Page 32 of Lady Like

Harry swipes the corner of her mouth with her thumb, and Emily wonders suddenly, against her own will, what it is like to be one of the women standing across the stage from Harry, speaking rehearsed lines in her gaze, instructed to sweep across the stage toward her, fall into her arms, kiss her.

“Miss Sergeant,” a voice says in the hallway, and Emily jumps, whipping around.

“Martin!” Violet’s husband steps from the shadows of the hall, coat over one arm and hat still in his hand, as though he has just arrived home and found his routine aborted by the sound of their voices.

Emily cannot believe she hadn’t heard the door, but she hadn’t expected she needed to be listening for it.

It’s not as though she’s been caught in a compromising position, though why had he arrived just as she was thinking of Harry’s mouth?

Had he heard them speaking of Sapphists?

The unchastity of it feels written all over her.

Even her bare feet feel obscene and she tucks them under herself. “I thought you were above with Violet.”

“I’m sure you did,” Martin says, taking a step into the room, and Emily feels a prickle of apprehension. “Or else I can’t imagine you would have invited a gentleman unchaperoned into my home.”

“Oh, no.” Emily laughs with relief, which only makes Martin’s frown deepen. “Martin, this is Harriet Lockhart. She’s a friend of mine. She knows Violet too.”

Harry climbs to her feet quickly and extends a hand to Martin, though he doesn’t take it. “How do you do.”

“You are acquainted with Violet?” he asks. “Perhaps I should have a word with my wife as well about her choice in companions.”

“Don’t be cruel,” Emily says.

“Then do not bring degenerates into my home.”

“Hold on now—” Harry says, but Martin interrupts, taking Emily by the arm and dragging her up from the sofa.

“May I speak to you alone?”

Emily follows Martin into the hall, casting only a quick glance over her shoulder at Harry, who looks like she might follow, but Emily holds up a finger for her to stay.

In the hall, Martin turns to Emily, leaning in to speak confidentially though Emily can’t imagine who might overhear them. “Do you have any idea the time?” Martin says. “Or the impropriety of your company?”

Emily folds her arms. She does not know Martin well, and what she has heard of him from Violet has inspired in her little desire to learn more.

A man with a weak stomach, Violet often called him, both in reference to his lack of convictions and his finicky digestion.

She suspects that should she glare hard enough, he’ll slink up to bed and leave them be.

Perhaps he’ll try to raise the issue at breakfast the next morning, though Violet will not care, and really, what is there to complain about?

“We’re two ladies spending the evening at home together,” Emily says deliberately. “What’s so improper about that?”

Martin’s mouth tightens. “Perhaps I should write to Mr. Tweed about how you spend your time.”

Emily laughs before she can stop herself.

Of all the improper things she has done since arriving in London, the idea that this is the one that would get her reported to Tweed—skipping an evening at a pleasure garden to instead eat cake at home with a female companion?

Even Tweed would certainly throw that letter into the fire.

“I can hardly see what he’d object to,” Emily says. “My actions would have to be highly sensationalized to raise alarm.”

“Perhaps I’ll write to him anyway,” Martin says.

“Please do,” Emily replies. “Send him my regards.”

Martin glares at her. Emily glares at him in return.

“I do not like the influence you have had in my household,” Martin says.

“And what influence is that?” Emily says. Maybe it’s the darkness that has made her bold, the heady feeling of all conversations that happen at night. Perhaps it’s Harry. Perhaps it’s the cake.

“Violet has been preoccupied with your company.”

“Because I have gotten her out of the house? Is that why you’re upset?”

“I am not upset. I simply wonder as to the nature of these outings. And what company you are keeping.” His eyes stray to the drawing room. “You have proved yourself not to have the most discerning eye in companionship.”

“If you’re so worried for my virtue, perhaps you should come with us next time Violet and I go out.”

“Perhaps I shall.”

“I’m sure Tweed will be thrilled to hear your salacious account of our shopping and tea.”

Martin lets out a huffy exhalation. “Keep your voices low,” he says. “I would not want you and your…companion to wake the baby.” Then he turns and hangs his hat on the rack beside the door before heading abovestairs.

“Everything all right?” Harry asks as Emily returns to the parlor. She’s still standing, knees slightly bent like she’s ready to drop into a boxing stance.

“Fine.” Emily falls backward onto the sofa, eyes closed. Her skin buzzes, like insects have been crawling across her, and she takes a deep breath, one hand pressed to her chest.

“Are you well?” Harry asks.

Emily opens her eyes. Harry is peering down at her with her forehead puckered in concern. “Yes, of course.”

“Have I gotten you into trouble?”

“No,” Emily says. “I did that myself a long time ago.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing.” Emily forces herself to sit up and smile at Harry. “Martin was simply concerned for me.”

“Because I’m a bad influence on you? Based on, I assume, only my appearance.”

“No you’re—”

“He’s right. Though in my defense, I was recruited specifically for the purpose of leading you astray.”

For a moment, Emily thinks she means astray from the path that has been laid before her—marrying a man, settling on her family farm, having children and living out her simple life, and her heart gives a flutter of delight.

But then Harry adds, “For Rochester.”

“Ah yes.” Emily gives a small laugh. “For Rochester.”

What queer disappointment, she thinks. And what a brisk reminder, like a cup of cold water to the face, that she must be thinking of Rochester in all things, and what might make him want her more!

Not what might please Harry. Not what outings she might enjoy or what she might think of the outfits Emily wears or how Emily might stand when she arrives first to an appointed meeting so as to appear most casual and beautiful and not giddy with anticipation when Harry comes upon her.

All things for Alexander. How had she lost sight of that?

Harry stands and stretches with her hands behind her head. “I should go.”

“No,” Emily says too quickly.

“I didn’t plan to stay out this late at Ranelagh—let alone loaf about here with you.”

“Then surely it’s too late for you to walk,” Emily says. “And the cabs will all be in.” She has no notion if this is true, but it feels right, and Harry’s brow furrows in consideration. So Emily says tentatively, “Why don’t you stay the night? I could find you a nightgown.”

It’s not an absurd offer—Emily knows plenty of ladies who share beds and quarters with other ladies before marriage.

But extending the offer feels indecent, particularly in the shadow of Martin’s frown.

Even more particularly when Harry takes so long to consider it.

Perhaps it’s only because Emily is unaccustomed to having any friends to invite to spend a night, and she has done it clumsily. She’s been alone for so long.

“Don’t be silly,” Harry says. Emily feels her face redden with embarrassment, but then Harry says, “Any nightgown of yours won’t reach my knees. I’ll sleep in my shirt.”