Page 30

Chapter 29

Madam,

It is with a sense of deep repugnance that I pen this missive, for I simply cannot fathom the extent of your sinful conduct. Not only have you besmirched the sanctity of marriage by wilfully seeking a divorce, you have done so in the full knowledge that it would be reported to the public and that any persons connected with you would be inescapably stained by association. That you invited me to deliver a lecture in aid of your charitable cause mere months ago is now a source of horror for me. I cannot in good conscience continue to support your philanthropic endeavours, lest I appear complicit in condoning your brazen disregard for the Christian institution of marriage. The virtues of self-sacrifice and duty to one’s vows, no matter how burdensome, are the cornerstones of a principled life and cannot be set aside upon a whim. What example does it set to the females in our flock when a woman of your station voluntarily descends to such a disgraceful low? This breach of the solemn oath you made before the altar undermines not only your own moral standing but also the sacred trust that binds the Christian household. Not to mention…

On and on the letter went, but Bridget stopped reading after the second page. She dropped it onto the breakfast table with a sigh, doing her best to suppress the wave of shame that swelled within her. Although Reverend Hartley’s cutting accusations were not unexpected, that didn’t make them any less excruciating.

‘Can I see Jack’s letter, Da?’ Gus asked eagerly on the other side of the table.

Cormac passed him the single page they had received that morning, their first communication from Jack since he had started at Balfour. As soon as David had presented the post, Cormac had seized the letter from the silver tray, opened it in a hurry and hastily scanned it.

‘No mention of Jasper,’ he had said to Bridget, his relief palpable.

‘Who’s Jasper?’ Gus had piped up.

‘Nobody for you to worry about,’ Bridget had told him with a smile as she reached for the letter on the tray that had turned out to contain Reverend Hartley’s vitriol.

Now, Gus read Jack’s letter with a hungry expression. ‘He says he’s learning to play football! I hope he’ll teach me when he comes home.’ Gus frowned down at the page. ‘He forgot to mention anything about the food. I’d better ask him when I write back. He might need to be rescued if it’s just too awful to eat.’

A hopeful note leaked into Gus’s voice as he said this and he cast a wistful look down the table at the empty seats along it – not only were Jack and Emily absent, but even Rory had excused himself early from breakfast as he and Mr Comerford had arranged to meet Lord Sinclair’s land agent again about the proposed tree felling, which they would finally be able to commence once winter arrived. Bridget’s heart squeezed at the sight of Gus looking so small and forlorn by himself.

‘Instead of, ah, “rescuing” Jack, perhaps we could send a package of tasty treats to him,’ she suggested gently. ‘I’m sure he would appreciate that, and I know you would put special consideration into what to include.’

‘Mince pies,’ Gus replied without hesitation. ‘And a jar of blackberry jam, which I’ll definitely ask Mrs Hawkins for permission before taking this time. And a box of those boiled sweets we had last Christmas that Jack liked so much. And—’

‘All right, all right,’ Cormac interrupted with a grin. ‘Remember to limit it somewhat, so that it’s not too heavy for the postman to carry.’

Gus returned the grin sheepishly. ‘Good point. Can I go down to the kitchens right now? If Jack’s starving, we’ll need to send the package as soon as possible.’

‘Aren’t you forgetting something, my little miracle?’ Bridget asked, raising her brows.

He opened his mouth as if to respond with his usual phrase, but then paused guiltily. ‘Oh. My lessons with Mr Humphrey.’

‘Mmm-hmm. You need to keep working hard if you want to be ready to join Jack at school next year.’

She was unsure whether that would actually be a convincing enough incentive for him to attend Balfour, given his doubts about the quality of the food there, but he straightened and said, ‘I’ll work hard, I promise.’ It appeared that his brother trumped even his stomach.

Thus, after two more slices of toast, he departed from the breakfast table with an air of determination. Cormac also headed off to ride out and join Rory and the two land agents, who had requested the presence of both landlords for a brief time during that day’s discussions to inspect the nearly completed sawmill. This left Bridget with unencumbered time to throw Reverend Hartley’s vicious letter into the fire in the drawing room before settling at her writing desk to continue her charitable efforts in defiance of the reverend’s disapproval, though of course she would now have to do so in anonymity. She had just concluded letters to three different churches in the county, imploring them to overlook the absence of her signature in favour of doing essential good in support of their Irish neighbours, when Sheppard entered the drawing room with a soft clearing of his throat.

‘My lady,’ he said, and she wondered with powerful curiosity who he was about to announce, for they had not received a single visitor since the hearing. ‘Your daughter has returned from Yorkshire.’

She hardly had time to register her alarm when Emily appeared at Sheppard’s side, a wry smile on her face.

‘Oh, Mama, I’ve given you quite a shock, haven’t I? Allow me to explain it all.’

Sheppard bowed and retreated from the room while Emily came over to Bridget’s writing desk to embrace her. Bridget stood and hugged her daughter, but there was a subtle sense of rigidity between them. What had brought Emily back to Bewley Hall out of the blue like this? Had she suffered another pregnancy-related blow? But no, she certainly wouldn’t be smiling in that case.

‘Are you quite well, gooseberry?’ Bridget asked tentatively.

Emily nodded with vigour. ‘Yes, indeed. There is nothing to be concerned about. Come, let us sit down.’

She drew Bridget over to the sofa and they sat side by side. Her bright expression remained fixed in place, although her gloved hands were clasped rather tightly.

‘I understand that this will come as a surprise to you and Papa, and perhaps also a disappointment,’ she said, ‘but I have decided not to continue my studies at Blake-Fletchley.’

Bridget regarded her with astonishment and confusion. ‘My goodness, why have you decided that?’

Emily’s fingers twitched in her lap. ‘When I went back after the summer break, I realised that the academy’s approach to instruction simply does not suit me. After the freedom I’d enjoyed over the summer, painting what I wanted, how I wanted, the structured lessons seemed stifling to me. In addition, I’ve told you before about some of the restrictions they have placed upon female students, and these have only become more frustrating, to the point that I no longer wish to tolerate them.’ She pressed her lips together, her shoulders drooping a little before she perked up once more. ‘I truly believe that I’ll learn better in a different setting—perhaps with a private tutor, or even by travelling to study real works of art. I’m enormously excited to explore new paths of progress.’

Bridget blinked as she absorbed Emily’s words. She appeared sincere, and yet a shadow veiled her eyes, as though she were keeping something shuttered behind them. Bridget didn’t really know how she ought to respond – should she sympathise, or celebrate?

‘This is…rather unexpected,’ she began, but then she stopped.

Was it?

Or was this, in fact, precisely what she should have predicted?

Her mind whirled with sudden misgiving. The divorce hearing had taken place the previous month and the journalists had gorged themselves on it, analysing every salacious aspect in their newspaper reports. She and Cormac had worried about the impact it would have on all their children – but while Gus remained protected within their home, and Jack had moved largely beyond the reach of gossip, Emily’s situation had been the most vulnerable. Was her newfound dislike of Blake-Fletchley genuinely due to its teaching methods, or had she been subjected to such abuse in the wake of the scandal that she could not endure it anymore? Or, worse still, had they outright expelled her from the institution because of it?

Bridget’s breath caught in her throat. Of course. That had to be it. Why else would Emily abandon her place there, after working so assiduously to secure it? Shame flooded through Bridget, a hundred times more crushing than her reaction to Reverend Hartley’s letter. This was her fault. She was the reason Emily could not pursue her dreams.

Again.

‘Oh, my dear gooseberry,’ she said in a broken voice. ‘I think I comprehend—’

‘Do not be distressed on my account, Mama,’ Emily cut in swiftly, her tone bracing. ‘I’m confident that I have made the right choice. However, it does mean that I have wasted your and Papa’s money on the academy’s fees, and I am so very sorry for that.’

She met Bridget’s gaze directly, her earnestness so palpable that it only made the truth she sought to conceal more evident. Bridget swallowed. Why was Emily not distraught, or angry? She had every right to rail against her parents for what this divorce had cost her. Bridget searched her daughter’s face, seeking any trace of resentment, but she found none. Emily’s features stayed composed, giving the impression that she had already made peace with what had transpired. Bridget’s chest tightened as understanding struck; Emily was trying to make this easier for her, suppressing the sadness of her loss so that Bridget would not have to bear it too.

‘Oh, Emily,’ Bridget choked out, overcome with emotion.

Emily lowered her gaze. Silence billowed between them, fragile with an unspoken acknowledgement of the reality they now both perceived. Bridget reached out a trembling hand to cup her daughter’s cheek. When Emily looked back up, her blue eyes expressed only forgiveness.

There was no need to say anything else. Their conversation was like a painting that had been left unfinished, yet the brushstrokes indicated exactly what was meant to be.