The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,39

and that she wasn’t being forced into that miserable marriage she’d no interest in.

The old woman eyed her a long while through sunken eyes, made all the deeper by the way in which she narrowed them upon Emma’s face. Then she glanced over Emma’s shoulder to the streets beyond.

Emma turned, following her stare, then gasped as a wrinkled hand wrapped about her arm and jerked her forward.

The servant slammed the door behind them. “Ya ain’t got much time with the miss,” she said gruffly. And then without bothering to see whether Emma followed, she stalked off.

Emma looked around at the dark foyer, devoid of sconces or candles, and climbed her gaze up to the empty place where once had hung a chandelier but now remained a ceiling peppered with holes and damp spots.

“Ya ’eard what I said? Ya don’t ’ave much time,” the old woman snapped, and Emma sprang into movement, quickening her stride to catch up.

It was a short walk, down a narrow hall that had been stripped—and poorly, at that—of the wallpaper, peeled as if in haste by someone who’d had intentions of making over the walls, but had abandoned their efforts upon the struggle to remove the previous work. The chipped and faded oak panels had been all pulled shut, but for one.

They stopped before that lone open entryway.

Faded green velvet curtains had been drawn far back to allow light into the parlor; that same garish green adorned the pieces of Chippendale furniture that showed hints of once greatness and wealth, but had since been dimmed by time and lack of care.

Cressida occupied a room beside the empty hearth, busy at work, darning—

Emma’s heart wrenched.

“Ya got company, gel,” Emma’s guide announced with a great tenderness and gruff warmth . . . the manner of which Emma’d not have expected possible of the servant.

The young woman’s head went flying up; with stockings and darning needles in hand, she sprang to her feet. “Emma!” Surprise rounded her eyes. She was immediately across the room, her arms outstretched, but then caught herself, rocking back on her heels and denying herself and Emma that overly warm greeting. “It is . . . so very good to see you,” she finished instead. Hanging her head, she brought her stockings and darning needles behind her.

With a grunt, the loyal maid plucked those articles from her mistress, dropping them into the front of her own apron.

“Won’t you join me?” Cressida said weakly.

Emma smiled. Removing her gloves, she dropped them into her reticule. “I would enjoy that very much.”

“Trudy, will you please bring refreshments for Miss Gately?”

“Oh, no, that won’t be—”

“Ya know we ain’t got refreshments,” the loyal maid chided, and Cressida’s face buckled.

“I don’t require refreshments,” Emma was quick to reassure. Collecting the younger woman’s hands, she squeezed lightly. “Your company is the sole reason I’ve come.”

Trudy’s harsh features softened. “There ya go, gel. A real friend ya don’t need to hide that rubbish from. Tea. We got tea,” she said, and with that, the gruff, coarse figure shuffled off.

The moment she’d gone, Cressida motioned to a small, faded gold settee with slightly torn upholstery. “Won’t you sit?”

Emma immediately took up a place on that bench, resting her reticule on her lap.

The other young woman claimed the matching settee across from her.

A brief, silent awkwardness fell. “Now you can see why he wished me to wed . . . ,” Cressida murmured, clasping her hands upon her lap. “To sell me.” This time, however, there was an acrid bitterness in her avowal.

So much resentment and hate filled Emma . . . for what Cressida Alby and all women endured.

“Regardless of wealth, brothers and fathers”—even the devoted ones—“are only interested in selling one’s daughters. For gain. For wealth. For familial friendships.” As had been the case with Emma’s parents.

“Why have you come?” Cressida asked curiously.

Not for the first time since she’d arrived in Regent Street, Emma’s heart pulled for the young woman. Did she truly not know she called her a friend? That she wasn’t alone? By the rounded set to her shoulders and the sad glimmer in her eyes, the answer was likely the latter. “As I said to Trudy,” she said gently, “you are my friend, and you have been missed. Not just by me, but the others as well.”

“I’m sure no one even noticed,” Cressida murmured, dropping her glance to her pale-pink muslin skirts. “I hardly contributed and really only listened.” She spoke with a quiet sadness of someone who’d heard those