Page 78 of Mr. Eastwood’s Match

“And I saw it yesterday,” her father went on, firm as a hammer strike. “Plain as the nose on your face. Lyness Eastwood is besotted with you.”

Emily stared at him. “Papa—no, he cannot be. We are good friends is all.”

Her father snorted and released his hold on her. “I have been wrong about the price of oats a time or two. But this? I am not wrong about this.” He put his hands on her upper arms and looked down into her eyes. “The boy looks at you as though you are an angel walking on the earth.”

Heat crept up her neck. “He is kind, yes, but kindness does not mean⁠—”

“Emily,” her mother interrupted softly, “your father is not given to fanciful notions. If he says Mr. Eastwood’s affection is real, I would not dismiss it lightly.”

Emily looked between her parents, trying to fit their words into the hollow ache within her heart.

“But no one noticed me,” Emily said quietly. “Not until after the title, anyway. And even then, I think it was only because of the marriage settlement that horrible lawyer told you to give me. Then everyone in Town found out about it, and Mr. Waldegrave was one of them. Why would Lyness care when no one else ever has? I am five-and-twenty. Most women my age are married or resigned to never be so.”

That declaration brought a strong reaction from both parents as they exchanged glances and looked at her with wide eyes.

“What do you mean, no one noticed you?” her father asked. “You mean suitors? Before we had the nobility foolishness fall into our laps? Emily, you never seemed interested in that sort of thing. I told a few fellows they were welcome to court you if you wanted it, but none of them had any encouragement for you. They went on their way.”

To Emily’s surprise, her mother was nodding along with him. “I am afraid that is the truth of it, darling. you never showed the interest in courtship and marriage that your sisters did.”

“They were the pretty ones,” she said quietly. “Everyone wanted to court Mary and Anne. They were always going to dances and picnics.”

“Those two could never sit still,” her father grumbled. “They wanted their independence from each other as much as they did from our household. They went after husbands with a single-mindedness that nearly drove your poor mother mad.”

“I was rather exhausted by the time both of them wed,” the countess admitted, a wry smile on her lips that Emily had inherited. “My Emily, I would have done all the same things for you that I did for them, but you seemed so content.”

Her father hesitated, then added in a gruffer tone, “You were happy in the quiet. Or so we thought. You’d wander the fields, help your mother mix her herbs, sit with the neighbors’ little ones. We believed that was where you wanted to be.” His voice softened, almost uncertain. “We didn’t mean you to feel neglected, Emily. Not ever.”

Her breath caught.

Her mother slipped an arm around her shoulders. “You have always been our steady one. Our gentle one. We cherished that about you. I never thought to ask if there was more you wanted. I am sorry for that, my darling.”

Emily shut her eyes, overwhelmed by the weight of love and misunderstanding, of years spent assuming she had been the forgettable child—useful, dependable, and easy to set aside. The child not meant to stir up trouble or call attention to herself. She had pressed herself into that role. To hear they did not mean for such a thing to happen…she would have to think on it. At that moment, there was too much in her heart to study it closely.

But hearing her father’s admission—he had seen something in Lyness, something tender and unmistakable—shifted her thoughts in that direction.

“Besotted,” she whispered, as if examining the word. “Do you really think so?”

Her raised both his eyebrows at her. “I am quite certain. The lad is in love with you. The only fools in this situation are the ones who won’t speak plain to each other.” He fixed her with a stern look. “You are as much in love with him as he is with you, my girl. Time to tell him.”

Emily pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

Her mother drew her gently into a full embrace. “Oh, my darling girl. You do not have to be perfect. You only need to be yourself. That is all anyone who loves you ever truly needs.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

September 5, 1822

The rain returned to York, fine and misting, the sort that left the windows filmed with gray and the garden blurred as though one looked at it through a veil. Emily sat on the settee in the sitting room, Miss Feathersby’s cage on the table beside her, sketchbook open and entirely ignored in her lap.

The canary hopped from perch to perch, trilling the occasional uncertain note, as though trying to decide whether a song was worth the effort.

“I know precisely how you feel,” Emily murmured. “Everything seems…muddled.”

Her family had gone out. Her parents to call on an acquaintance of her father’s, George and Richard to attend some entertainment or other with their wives, and Jack to a meeting with Lord Hartwell about the poisoning. At least he promised to bring back whatever news he learned.

Only Juniper remained home to keep Emily company, but at present she was in her room penning a letter to her elder sister, Lady Ivy Dunmore in Ireland.

That left Emily alone with her thoughts. A dangerous state for her, of late.