more, as the men held out their arms to escort the ladies to the table.

  Will turned away, looking for Bridget, leaving Emma standing beside Morgan.

  A pulse throbbed at the base of her throat, but her chin was still up.

  Morgan held out his arm. “If I will suffice?”

  Emma cleared her throat. “Everyone speaks Gaelic,” she breathed.

  “Many speak English, too,” he assured her.

  “They’re upset because I don’t speak Gaelic,” she murmured as they waited at the back of the group making their way through the drawing room doors.

  “They are not that insular here.”

  “They lift their brows when you and Will explain what they said to me,” she retorted, her fingers tightening on his arm.

  Morgan sighed. “What can I say? You do not speak Gaelic. It is unusual, here.”

  “Did you know the language before you arrived?”

  “I learned,” Morgan said. “Quickly,” he added, for he had disliked not knowing what someone was saying when they spoke right in front of him.

  They moved into the dining room, and walked along the table, looking for Emma’s place card, skirting other men as they held out the chairs for the ladies. Morgan instinctively aimed for the chairs up by Will’s big captain’s chair at the head of the table. As he had suspected, Emma’s card was to Will’s right.

  Emma’s mouth parted as she looked at the card, then at Will, who stood waiting in front of his chair for the ladies to settle.

  Morgan tucked the chair under her as she sat, then strode back to the other end of the table, and his customary position on Bridget’s right. Sometimes, a good meal would disperse the tired ache from the bones in his face.

  Sometimes.

  WITH HORROR, EMMA REALIZED THAT even though she had been seated to Will’s right, the position of special honor at any dinner table, the conversation still ebbed and flowed around her. Everyone spoke gushy Gaelic at a fast clip, conversing across the table in loud voices. The conversation included people at the other end of the table, who were forced to lean far forward to reply. It was unlike any other dinner party she had ever been to, where the conversations were held to a polite murmur between guests seated to one’s left and right. Shouting across and down the table was considered vulgar.

  Only, this conversation did not seem uncouth. Everyone smiled and there were many spontaneous shouts of laughter. With a jolt, Emma realized that everyone knew everyone else. She was the only stranger here.

  She ate mechanically, to avoid simply sitting there, even though she had no appetite at all. She had spent the entire afternoon in her room and now she longed to be back there.

  Simply because he was at the far end of the table and diagonally opposite her, Emma found herself watching Morgan in between bites. He seemed to be as animated as anyone around the table, contributing to the conversation with his deep voice. Only, when someone else was speaking and everyone turned their heads to listen, Morgan’s smile faded. He would peer down at his plate, and his shoulders would rise as he breathed deeply.

  Sometimes, he rubbed at his forehead. She remembered what he had said about headaches, over the breakfast table.

  Why would a man who liked his life so much, as Morgan had insisted he did—why would such a man not be able to sleep?

  The footman leaned between her chair and the gentleman on the right, who had not been introduced to her yet, and who spoke nothing but Gaelic, and settled a tall glass of lemon ice in front of her, then moved on. Even the footman had no English, it seemed.

  Emma stared at the tall, elegant glass, which was frosted from the chill of the ice. She had absolutely no desire to eat it. Instead, she looked around for the butler, Bakersfield, who did speak English. She would ask him for a drink. A brandy in a champagne glass, or even champagne itself, if such a thing was to be had, here. The liquids in the glasses along the table were all of a nearly uniform golden color she didn’t recognize.

  She swept her gaze around the table, to spot the butler and catch his eye, and was startled to see Morgan was staring at her.

  How long had he been watching her?

  The woman on Morgan’s right caught his attention. He bent his head to listen to her quiet words, his gaze politely upon her face.

  Emma shivered, her need for a drink forgotten.

>   EMMA DREADED THE MOMENT THE men would stand and excuse themselves, to smoke and pat each other on the back in the library or somewhere. It would leave her alone, with Bridget the only woman in the room who might speak to her. As the hostess, though, Bridget needed to circulate and speak to everyone in turn.

  However, the end of the meal arrived and Will did not stand and wait for the men to join him.

  Instead, Bridget got to her feet. Automatically, everyone rose politely to theirs. Bridget smiled and moved over to the door and waited until Will met her there. She took his arm. The pair moved back into the drawing room.

  So did everyone else. The man with the thinning hair, on Emma’s right, whose name she still did not know, lifted his arm toward her with a charming smile. She smiled back. He led her into the front hall, with its dark wood paneling and heavy stair rails, then through the drawing room doors, onto the thick carpets beyond.

  Bakersfield held out a tray of miniature glasses toward her. “Madeira, Miss Wardell?”

  She grimaced. Madeira was far too sweet. “Thank you, but no.” She leaned toward him. “Is there any brandy in the house, Bakersfield?”

  He frowned, his long mustache drooping. “I would have to look, Miss Wardell. We generally don’t keep a decanter out, at Lord Rothmere’s request.”

  “I am aware of that,” Emma assured him fervently. She had learned the fact on her first evening at Kirkaldy. “Never mind, then.” She took one of the little glasses, merely to give her hands something to do.

  “There will be fresh tea in a moment,” Bakersfield added.

  Emma made herself smile at him. “Thank you.”

  The thirty guests had already broken up into groups. The musical cadences of Gaelic filled the air. Emma sighed silently and moved over to the fireplace. Even though it was July, the nights could grow cold enough to need a fire, but not tonight. There were not even flames for her to stare into. The fireplace was clean and dry, the scorched bricks beneath the iron basket clear of ash.