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“But we signed our names that we ain’t running again,” she whispered back. “And James is saving the money from our findings to get us a cottage.”
“You think any grown-ups keep their word? Even James?”
“I don’t think James is going to get me a puppy, even though he said he would.”
“Exactly. So pay attention to where we ride and where the roads go, and to where there might be an inn or a mail coach stop. Rivers and streams are good, too, if we can find a boat.”
She nodded, because she always paid attention to where they were. Just like she knew without even turning around that the Pershings were behind them talking to each other, and Hannah was over watching Billet saddle the horses with one of the other grooms.
“Billet doesn’t trust us, you know,” she said. “He nicked us and saw what we was up to.”
“I know. We’ll have to be careful around him. He figured out that I put his coat in horse shite, too.”
“Hannah likes him,” Rose stated. “I’d wager he’d like her, if he knew she was batting her eyes at him.” She blinked fast, imitating the maid. “If he’s looking at her, he won’t be looking at us.”
George grinned, lowering his head to hide it. “That’s good, Rosie. After riding, make sure you be friends with her.”
“That’s easy. We are friends. She braided my hair and made my dress fit me.” Hannah would be good to know, whether she could keep Billet distracted or not.
“George? Rose?” Mr. Pershing motioned them over. “The horses are saddled. Let’s begin, shall we?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was times like this, when the house was quiet and the servants had just begun stirring to ready breakfast, that the audacity of what they were attempting, she and Will, hit Emmie the hardest. In the first place she could hardly believe that her own mother and father had accepted that they had a pair of grandchildren without ever setting eyes on them, especially after her mother’s own physician had declared her infertile. Was it because they wanted to believe? Because they didn’t want Winnover going to Cousin Penelope either?
Yes, she wrote about Malcolm and Flora all the time. Last night for the first time, she’d told the truth about them—or very nearly so. She’d written that little Flora had insisted on learning the waltz, and so they would attempt a few lessons and see if they could coax Malcolm into being his sister’s partner for the dance.
She’d also stated that the children’s health had been improving of late, and that they were very excited at the idea of seeing everyone at her grandfather’s party. And then she’d put the letter in a drawer, because the idea of sending it to her parents’ home in Bath terrified her. Once she did that, there would be no turning back.
A knock at her door startled her. “Come in,” she called, twisting around in her chair.
Will stepped into her bedchamber and shut the door. “Good morning.”
They would be dancing today, and he’d dressed appropriately in a dark gray coat, blue waistcoat, and cream-colored breeches with shoes. His entire figure looked very fine. Very fine, indeed. She just resisted the urge to check her own appearance in the full-length dressing mirror. Vanity wouldn’t change anything, though; her hair would remain loose around her shoulders, and her dressing gown wouldn’t miraculously change into the simple blue and yellow gown she’d chosen for delivering country dance lessons. “Good morning.”
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
As she was sitting at her desk writing out correspondence and practice words for George, he had to know the answer already. Was he being polite? Or was he nervous? A trill ran down her spine. Will Pershing had become so competent and composed that an oddly placed query became more noticeable than it would have been in someone less… him. “No, you didn’t,” she said aloud. “I’ve been working on George’s lessons.”
He moved closer to look at what she’d been writing, bending over her shoulder. “Is he at full words already? That’s impressive.”
His breath warmed her cheek, and goose bumps rose on her arms. “We’re going to attempt a few of them; I don’t want to frustrate him, but I think he knows more than he realizes.”
“He’s a bright lad. I only wish he wasn’t using his wiles to look for a way to escape.”
“And I wish his brother wouldn’t belittle him for attempting to better himself.”
“Just be careful about insulting him. We don’t want him taking away the children out of spite.”
“I know. He was very annoying, though. I spoke without thinking.”
“Oh, I approve, you sharp-tongued woman. But we can’t forget why they’re here.” He sank one haunch onto the corner of her desk. “We have just over a month, Emmeline. Can we do this?”
“I was going to ask you the same question.” Sighing, she pulled her unsent letter from her drawer and handed it to him. “I write to my mother every month. Do I send this one? Or should I begin plotting a story about the lot of us feeling ill so we can avoid going at all?”
Unfolding the letter, he read through it. When a smile touched his mouth, she knew he’d come across the bit about Rose—Flora—and dancing. “Is this letter similar to the others you’ve sent?” he asked, looking up.
She scowled. Letter-writing was as much a skill as dancing or organizing a dinner. “Why?”