Emmeline had found herself looking forward to the day that she and her mother and sister were to spend at Addison Hall. It was a beautifully warm midsummer’s day, and the Earl had suggested that the Fitzgerald women have an informal day wandering the house and grounds at will and taking afternoon tea and dinner there.
Rose had taken a small bag with her embroidery to work on and her mother some needlepoint. Emmeline had packed nothing, intent on spending her time in conversation with the Earl since that was the whole point of the day. Time was growing ever shorter, and the two had, after all, decided to come to know a little of each other beforehand to err on the side of caution.
“You must treat the place as your own, Mrs Fitzgerald,” Hunter had said enthusiastically when the ladies arrived and were shown out onto the terrace by the amiable butler for mid-morning tea and cakes.
“That is very kind of you, Lord Addison.” Constance Fitzgerald smiled as she sipped her tea.
“Really, you must feel free to wander about and go wherever you please. It is a wonderfully warm day, and I have a small wooden boat if you care to be paddled about on the lake by one of my footmen.”
“Oh, how wonderful!” Rose exclaimed excitedly, and the Earl smiled at her in an indulgent manner.
He was so warm and generous towards her mother and sister that Emmeline found herself studying Hunter Bentley a little too closely.
He looked very well in cream breeches with a fawn coloured waistcoat and tailcoat. His tan knee boots suited the outfit well, and he was, as always, extraordinarily well tailored. Everything fit him to perfection.
The Earl’s dark beard, as black as his hair, had some tell-tale flecks of gray in it which were easily discernible in the bright sunshine of the terrace. However, Emmeline thought it added to his appearance, giving him an air of maturity and experience that she wondered if she found a little attractive.
“I think Rose and I would like that very much indeed, Lord Addison.” Emmeline’s mother spoke gently, giving her unspoken approval for the Earl and her daughter to spend much of the day alone in one another’s company. Emmeline was not to be included in the little boat trip.
It was subtle enough to be understood without making anybody present embarrassed, and Emmeline thought her mother a very skilful woman indeed. But Emmeline had an idea that her mother’s reasoning was a little different from her own.
Constance Fitzgerald was still hoping for a romance to blossom, and she no doubt thought that leaving the Earl and her daughter to their own amusement on the terrace whilst she and Rose floated about on the lake would help bring it about.
Within an hour, Rose and her mother were in the middle of the lake enjoying the sunshine as a footman, happy to have such languid duties for the day, looked content to row them back and forth.
“Thank you, Lord Addison, for today. My mother and sister are enjoying themselves greatly. It is very kind of you.” Emmeline settled back into the high-backed chair and smiled at her host, who was sitting opposite her on the other side of the small table.
The terrace was very peaceful and just a little secluded. She could see the little boat clearly enough, but it was some distance away, affording Emmeline and the Earl a good deal of privacy.
The terrace was paved in huge gray flagstones, all smooth and weathered from many years in position. There were pots of blood-red geraniums and white petunias everywhere, all in bloom and clearly well cared for. There was a suspicion of fragrance from the nicotianas, although she knew the richest scent came from those particular plants in the evenings.
“Not at all, it is my pleasure.” He smiled before resuming tentatively. “Perhaps you might care to call me Hunter, instead of Lord Addison. Unless you think it too informal, of course,” he added with caution.
“No, I do not think it too formal, Hunter. And please do call me Emmeline.” There was something so nice about it all, something comforting.
“I shall.” Hunter seemed greatly relieved. “I see you did not bring any amusements with you as your mother and sister have.”
“No, I thought I would be better placed to get to know you better if I did not bring any form of sewing.” She smiled. “And, if I am honest, I do not sew very often and am not particularly skilled at the hobby. I suppose because I do not practice. Anyway, it would have greatly detracted from our conversation, Hunter, for I should have been most distracted righting my mistakes and undoing stitches and what-have-you.”
Hunter laughed, and Emmeline was pleased to find him so amused in her self-deprecating admission.
“So, how do you choose to amuse yourself when you are sitting at rest, and your mother and sister are skilfully occupied in the creative arts?” Hunter smiled in an easy fashion, sitting back into his chair also, almost mirroring her position.
“I must own up to being a great reader, I am afraid. I spend almost all my rest time absorbed in some book or other. Sometimes poetry.” Emmeline thought it best to be entirely honest.
After all, they had decided to get to know one another properly, and she ought not to hide her voracious reading only to have to spend the next forty or so years hiding her fondness for the pastime.
“There is nothing wrong in that at all. I am a keen reader myself, and I must admit to being pleased to hear we have that in common.”
“Are you engrossed in anything in particular at the moment, Hunter?”
“Deeply engrossed.” He smiled happily as if keen to open up such a conversation between them. “I am reading Sir Walter Scott currently. Ivanhoe, to be precise.”
“And are you enjoying it?”
“Very much. I am but pages from the end.”
“Then I shall not speak too much of it and ruin it for you.” Emmeline laughed lightly.
“You have read it?” He seemed surprised.
“Yes, it is loosely a romance after all.”
“Yes, it is. Although it is the sort of romance which would more likely keep a young man entertained.” He was sitting up straight again, his interest clear. “How did you like the more adventurous side of things?”
“Very much indeed. The tournament and the Crusades, not to mention the capture and the rescue. Oh, but I must not say too much. If I become intent on the telling of it, I shall certainly ruin it for you.”
“I must say, you have surprised me. Pleasantly so.”
“You thought I would like the simpler, more straightforward romance style, or even classical?”
“I suppose I did. Most young ladies who read seem to.”
“Well, I do like all manner of tales, and romance would be chief among them. Even in Ivanhoe, the romance is well done. There is no transaction to it all if that makes any sense at all.”