Page 129 of The Summer Country

Nathaniel’s eyes crinkled at the corners and Emily wondered that she had never noticed that before or the particular shape of his hair against his brow. “You haven’t led me astray yet,” he said. And then, “Emily . . .”

The sun was setting, the light fading. No one had thought to light the lamps. The room was dim and cool, the house quiet, the city outside the windows quiet. After so much pain and strife, there was, here, peace, and Emily found herself answering without words. Her arms knew what they wanted to do without conscious thought from her brain. They wrapped around his neck as if that was where they’d always meant to be.

At some point or other in his life, Nathaniel must have kissed someone. Quite a few someones. He certainly seemed to know what he was about. That was the last thought Emily had before she gave up on thinking entirely as a waste of valuable energy that could be better spent kissing him back.

All the tension, all the fear of the past two months, all the relief that it was finally over, it all found an outlet in this, transmuted into a mad sort of passion. Her hands were in his hair, his fingers on her face, her hair, her back. She’d never understood girls who ruined themselves before, but she did now, as she wiggled closer, impatient with the layers of cotton and poplin and lace, horsehair and whalebone and wool.

“Ahem?” Cousin Bella gave a discreet rap at the door and Emily jumped back, putting a hand to her hair, which was rather less neatly arranged than it had been a moment before.

Nathaniel backed up, bumping inelegantly into the curio cabinet. “Yes?” he said shortly.

Emily bit her lip to still a slightly hysterical giggle. She put her hand to cover her lips, which felt swollen and strange.

“There’s a letter come from Beckles,” said Cousin Bella peaceably. “For Miss Emily.”

The mention of Beckles was enough to dispel any lingering giddiness. “Thank you, Cousin Bella.”

Cousin Bella handed the letter to Emily and sat down on the settee, looking as though she intended to stay there for quite some time. Emily glanced at Nathaniel. She wasn’t entirely sure which of them was being chaperoned.

Until five minutes ago, she wouldn’t have thought they had any need to be chaperoned.

But now . . .

“Aren’t you going to read it?” asked Nathaniel, his voice as clipped as it had been six months ago.

Emily looked uncertainly at him. “Yes.”

It wasn’t from Laura. She knew her hand, her penmanship the envy of the other girls at Miss Blackwell’s.

“From George Davenant, I take it?” said Nathaniel. “I know the seal. I’ll leave you to read your correspondence in private.”

“No. There’s no need.” She’d fallen once into a pond in winter. She felt the same way now, shivering with the suddenness of the chill. “There’s nothing in it that can’t be shared.”

She saw the hostility on Nathaniel’s face change to concern. “What is it?”

Emily passed him the note with a hand that shook, ever so slightly. “The cholera is in Christ Church. It’s come to Beckles.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Christ Church, Barbados

November 1815

When Charles brought his ward to Beckles to visit with Neddy, Jenny wasn’t included in the party.

She would hear about it from Dutchess, trying not to look like she was asking, trying not to crane for a glimpse of her daughter as she climbed into the Peverills carriage, lace on her petticoats and red leather shoes.

“You’d never guess she was younger than Neddy,” Charles said proudly, in one of their rare meetings at the Old Mill. The rainy season ought to have been almost past, but the humidity in the air made Jenny’s dress cling damply to her skin and the hair prickle at the nape of her neck. Another storm was coming, or thinking of it. In the mood she was in, Jenny was ready for it to unfurl with wind and rain, blowing away everything in its path. “She’s so much quicker than he. He follows wherever she goes.”

“Oh?” said Jenny flatly.

Charles didn’t seem to notice. “I’ve hired a Frenchwoman to come twice a week and speak French with Lottie. She can say bonjour and comment ça va.”

“Magnifique,” said Jenny, who had learned French with Mary Anne, or what passed for French in her governess’s estimation.

“Are you all right?” said Charles, lifting himself on an elbow, and Jenny didn’t know whether to hit him for his obtuseness or weep onto his chest, or possibly both.

“It’s the weather,” she said.