Will you make me the happiest of men by wearing a real golden rose for me if I send it you on the day? I am, madam, your anxiously awaiting servant.
Really, Jasper thought, it was too embarrassing even to be funny. But he tittered anyway and held his nose—one never knew when old poker-face, the butler, might appear in the hallway and shoo him upstairs to the schoolroom. Old Rog! Old Rog and his golden rose.
Mrs. Langtree a golden rose? Jasper frowned. He could not quite see the logic of the name. Now, if it were Emmy . . .
If it were Emmy. Jasper read quickly through the letter again. Great Jupiter, it could be Emmy too. It could well be.
He folded the paper, stuck it none too reverently into a pocket, and sat back against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest. He frowned in thought and then grinned. If it were Emmy, indeed.
It would serve Rog right, too.
Emily was getting ready to accompany Lady Copeland to a concert that evening at the home of Mrs. Adler in Sydney Place. Her blue dress would have to do, she thought, staring at it in the mirror and brushing absently at her hair. It was at least a little more fashionable than the gold, with its scoop neckline and short puffed sleeves. She piled her hair on top of her head with both hands and pulled a few strands free to frame her face. No, it would not do. She was not attending any entertainment to draw attention to herself. She brushed the hair smooth again.
She had turned female heads that afternoon, all right. But only because she had been on the arm of the most handsome gentleman in Bath. And she had been so tongue-tied and so uncomfortable that she had not been able to enjoy the sensation at all.
And that crumb on her chin! Could Jasper not have made discreet gestures so that only she and he would have known the dreadful truth? Drat the boy. But then Mr. Bradshaw had doubtless noticed already and had been laughing inwardly at her.
Oh, dear, she must not think of Mr. Bradshaw. Not again.
There was a scratching at her door.
“Come in,” she called, and Jasper’s head appeared around it.
“Are you decent, Emmy?” he asked. “I have something for you, and I didn’t think you would want Grandmama to see it.”
“What do you have?” she asked, setting her brush down on the dressing table and smiling at him.
“This,” he said, holding up a folded piece of paper and waving it in the air. “I think it’s one of those valentines, Em.”
“For me?” she asked foolishly. “But who gave it to you?” She reached out her hand.
“Aw, I’m not allowed to say, Emmy. It’s all a secret, remember?” he said.
“It’s from Mr. Harris, isn’t it?” she said, looking closely at him. “He gave it you to give me.”
“My lips are sealed,” Jasper said.
“Provoking boy,” she said. “It’s from Mr. Harris. There is no one else it could be from. It is from him, isn’t it?”
Jasper shrugged. “Perhaps he signed it,” he said. “Perhaps he broke the rules and signed it.”
She unfolded the paper hastily and glanced to the end of the letter. “He didn’t,” she said, lowering it to her lap. “Oh, Jasper, are you sure he said to give it to me? Are you quite sure?”
“There is only one Emily Richmond that I know,” Jasper said. “If you have an answer, I’m supposed to take it tomorrow morning. I’ll see you, Emmy.” And he whisked himself from the room.
Emily sat with the paper in her lap. A valentine. She had had a valentine. From Mr. Harris. She was so happy, she could have danced about the room. She did not do so, but spread the paper on her lap and smoothed her fingers over the folds. She had begun to think that perhaps he was not interested in her after all. That morning he had not come near either her or Lady Copeland in the Pump Room.
She had not been unduly upset. Try as she would, she could not feel any real enthusiasm over a possible relationship with the man. But to have a valentine! To have one gentleman in Bath single her out for public attention at the ball! But she must not jump to conclusions. Perhaps it was not a valentine after all. Perhaps Jasper had misunderstood. She lowered her eyes to the paper, half-afraid to read.
Large, bold handwriting. Not quite what she would have expected from neat Mr. Harris. Golden rose. She could feel her heart thumping. Fair golden rose. He admired her beauty. Was she beautiful? She would know why he thought of her as his golden rose, he wrote. Did she?
Emily looked up and stared unseeing at the back of the door. Her old gown? Her hair perhaps? Had she looked like a golden rose to him? She smiled slowly. What a lovely compliment. A golden rose. She liked it.
Would she be his valentine? Would she wear a real golden rose of his at the ball? But where would he get a real rose in February?
Mr. Harris was quite a romantic after all. She would not have suspected it. And he admired her. He must be a little like her, she thought, shy in company. Not that she was shy by nature, but she was unused to life in a town and unused to life as a servant. He must be plain shy. Oh, he could hold a polite conversation, it was true. But he must find it difficult to express his feelings in words.
He did very well on paper. Would she be his valentine? Oh, yes, indeed she would. On the night of the ball, everyone would see her carrying his golden rose and would know that one gentleman had singled her out for his gallantry. They would see him claim her hand for a dance and claim his rose.
