Emma curled into herself a bit. “Just... a letter to Lizzie.”
“Oh.” Arthur narrowed his eyes and continued to study the supposed letter. “Because with the formatting like this, it looks more like a newspaper.”
“Does it really?” Emma said, perking up a little before seeming to remember herself and then slinking low in her chair.
Once again, Arthur raised an eyebrow. He hoped his look alone was warning enough that she’d better be honest with him. Worry lines rippled across Emma’s forehead.
“Don’t be mad. Please,” she said.
“Are you implying that thisisa newspaper?”
“Well, not a real one. Obviously.” She took the paper back from him. “Lizzie and I write these to each other. Mostly I write them. But sometimes she tries, too. No one else ever sees them.”
“Except for me. Right now.”
“You weren’tmeantto have seen it,” Emma countered, setting the paper aside.
“Yes, but it could have been someone else. Someone who would have been scandalized to seesomeof this information in print.”
“It’s hard to find interesting things to write about that aren’t related to people we know. How can I fill a page with real news stories if I’m never allowed to leave the house?”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “You leave the house plenty.”
“Only to see the same twelve families we know over and over and over again.”
“Emma, look, I’m not upset with you for noticing things like Mrs. Woods’s... friendship with one of her servants, but I would rather you not put them in writing.”
“I promise no one will see them! Lizzie always returns the papers to me when she’s finished reading them.”
“And where doyouput them?”
“In my hope chest.”
Arthur scrubbed his forehead and sighed. “Ah, yes, the chest that’s meant for collecting items for your future marriage.”
“I’m not sure if I even want to—”
“Donotfinish that sentence,” Arthur clipped. He inhaled a long breath and blew it out slowly while massaging his temples. “God, you really are just like your mother.”
Emma scrunched up her nose. “No, I’m not. Becausesheclearly got married.”
“Only because she had to,” Arthur blurted out.
His muscles stiffened as he waited for Emma’s face to contort in either horror or shock. But Emma only shrugged.
“Well, I won’t be ending up like that.” She walked over to her mahogany hope chest and flung it open with what Arthur supposed had to have been the Hughes family signature flourish. Gesturing toward its contents—piles of papers rather than linens and table wear—she said, haughtily, “I have other plans for my future. I want to write for newspapers. Or maybe even for my own newspaper.”
Arthur stared at her for a few long seconds, his wine-addled brain struggling to make sense of what he was seeing and hearing. Not only had Emma seemingly figured out the circumstances surrounding her parents’ marriage, but she somehow wasn’t bothered by them. Moreover, Emma wasn’t even interested in marriage herself and instead was planning a future that was bigger and bolder than either Ella or Arthur had ever wanted for themselves.
Emma wanted to be a journalist.
“Emma...” Arthur paused as his mind bounced back and forth between finishing his sentence with celebratory phrases, like “that would be wonderful” and “how brilliant you are,” and negatives ones, like “it would be shameful” and “working outside the home would be unbecoming for a woman of your stature.” In the end, he settled on, “While I understand that you want to find something to do, something to keep you busy, pursuing something like this... it’s simply not something that I can support.” Emma slammed her hope chest shut, and Arthur flinched from the thud. He continued. “You see, in life, there are certain paths, certain futures, laid out for us, and—”
“Why can’t I make my own future?” Emma interrupted with a huff. “I never asked to be born into this family. I never wanted to be a Hughes. I want more than this. I want to experience something other than being cooped up in some mansion, planning silly parties and changing my wardrobe ten times before nightfall.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “It’s not, nor will it ever be,tentimes.”
“You’re purposefully ignoring what I’m saying!”
