She faltered at that. “Oh, you’re married? I didn’t realize.”
“No, not yet. But if you’re willing...” He let his voice trail off, keeping the teasing tone. Instead of laughing as most women did, she appeared shocked.
“I—don’t know you, sir.” She backed away from him and stumbled as she bumped into the wall.
“Oh, you needn’t pay me any heed,” he said quickly. “I wasn’t being serious.”
She stopped trying to back away, her face turning bright red. “Oh. Of course, you weren’t.” The expression on her face was of a woman accustomed to being ignored and overlooked. It bothered him to see it, and he tried to apologize again.
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” In a moment of rare inspiration, he asked, “Would you care to dance?”
“I could never.” The words burst forth from her, and she appeared horrified at the idea. His own sense of embarrassment rose up, and he realized that the young lady didn’t like him at all. He’d made a mess of things, as usual.
“Oh. Well, do forgive me if I’ve offended you, Miss Barnes.”
He gave a hasty bow and turned away, only to hear her murmur, “It’s Bartholomew.”
*
On Monday, Emmaarrived at Mrs. Harding’s School for Young Ladies with the full intention of enrolling as a pupil. She had brought a bank note her father had given her for tuition and also a small trunk of her belongings. She’d done exactly as the headmistress had asked and was prepared for whatever lay ahead. Or, at least, almost everything. She hadn’t made a list of gentlemen because her handwriting was wretched. Most of the time, she paid the housekeeper to write notes for her because otherwise, the recipient could barely read it.
To her surprise, instead of meeting with the headmistress in the library, Mr. Gregor led her outside to the garden. She counted sixty-two steps to the end of the hall and four stairs down into the tiny garden where Mrs. Harding was waiting.
Emma hesitated before approaching, but at last, she took a seat upon a stone bench. The headmistress cleared her throat. “How was the ball on Saturday?”
For a moment, Emma thought of Lord Dunmeath. He’d had brown hair, and she hadn’t been able to tell what color his eyes were. At first, she’d been stunned that he’d even spoken to her. No one ever talked to her.
“I spoke with five gentlemen, as you asked.”
“And?” the headmistress prompted.
“Four of them didn’t answer me but continued walking to the other side of the room.”
“And the fifth?”
An unexpected blush warmed her face. “Lord Dunmeath spoke with me for a time. He asked me to dance with him.” She’d been so shocked by the invitation, she’d turned it down, unwilling to consider the possibility of dancing with a gentleman.
“And did you?” Mrs. Harding asked.
She shook her head. “I... don’t dance well. It’s not a skill I have.”
“Conversations also seem to be a challenge for you,” the matron noted.
Emma couldn’t deny it. Lord Dunmeath couldn’t even recall her name by the end of their conversation, so clearly she’d made a poor impression.
“What would you say are your strengths?” the headmistress asked.
Leaning up against a wall, she wanted to say. But instead, she answered, “I can play the pianoforte.”
Mrs. Harding wrote that down. “What else?”
Emma shook her head. She didn’t know what to say when the simple truth was, she wasn’t very good at anything.
“And what about your list of possible husbands?” Mrs. Harding asked. “That was one of your tasks, was it not?”
Emma flushed. Yes, it was, but she couldn’t have come up with a list if her life depended on it. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to imagine husbands when you don’t know the men.” With a heavy sigh, she continued, “I honestly can’t say where I should begin.”
The matron set down her quill. “Miss Bartholomew, I can only help you if you want to be helped. You must face your worst fears, whether it be conversation or dancing. And if you become a student, I can promise you that you won’t enjoy your time here. This isn’t a school where we teach you about the latest hairstyles or fashions. It’s about confronting your greatest weaknesses.”
