Forever is Composed of Nows

by accio-ambition

She's troubled: Lady Emma Nolan of Misthaven, at the height of her youth, is bored. Family matters and potential suitors worry her, but calling on her friends and having tea with her mother can be so tedious. A random encounter on a unplanned trip into town changes Emma's life forever and chance sends her down a path she thought she'd never considered: marriage by way of motherhood

1. Chapter 1

a/n: I'm so excited to share my Captain Swan Big Bang project with all of you! It's a Victorian AU that struck me one day while sitting in class and I'm really happy with how it ended up. FICON could not have happened without the help of my beta hookedoncaptswan. Bezi, you took my messy thoughts and fathomed them into something much more coherent and wonderful. And be sure to check out the accompanying beautiful art by somethingalltogether. Jess, thank you so much for all the hard work you put into this project. Both pieces you did are absolutely amazing.

This story will be posted in two parts. Rated T for implied sexual content, brief instances of violence, and mentions of abuse.

Luck is not chance, it's toil; fortune's expensive smile is earned. - Emily Dickinson

She remembers that day for two reasons - one of them much happier than the other.

In the span of 24 hours, Lady Emma Nolan of Misthaven bid farewell to family and childhood.

She greets the morning with excitement and nerves: tonight's ball may have been the thousandth in a long line of other coming-out season events, but in a few hours, she's to kneel before Her Majesty Queen Victoria. The Queen of all people is going to approve of her societal debut. It's an honor only afforded to the best and most trusted of young ladies, the girls whose parents are influential and of high stature, and she is one of them.

But the joy that surrounds her in her bedroom quickly falls to pieces once she comes down to breakfast. Practically skipping into the dining room, Emma is welcomed by a warm smile from her family. Her mother smiles over the top of her teacup; her father looks up from the newspaper and winks at her; and Uncle James glances at her from his stance by the window, head tilted against the pane.

"Good morning, darling," her father says. The baron folds his papers and sets it beside his empty plate with a smile. Emma returns the gesture as she makes her way over to her mother, pressing her lips to her cheek, and then doing the same with her father and uncle.

"Big day for you, huh, sweetheart?" Uncle James asks. He's got the same eyes as his brother, identical looks as well, but the personality beneath them couldn't be more different. As children, James was the troublemaker, usually dragging her father along in whatever mischievous endeavor he'd planned this time. Even when they were teenagers and their father died, forcing David to take up the title of Baron of Misthaven, James continued his bad streak.

In recent years, though, he's gotten better. Uncle James helps out with the running of the household and often sits in at the House of Lords when her father's otherwise engaged. David attributes his change in demeanor - much like everyone else's she's known her entire life - to her. After Emma was born, James rode closer to the straight and narrow, only so he could properly dote on his niece.

(Still, he's the brother with the more definite reckless streak. The amount of scoldings Emma and James received together while she was growing up were far too often for a grown man.)

"Yes, Uncle," Emma dutifully responds. He smiles at her softly, following her from the window and pulling out her chair. "I'm excited, but to be quite honest, I have no idea what to expect."

"You'll do wonderfully, Emma," her mother assures her.

Lance, their butler this is my favorite detail thus far. If I have a butler, I refuse his name to be anything other than Lance, appears at Emma's side with a platter of fruit for her to choose from. He's been around Woodlands far longer than anybody else has, inheriting the position from his father when Grandfather was her age. She greets him good morning as she did everyone else in the room: for all intents and purposes, Lance is her elderly uncle, and Emma treats him as such.

The calm of the morning is interrupted suddenly by a knock to the dining room door. WIth a slight bow, Lance leaves her side. On the way out of the room, he sets the food platter down on a sideboard. And then he's gone.

Her father coughs into his napkin before turning back to the newspaper. "I wonder who that could possibly be at this ungodly hour," he says nonchalantly.

"Maybe it's Her Majesty herself," Uncle James jests. He winks toward Emma, who tries to hide her giggle by eating her breakfast. "She heard our darling Emma was to be presented today and she figured she'd save us the effort of going all the way into town."

"You're just hoping to skip to the party tonight, James," David murmurs. In one of her rare unladylike moments, her mother scoffs into her tea cup. The baron looks up and across the table at his wife. He shrugs. "Everyone here knows that's true."

"Of course, brother, but you don't need to announce it in front of your daughter."

"It's quite alright, Uncle James," Emma says once she's done chewing. Her fingers come up to hide her lips as she continues, "If it wasn't the Queen, we all know I'd rather be hunting in the woods."

Lance reenters the room from the direction of the entrance, his face an interesting melange of confused and concerned. He inclines his head at the baron.

"Sir, the police are in the main hall. They're asking to speak with-" But the butler is cut off by the sudden appearance of the chief of police. Out of respect for Emma and her mother, he bows, then addresses her standing father.

"I apologize for interrupting your day so early," the chief says. "We've come to take Mr. James Nolan."

Cocking her head to the side, Mary Margaret asks, "Whatever for?"

The chief turns to directly address the baroness. "Insufficient payment toward gambling debts," he explains. "According to the accuser, they were to be settled Thursday last."

"Gambling?" Her father looks betrayed. Emma can imagine him being thrown back into his childhood, when he learned his brother was getting into trouble without him, his partner in crime. "James, is this true?"

James, for what it's worth, seems stunned speechless. He's standing at his place at the table, spoon still in hand. Quickly, he's surrounded by the police, who tug at him from this and that direction.

"Now, hold on," the baron shouts over the din of the arrest, "surely there must be a mistake!"

"No, David." James' voice is strong and foreboding. "It's my crime and I shall bear the punishment as anyone else would."

Few and far between are the moments Emma finds herself truly frightened of her father. He's always been kind and sweet, teaching her about the good things in life and protecting her from the bad. But now, as his brother's life is taking the downturn they'd always feared it would, David's eyes alight with fire. He storms up to the chief and, though Emma can't hear the words being exchanged, she can tell he's not the baron anymore: he's the barely-older brother trying to keep his family together.

All the while, Emma sits quietly, not eating and watching events unfold. It's only when her uncle is being pushed out the door does she forcefully push her chair away and run into her mother's waiting arms. "Where are they going to take him?" she asks.

Mary Margaret just pulls her daughter closer. "I don't know, honey," she mutters into her hair. "I haven't a clue."

0000

The rest of the day is tainted: tears are shed from sadness instead of joy. What was supposed to be a happy family affair turns into an enormous effort as Emma attempts not to break down. Ushered up to her room to prepare for festivities by her mother, Emma is but a ghost. All she can think about is that how, while Mary Margaret escorts her to the Queen's throne, her father and uncle were to be chatting up the other men, sipping scotch or port and milling about a room, waiting for them to appear.

Instead, Emma merely hopes that her father will finish speaking with the police swiftly enough to even make it to the party. Instead, her mother was silent, not giddy as she had been in past, when they were ushered into Buckingham Palace. Instead, Emma is left in the preparation room contemplating the future has in store for her family, surrounded by primping girls in white dresses.

Her nerves are somewhat calmed by the familiar faces around her. None of these girls are truly her friends like Graham is - none of them grew up together, rode horses through the gardens or anything similar to that. But through the circles they ran through or the season circuits, Emma herself has crossed paths with most of these girls. Regina - cunning and cold - stares into the looking glass, assuring her hair falls over her face just so. Ella talks quietly with Aurora, the former making sure the latter's cheeks are rouged enough. And in the corner, Elsa waves at Emma, her snow blonde hair plaited and decorated with small snowdrops as usual.

Gracefully walking toward her, Elsa smiles politely. The two of them have gotten quite close in their weeks of the season. Emma waves to her and gestures her over. Elsa concedes, her braided blonde hair swaying gently with her movements.

"Are you ready, dearest Emma?" she asks, her slight northern accent tingeing the question as she leans forward to press a kiss to each of Emma's cheeks in greeting. "The Queen, society, so much to take in all over again."

Emma mods, for it's all true, but it's not what presses on her heart. Taking Elsa's hand, Emma pulls her friend down until they're both seated, leaning forward in confidence. She must share the burden she carries, and she's met no one as quiet and loyal as Elsa.

"I'm going to let you in on a secret and you must promise not to tell a soul."

Elsa gasps, her hand coming to cover her mouth before answering, "My goodness, Emma, are you already engaged?"

"Wha-no!" Emma says a little too loudly. Belle, another girl Emma's seen throughout the season, sits nearby and looks up from her book at the exclamation. More quietly Emma whispers, "No, I'm not engaged. My uncle was taken to the workhouse this morning."

Her friend inhales deeply, stunned. Her face is flushed with sympathy, which bleeds through the rest of her being until her hand lands on Emma's as a gesture of comfort. "That's terrible," Elsa says. "I'm so sorry. What happened?"

Without hesitation, Emma spills the story to her friend. Much as she has been since Lance announced the arrival of police at breakfast, she can't help but contemplate what would have happened if the officers had been calling on her father and not her Uncle James. If her mother and she had to rely on her gambler uncle for comfort and safety, and not her loving and doting father. The thought draws sobs from her chest, and Elsa pats her hand.

"Don't fret," she advises her. There's wisdom in her eyes - wisdom Emma knows came in the wake of Elsa's own tragedies - and it is quietly reassuring. "He'll work his debt off and be back soon, I'm sure of it. And your father won't be forced to the same treatment."

"But what if he is?" Emma asks. She can't help question her friend's surety. Though she hasn't heard much, she does know that the workhouses aren't somewhere anyone particularly wants to be. The classes converge and are equalled in that world, and while Emma herself isn't opposed to that, she's assured that most people of her standing - her father included - aren't too pleased with the situation. "Nobody knew they were coming for my uncle."

Elsa shrugs. "At least you've come out then," she reasons. "An advantageous marriage could keep you out of harm's way."

That's another thought that's crossed her mind in the last hours. Though she's reluctant to consider it, a marriage - linking herself legally and biblically to a man of good repute - would give her better insurance. The only men in her life thus far have been her father, her best friend from childhood Graham, the future Baron of Fulham, and the handful of male servants at Woodlands over the years.

But adding another permanent fixture, a husband, just wasn't something she wanted at this time in her life. Queen Victoria had survived and thrived after the tragic death of the late Prince Consort: why couldn't she?

The matron arrives with the mother figures in tow and Emma has to end her conversation with Elsa with a single nod. Later, they can go into detail or talk of other options.

(Emma's all too aware of Elsa's persuasion on the topic of marriage. It could very likely become heated, not the sort of conversation for the current setting.)

Her mother finds her among the crowd of white dresses, followed shortly by Elsa's aunt, Lady Ingrid Fisher.

Threading her arm through Emma's, Mary Margaret excitedly mutters, "Are you ready, darling?"

Emma knows her mother is trying to keep strength and composure for the public's eye. There's a waver only she can hear in her voice that betrays the confusion and scandal that could surround their family in a matter of loose words and well-placed house calls. But Emma follows her mother's lead, putting on a strong facade and nodding. It's yet to lead her astray.

Mary Margaret pats her arm. "That's my girl," she murmurs. "Your father and I are so proud of you."

As soon as Elsa and her aunt are out of earshot, being ushered to the lengthening line of girls waiting their turn to be presented to the Queen, Emma leans toward her mother's ear. "Will Father be here?" she asks quietly.

Her response is a shrug. "I've received no word from him or anyone else since we arrived."

Emma sighs, sending a shiver down her spine. She figures that would be the case, but it never hurt to hope otherwise. "This day is not turning out as I once dreamed it would," she says, joining the end of the line.

"I imagine not, dear."

0000

Days and weeks later, Emma still reels from the day that culminated in her brief encounter with Queen Victoria. She came off as a nice elderly lady who'd lived a life far more strained and difficult than Emma ever thought hers would be. Dressed in mourning clothes as she had been known to wear since her dear husband's death only a few years ago, Her Majesty had merely nodded at Emma. Such a small gesture, and it was one of the most sought after actions in the entire empire.

How peculiar.

Her mother, however, held a brief conversation with the Queen, over something trivial, Mary Margaret assured her daughter once they were dismissed from Her Majesty's presence.

"Just small comments on society," she had mumbled, leading Emma to the party awaiting them by following the women in front of them. "She claimed to remember me from my coming out."

"Really? Do you think she actually meant it?"

Her mother had shaken her head. "I'm inclined to believe whatever our lovely monarch says, darling." The volume around them increased as they walked into the ballroom, but Mary Margaret couldn't go without one final sentiment. "Wait until you have your own daughter. With good grace, you'll be able to see for yourself."

The Queen's approval is the only bright spot among many a dark day in the following weeks. Her father had barely made it to the celebration afterwards, and Emma had hardly seen him since. With the power of the aristocracy she'd been raised in rapidly falling, the baron was having an even tougher time than Emma would have expected finding any information on his brother. He was working every angle - calling on those in and out of the House of Lords who might have the slightest clue - and kept coming up empty.

"No one has an idea of which workhouse James might be in," her father says on one of the few occasions he's at Woodlands for a meal. The dining table seems empty without Uncle James. Customarily, he sat across from Emma, making faces and stretching his legs beneath the table to tap at her ankle when she was younger. It always brought a smile to her face.

But now it's Mother at one end, Father at the head, and Emma awkwardly alone between the two, only the scrapes of silverware against her plate to possibly entertain her during meals.

"You'll find some clue of his whereabouts soon, darling," her mother assures him from her seat, cutting at her piece of lamb. "You've been looking long and hard. The word's gotten out to enough people. Somebody will find out something soon enough."

After swallowing a bite, David nods his head slowly. "I suppose," he concedes. Emma catches a pensive expression of concern cross his face before he shakes the cobwebs being spun in his head. Her father looks at her, a smile on his lips.

(It's fake, for her benefit, she knows. He looks pained, his lips stretched taught from cheek to cheek instead of the effortless toothy grin he wore when she shot her first kill or when she curled into his embrace after her coming out. Her father is not at all pleased with how his search is turning out.)

"And how was your day, darling?" he asks. Then, jokingly, "How did the long line of suitors fare?"

"Papa, stop." Still, Emma chuckles. Even when he's in a dark place, her father's always put her first and managed to make her smile.

0000

Emma wakes up the next morning with a groan. She hadn't gotten much sleep - the Sandman had been elusive and bitter as of late - and was not looking forward to the day ahead. If her memory served, some of her parents' acquaintances would be arriving today for an extended stay. That meant tea, entertaining, supper, dinner, and all the other endeavors that followed suit.

To say that Emma wasn't in the mood for such formalities would be the understatement. She flops her head back into her pillow, shakes it about, and then begrudgingly sat up to prepare for the day. Her mother has yet to show her the dress she intends her daughter to wear to the dinner tonight, so for now, a simple day dress covers her instead of her bedclothes.

Plopping down in front of the vanity, Emma sighs heavily. She hates having to pin her hair up like this every morning. Her blonde locks are too long and too heavy and often fall free soon after breakfast - wisps framing the rises of her facial features. The pins scrape her skull. The tightness of the bun her mother insists she have pulled at her skin, rendering her sick with headaches. How she misses the days of her childhood where her mother or maid brushed through her hair and that was the only amount of coiffure she had to subject herself to.

Now, since her debut a few months back, she has to maintain heavy dresses and maquillage and tightly-kept curls. Emma's focus has to be on finding herself a nice enough husband - a man to keep her safe in shelter and body and to gather her future children, - and this is society's proven method of success.

With a sigh, Emma resignedly glares at herself in the looking glass. It's been a burden to get used to - putting her hair up instead of letting it blow with the breeze on her horse or whatever she may do - but this is her life, now until the day she finally leaves this earth. Her hair up, her lips spread in a smile, and her perception the image of perfection: nothing less would do.

(How monotonous, she thinks.)

The slight knock of Ms. Gibbs breaks her from her reverie. Emma sighs, curls one awry strand of hair behind her ear, and stands up. "I'll be down in a second," she says loud enough to be heard through the thick wood.

"Right-oh, milady," Emma hears from the hallway. "Your breakfast will be down in the kitchens with the cook."

That catches her attention. Quickly and hardly dressed properly, Emma scurries to the door and pull sit open just in time to catch the working woman walk down the hall. "Ms. Gibbs!" she yells. The servant turns around and sends Emma a slight curtsy. "Where are my parents? Why aren't they down having breakfast?"

"Well, dear, your father's in his study looking over some finances, I believe," Ms. Gibbs informs her, "and your mother went to call on one of your godfathers before the guests begin to arrive."

Emma can feel the expression on her face fall. Alone again, it seems. "Thank you, Ms. Gibbs," she shouts down the hall. "I'll be down shortly."

Ms. Gibbs nods and sets down the servants' stairwell, heading to the kitchen. She'll be sure to warn the rest of the employees of their impending informal inspection before Emma even leaves her room, which she does soon after speaking with the maid. There's not much left for her to do in order to be ready for the day.

Tiptoeing down the stairs in order not to frighten everyone away from their work, Emma quietly arrives in the kitchen. It's not as if she hasn't been in the room before: she's just never been in here when it's alive like it is now. She and her father have snuck down in the dark to indulge their sweet teeth and, as a child, Emma was down here much more often to run around Lance' office or bother the cook into making her a snack.

In the middle of the morning, however, it's busier than she's ever seen it. Lance walks by her with a nod on the way to his office. A footman and delivery boy exchange heated words at the back door, propped open to reveal a cart. From the corner of her eye, Emma sees the cook wave her over and point at the plate and stool set up for her.

Munching on a roll, Emma sits and watches the servants work around her. They're all like clockwork: the cook flitting to and fro with her spoons and ingredients, a maid nearby sewing some garment, the footman filing invoices from this morning's deliveries.

"Have you any plans today, milady?" Ms. Gibbs asks from her stance near the sink. She's drying plates much slower than the kitchen maid washes them, but that's the woman's way. Along with Lance, Ms. Gibbs was the only other servant who'd served Woodlands as long as Emma could recall. She knew the ins and outs of the household, and thus knew how empty her former charge's schedule.

After swallowing a bite and around her fingers, Emma answers, "Not at all. I thought I might call on Graham and those over at Wolverton Estates, but I'm afraid they won't be home."

Ms Gibbs nods in understanding. "Would you like to go into town?" she offers. "Some of the maids and I plan to go after morning chores are finished and before tea."

Emma shrugs. "I suppose. I've nothing else to do."

Drying her hands on her smock, Ms. Gibbs puts her last contribution to the dry dishes on in the cupboard. She approaches Emma's side and, like her mother often did, places a gentle hand on her upper arm.

"You need to find a hobby, my dear," the woman says. "Something ladylike to occupy your time."

Emma's shoulders slump in defeat. "You mean to say I can't spend my days hunting or riding."

A sad, sorry smile spreads across Ms. Gibbs' lips. "I know how you adore those activities," she says apologetically, "but they just aren't suitable for lady." Emma nods, understanding that what the maid said is true. She can't very well go cavorting around in the forests, no matter how much she enjoys it.

But, despite the harsh reality, Ms. Gibbs does present another option: "Have you thought about volunteering in town? Perhaps an orphanage or convent could use a helping hand."

The first thing that came to mind at the suggestion was company. With her mother running the household almost single handedly and her father either sitting in Parliament or working to find out information on his brother, Emma's relied on her few friends to entertain her, as that was what she thought a lady did. But it was mind numbingly dull more often than not. The small talk, the forced smiles - it bored Emma to tears.

A cause, though, some sort of charity endeavor: that could be the answer. She did have a lot of free time now. Her education came to a resounding end with the season, so she had no more lessons to struggle through. Emma had the time and means to travel into the city, at least a couple days during the week, to get off the property and find people - actual people - of whom she might be of use to.

Emma grins wide. "That sounds like a splendid idea, Ms. Gibbs." To affirm her thought, she presses a kind kiss to each of the woman's cheeks. "I'd love to go into town with you this afternoon. Perhaps I'll find my cause there."

0000

Walking down the streets of the city never bored Emma. There are certain aspects of far country life she was jealous of: the echoing solitude, the surrounding nature, the endless beauty. On certain days, Emma wishes she wasn't raised just outside of London. But the days she's allowed to amble from storefront to storefront are what make it worth it.

Emma follows Ms. Gibbs around on her errands like an errant puppy. She takes in the sights as they come: a city woman corralling her scramble of children, vendors shouting out their various deals, businessmen conducting short deals on the sidewalks outside of coffeehouses.

"Perhaps you could find yourself a purpose here," Ms. Gibbs mentions as they pass by the orphanage. The basket hanging off her arms is filled with spools of thread and folds of fabric for a dress her mother wants. "Making the meals or watching the children in the yard."

Nodding politely, Emma hums. "Perhaps."

But she can feel her heart's not interested in the idea. There's something about children - they might be in her future - she hopes they're in her future - but the notion of being around them now, in such a disparaging situation - she can't stand it. It makes her too sad.

Late morning and early afternoon progress with more smiles and happiness than Emma expected. A peek into the life of the lower class always reminds her how fortunate she's been in her life, but the people she runs into who know Ms. Gibbs are nothing if not some of the kindest she's ever met. One woman even asks that they walk a certain way back to Woodlands to check on her husband, and that Ms. Gibbs write her a letter on his condition later.

It's on this backway home they come across a dark, foreboding building. The exterior is a shade darker than the customary grey of the sky. Towering stacks emit smoke, further dirtying the sky, and small windows line the wall beneath the eaves. It's a threatening building that makes Emma's heart drop, and all she can think of is how much she wants to be far away from it.

Yet Ms. Gibbs walks toward it.

"Ms. Gibbs!" Emma calls after her maid, who's a few paces in front of her, heading toward a solid black door. "Ms. Gibbs, where are you going?"

"Maisie asked me to leave word for her husband," she says simply. "You were there for the conversation, milady."

With a mumbled "Right, right of course," Emma dutifully follows her maid past the threatening door and into the darkest room she'd ever walked into. The darkness is almost its own entity, sucking up the light from outside until the moment the door slams shut. Emma's vision takes so long to grow accustom to the lack of light, the only thing she sees of the interior of the building is a small windowed partition as Ms. Gibbs is walking away from it.

"Come now, milady," she murmurs, intent on getting back into the waning sunlight. "Don't dawdle about."

Emma stops her with a hand to her arm. "Where exactly are we, Ms. Gibbs?"

"The workhouse," she says, quiet and simple. "'s where the debtors and such characters come to pay their dues."

"Might Uncle James be here?"

Still unable to really see in front of her, Emma senses more than sees Ms. Gibbs shake head. "I should think not. I overheard your father saying he was sent to the one in Middlesex."

Instead of following her maid's urging out of the building, Emma approaches the window herself.

(She's got an idea. Or a question, at least. And her parents do everything, have done everything, to make and keep her happy. The least she can do is follow a lead when one blinds her on the journey home.)

Behind the window is a scrawny little man, standing. In the light, he's sure to be pale in the deadliest sense, more of a skeleton than a living being. She asks, "Who runs this workhouse?"

With a shrug, the man at window replies, "The foreman, miss," like it's the most obvious answer in the universe.

"Might I meet with him?"

Her request catches him off guard. "Now?" he asks.

Emma nods, much too enthusiastically for the current setting. "If at all possible."

From in front of the window, Emma can tells the man is nervous. His upper body moves about, meaning he's shuffling his feet out of sight. He looks over his shoulder as if looking for a higher-up to take over her hardly-difficult line of questioning. "I think not, miss," he finally responds. "Perhaps you can come back in a few days' time. The foreman tends not to be busy on Thursdays."

"Excellent." It's not exactly what she was hoping for, but it will do. Plus, it hits two birds with one stone: she'll hopefully get further insight into her uncle's internment and she has a reason to come to the city."Tell your foreman Lady Emma Nolan of Misthaven will meet with him at 10 in the morning this Thursday."

"Yes, ma'am."

Emma nods gratefully. "Thank you, sir. Have a lovely evening." Although as she's walking away from the window and the man behind it, the bottoms of her skirts brushing up against something hard and wet as she goes, she isn't at all sure if a lovely anything is possible.

As they exit the workhouse, Ms. Gibbs wraps her arm around Emma's. Once they're far away and on their way home, the maid asks Emma what that commotion was about.

"I think I might have just found my purpose, Ms. Gibbs," she says happily. "Or at least a purpose."

0000

"I'm sorry the foreman himself couldn't meet with you today," the man - Mr. Robin Locksley, who introduces himself as the chargehand, the head guardian's second-in-command, when Emma arrives at her appointment a few days later - says, "but there was a bit of trouble in the men's corridor last night."

"What was the problem, if you don't mind me asking?" Emma inquires to continue the polite flow in conversation.

Mr. Locksley glances back at her and shakes his head. "It's not the most appropriate situation for a good lady's ears," he explains.

"This also isn't the most appropriate location for a lady to be, and yet here I am," Emma counters.

The guardian chuckles, pushing a door open using his shoulder and holding it until she passes through. "A most certain fact, Your Ladyship."

"Please, Mr. Locksley, call me Emma."

"Then I insist you call me Robin in return."

An easy enough agreement. Emma continues to follow him through the winding dark halls.

When the thought of visiting the workhouses came to her mind, she wasn't really sure what to expect. She'd kept her eye on workhouses in the newspaper ever since her father told her about Uncle James's fate, but the stories never really went into detail about what happened behind the brick walls. Robin met her outside the building and allowed her entrance through what had to be a backdoor. The corridors they've walked through so far are empty and clean, something nonsensical for a building with so many people in it.

And the people: there are supposed to be hundreds of men, women, and children within these walls and the only one she's seen is Robin. She doesn't exactly have an idea of what she wants to do in terms of volunteering with this workhouse, but her initial thought was to help the women in their work or perhaps teach the children their lessons. Whatever she was to do, she expected people to be part of her charity work.

Robin finally leads her to a door at the end of a hallway, still void of any other beings. He ushers her into what ends up being an office - the foreman's office, if she were to guess. In a stark contrast to the dullness of the rest of the place, the office is richly decorated and light. The furniture is a dark wood, calming and familiar, a shade or two light than the furniture in her father's study. Two windows allow bright sunlight in, warming and illuminating the room. It's a rare nice day in town: the clouds parted after weeks of rain and gloom.

(This foreman is smart enough to know that natural light costs much less and makes even dreary places like this a little bit nicer.)

But the books - easily four hundred books line the shelves opposite the windows. Some familiar names immediately catch Emma's eyes - Shakespeare, Darwin, Austen - but the subject matter ranges from genealogical histories to newest popular novels, manuals on factory machines to what look to be journals or diaries.

(It's nothing, really, compared to the library at home, but it's quite an impressive collection for a workhouse foreman's office.)

Easing into the seat behind the desk, Robin gestures to one of the two chairs opposite him. "Please, take a seat Emma, and we can discuss what you wish to do."

"It isn't so much what I wish to do, per se," she corrects him. "I was hoping your foreman - or rather you, in this case - might be able to tell me whether a specific person is in this workhouse."

Robin's eyebrows raise and he sucks in a breath between his teeth. "I'm afraid I don't have access to that sort of information," he tells her. "I haven't the slightest clue whether the foreman does either. The folks who wrote the laws and conditions for these places were quite thorough with who could know what about the people in here."

"Oh." One step forward and two steps back.

"I'm sorry, Emma," Robin apologizes unnecessarily. "I wish I could be of more assistance. Though, I will tell you, you are the first lady to come in person looking for a loved one. Everyone else sends by post."

Chuckling away her emotions, Emma says, "Well, I'm glad to have made an impression."

So she can't really help her parents or her uncle. Not right now. But that doesn't mean she couldn't keep trying.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to carry on that discussion about what I could do to help in the workhouse." She sends the guardian a bright smile.

They spend the next hour or two discussing what Emma could do in terms of volunteering, helping out the less fortunate people forced to pay their debts through manual labor. Robin keeps suggesting that "perhaps a donation would be best idea, so that those in the workhouse can be fed," but Emma insists otherwise.

"Robin, really, if I'm forced to be idle for another day, I will lose my mind."

The man leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. His smile is kind, but almost reproving. "Your Ladyship, while I respect your ambition and drive, I must disagree with you. I do believe that, for your safety, it would be best for you to donate coin rather than time to this establishment." His expression softens, turning much more genuine, and his shoulders lose the rigidity propreity forces on him. "I have a wife and son and I don't ever wish them to visit me here. I fear for their safety and well-being. This is not a place for the more delicate sex." Though, under his breath, he added, "Not that she would accept that answer forthright."

Emma gives him a single nod. "I understand that." But sternly and strongly, she says, "I wish to volunteer here. I understand the risks involved, but that does not dissuade me."

Relaxing and sliding back into the chair, Robin nods. "Very well then. I'll be sure to advise the foreman of this conversation."

With a relieved sigh, Emma finally grins. "Thank you kindly, Mr. Locksley." She stands from the chair and offers her hand, which he obligingly takes in his. "If you point me in the direction of the exit, I will bid you a good day and you can get back to what I'm sure is a very busy day."

"Nonsense," Robin says, standing himself and moving toward the door. "I'll walk you out. Just stay with me: we don't want you to lose your way."

The darkness of the workhouse corridors quickly swallow them both up. In contrast with light from the windows, Emma briefly entertains the severity of the agreement she's just entered into. She's promised to come here more than once weekly, pending the foreman's concurrence. She's willingly coming to this shadowy place on her own accord - the one location in all of town that people avoid as if it's rampant with a plague.

It's quite the glowing recommendation, she thinks, but it proves how weary she's grown of spending hours daintily in the sitting room sewing with her mother.

It's as she's taking her painstakingly long path back to the outdoors – to the courtyard, the street, the alley, anywhere with the sun's rays, for goodness sake – that she finds him. Wide brown eyes, unkempt hair that would shine in the sunlight – they stab her right in the heart through the glass separating the corridor from the work room.

The boy's among a slew of other children, all ripped from their families prematurely, but none have the look of complete and utter downtrodden despair behind their eyes. He seems to have had hope, more than Emma though possible in any child his age, but it's faded. Is fading.

She can't help herself: against Robin's requests, she purposely loses track of the guardian and quickly enters the children's sector. Many of them don't even look up from their work. The ones that do stare at her and follow her movements.

Within seconds, she's kneeling down next to the little boy who caught her eye. Her hand gently falls to his back, drawing his attention from the little scrap of fabric in front of him.

"What's your name, lad?" Emma asks quietly. He shakes his head vehemently and returns to his work. "Oh, darling, don't worry, you haven't done anything wrong. I want to help you." She holds out her hand. "I'm Emma. What's your name?"

There's an awkward moment where her hand just hangs between them and the boy focuses intently on the cloth in front of him. But Emma sees his resolve flounder – the frequent glances in her direction, the gradual slowing of his fingers. Finally, the child wraps his fingers around hers.

"I'm Henry," he mutters, weakly shaking her proffered hand. "It's nice to make your acquaintance."

Emma smiles. "The pleasure is all mine, Henry." The boy swiftly returns to his task, but frequent glances in her direction prompt her to continue the conversation. "Is your family here with you?" He shakes his head. "Are you an orphan, Henry?"

The image of Henry nodding his head is the saddest thing she's seen in her life. The boy can't be more than seven years old and already he's alone.

And yet he hasn't given in. He's survived to this point in his life and, if Emma were to guess, will continue to do so.

But if he doesn't know the world outside the workhouse, how is he supposed to live?

"Henry," Emma says softly. "Henry, I'm going to try and get you out of here."

His entire countenance lightens at her words. "Do you promise? Because Charles was talking about things his mama used to say at bedtime, with a prince and princesses and dragons. And I told him, 'Charles, there's only one prince, and that's not the story of him.'"

Bedtime stories and fairytales. Henry's never heard a proper bedtime story, and the sole thought of that breaks Emma's heart even further. She gives him a small, sad smile and scratches the boy's scalp beneath his shaggy hair. "I promise, Henry. I will do everything in my power to get you out of here."

0000

Her endeavor at goodwill and saving Henry from the workhouse is immediately halted.

"No," her father says sternly. "Not in my house."

"But Papa, you haven't seen him. You haven't seen what it's like in th-"

"I don't need to to know you're not prepared to take care of a child." He's seated at his office desk, not even looking up from his correspondence. "You've just come out this season; you aren't married and you don't even have a suitor." His voice is stern, but knowing him as she does, Emma can detect the hint of concern that tinges her father's words. "If you take in this boy, you risk the chance of being mistaken for an unwed mother and be put in the workhouse. You wouldn't want to save this child only for both of you to end up there again, would you?" he asks. Her father sighs, his shoulders slumping into the desktop. "Emma, my favorite daughter, now is just not the proper time."

But his words spark an idea in her mind. "So if I were to marry, would you consider taking Henry in?"

Sighing again, her father finally glances up at her. "That wouldn't be my decision," he says. Standing from his chair, David comes around his desk and leans against the edge of it. "Emma, you are my shining light. You have brought your mother and I so much happiness. With everything our family has been through, you have been a blessing. I am so proud of you, my little girl." He pauses, as if he's picking out precisely the correct words to communicate his meaning. "But you are enough. We're much too old to be caring for a child."

Emma shakes her head. "I don't understand," she says simply.

"If you want to take in this little boy, this Henry," her father begins, "then that should be something you and your husband discuss. You, after all, will be the ones caring for him. Loving him and raising him to be the man you want him to be." Tilting his head toward his shoulder, David reminds her, "It's a lot of work, Emma. Parenting is the most arduous occupation out there."

Emma scoffs, crossing her arms petulantly over her chest and slumping down into her chair. "You and Mother were lucky to have me then, weren't you?"

Her father sends her a leery side eye. "Now, now, let's not get too cocky, Emma," he chides her. "You weren't always the delight you are today, and you and I both know that." Emma gaps and David laughs. "You probably can't recall the number of tantrums you threw when I wouldn't let you come riding with me, or during hunting season." His eyes glaze over a bit, living in the past for a moment. "My Emma, always up for an adventure," he sighs affectionately.

He crosses his arms as well, an upright mirror of his pouting daughter. His expression grows serious as he looks down at her. "If you're serious about getting this boy out of the workhouse, then your mother and I can find you some respectable suitors to speed up the process. Otherwise, you've got to set out on your own adventure."

Her shoulders sagging a bit, Emma stands. "Okay," she says slowly. "But you'll help me right?"

"Of course, darling," David assures her. "You'll always be my little girl. I'll help you through hell and high water." His arms go wide in expectation of an embrace. Acting reluctant, Emma shuffles closer to her father until she can easily wrap her arms around his waist.

They stand like that, Emma's head against her father's shoulder, just breathing and enjoying what little time they had to spend together, until David asks a question. "What d'you think about Graham? He seems like a proper suitor, a gentleman worthy of my daughter's affections."

Her jaw drops. Physically, she can feel the coarse fabric of her father's waistcoat brush against the tip of her chin. Emma draws back to stare at him. "Papa, you can't be serious," she says. When David doesn't respond, she steps out of his arms. "Graham? You believe that I want to marry Graham?"

David shrugs. "His father and I could set it up quite nicely. You two were raised together and are quite close already." He shrugs again. "It just seems like the easiest answer to your predicament."

"Papa," Emma starts, but she stops. It does make sense: the quicker she marries, the quicker she can get Henry out of the workhouse. Marrying Graham would be the logical answer. He knows her better than anyone, save for her parents and maybe Elsa. She's sure she could tell him about her situation - of Henry and her adoration of this little boy - and he would jump at the chance to help her. They could be happy. A marriage between her and Graham could work.

But it really wouldn't.

Emma sighs. "I want what you and Mother have, Papa," she tells him. "You love each other to the ends of the earth and far beyond it." Taking a seat once more, Emma looks down at her interlaced hands. "I want to embark on this adventure, but I want to do it with someone I love as fully as you love Mama."

David shrugs. "It was merely a suggestion, darling," he states, taking his time and walking back behind his desk. As he sits down, he suggests, "It couldn't hurt to ask."

And so she does. The following morning, she sends word over to Wolverton Estates, inviting Graham over for tea. Shortly after noon, he arrives, greeting Lance with a pat on the shoulder and giving Emma the deepest bow she believes a man has ever bequeathed to her.

"Lady Emma Nolan, future Baroness of Misthaven, the eye of all Woodlands," he airly tells the ground. He straightens, pushing his hair back from his face. "My, are you a sight."

"Hello to you too, Graham," she says with a smile. Graham offers his arm to escort her to the sitting room, and Emma addresses Lance as she takes it: "We'll have tea, up here, Lance, whenever it's ready."

And it's easy: her friendship with Graham, as it's always been, is easy. Little thought goes into her actions or words. She teases him and he willingly takes it, throws a reciprocal jab back every once in awhile to remind her what he's capable of, but holds back because he was raised a gentleman just as she was raised a lady.

She tells him about the lead she thought she'd found about Uncle James. She tells him about Henry, having to pause in the middle of the story for Lance to serve them tea. Which nicely leads into her father's proposition, but doesn't make it any less awkward to ask.

"So my father suggested that I…" Emma pauses and gulps, her hands shaking around her teacup. "My father suggested we marry."

Graham slaps his hand against his broad chest, bending at the waist with laughter. "Truly? Your father think we should wed?" His laughter rang out again, and he gasped for breath. "Do they not realize both our families are deep in debt?"

Emma smiles at her childhood friend.

(Dire situation aside, it is indeed an amusing endeavor. As young children, they splashed about in fountains, both at on his and her parents' estates, naked as babes. Graham fought the stable boys for her honor. Emma heralded his good heart for the maids. It was a friendship between little ones at its most basic level.)

Once he settles himself, Graham looks up at her. He takes her hand between both his before promising, "Dear Emma, if no other poor sod comes along to whisk you away from this tragic place, then I suppose I would be happy to spend the rest of my days making your life all the more difficult."

"Goodness, don't try and sell such a proposal," she grumbles, through the complaint is lighthearted.

His smile is familiar and welcoming. "You know I wish to please you as I can, but Emma," his large hand takes Emma's in his, "darling Emma, my closest and most dearest friend, you and I both know there is much more adventure for me out there."

She sighs. Graham's got a valid point and she hates it when that happens.

"There is talk of safaris and explorers abroad, in Africa and India and the colonies of the Orient." Dropping his hands to his sides, Graham's eyes glaze over with a dreamy look. "Emma, I intend to go. I intend to be one of those explorers and have adventures."

It shouldn't be such news - she often overhears talks of so-and-son's son and this-and-that's husband leaving to pursue broader horizons - but hearing the sentiment from the closest thing she has to a brother is stunning.

"But what about your parents?" she asks incredulously. "What about getting married and having children and–"

"And I want all that," he interrupts her, "just not at this moment." Exhaling loudly, Graham runs his hand through his hair, letting it drag down his face until he's scratching thoughtfully at the hair on his chin. "You are a girl, Emma." She gives him a rueful side-eye and he corrects himself. "A woman. You have duties and expectations upon you."

"And you haven't?" she says with a scoff. "You're to carry on your family's name, your family's bloodline and business."

Graham laughs again. "I will, but times are changing, sweet Emma. You and I both know that." He gestures in what Emma knows is the vague direction of the ocean. "People take steamships around the empire. In a matter of weeks, I could be in Delhi or Boston." His brown eyes meet hers. "I will come home and fulfill my promise to marry you, but only after we live a little."

Emma groans. "Graham, I can't wait that long. Henry needs me."

A sympathetic smile flits across her friend's lips. "And that will be your adventure," Graham tells her calmly and sweetly. "And seeing the world will be mine." His fingers curl around hers and squeeze in a friendly manner.

The gesture is kind and it makes Emma grin weakly. He's supported her through all her crazy and questionable decisions through the years: it's only fair she do the same courtesy for him. "So I guess this is you refusing my proposal?"

With a chuckle, Graham lets go of her hand. He takes a step back and bows. "Lady Emma of Misthaven, while greatly honored, I respectfully decline your offer of marriage." Straightening his spine, her friend smiles. "For now. Should you ask again in due time, my answer is sure to change."

Emma rolls her eyes good-heartedly.

(There goes her first and best suitor.)

0000

Her parents' next potential suitor is a man named Walsh. A kind enough man, Walsh is an artisan and so makes his own money, which endeared him to her parents as a potential son-in-law. He builds and designs furniture and woodworking creations, nice little handcrafted trinkets.

(On their first supervised outing, Walsh pulls a little horse from his pocket and gifts it to her.

"Made of Scottish beech from the highlands," he explains with a shrug. "Your father mentioned you liked to ride as a child."

And while it was a pleasant thought, it seems rather...trite.

"I did enjoy riding as a girl," she concedes, "but even then, I would've much rather have spent a day in the woods practicing archery with my mother."

(Emma was oddly satisfied with the nervous gulp she caught go down his throat.)

It's going well enough from her perspective - sure, she doesn't feel the love that she's been surrounded by her entire life, or even a fraction of what she feels for Graham. The bond between her parents isn't mirrored in her relationship with Walsh. But she never expected that, never really wanted that.

(Lies.)

But then he slips up in conversation at dinner one night. Their parents were discussing courtship and wedding, dowry and title. As taught, Emma sits silently, nodding when appropriate and poking at the third plate of food Lance has placed in front of her tonight.

(She's usually full halfway through the second, but her mother being the socialite she is, company deserves no less than four courses for any meal.)

Her father speaks something of dowry, a joke between the men at the table and how it should be discussed in the study after the meal, when Walsh untactfully mentions how it "can be no less than my offer from the Mills; their daughter is far more interesting and much more open to my desires."

Her parents need not even look at Emma to know their daughter is fuming and the courtship ends before officially beginning.

(His parents are not pleased in the least.)

"It's for the best," Emma tells her mother the next day as they walk through town. "I didn't even tell him about Henry."

Mary Margaret doesn't speak a word for a while. They walk a couple blocks before she opens her mouth and closes it again. Emma rolls her eyes: her mother does this too often. She'll have an idea, a solution to whatever the problem at hand is, but stop herself from sharing it. Unsure of whether the quirk comes as ingrained habit or learned action, Emma's become accustomed to sighing regardless when it happens

"What is it, Mother?" she asks with exasperation.

"Maybe it's for the best," Mary Margaret says reluctantly. "Maybe this is a divine sign meant to dissuade you from adopting that little boy."

Emma physically stops in the middle of the walkway, causing the few people strolling behind her to hazard around her with grumbles under their breath. Her jaw drops and she looks to her mother. "You mean to say that there's something ungodly and wrong about wanting to give an orphaned child a home and someone to love them? Do you mean to say that I'd be better off finding a husband only for myself and not for myself and Henry?"

"Now Emma, you know that's not what I mean." Her mother takes a grip on her elbow and drags her into motion, guiding her into the opening of an alley between the haberdashery and a cafe. Voice hushed, Mary Margaret explains. "What I mean is not many men are prepared to take on marriage, let alone fatherhood. Maybe if you postponed this endeavor over the little workhouse boy, then you could find a proper - "

"Mother, please," Emma mutters, "my future husband is going to be a father eventually." Checking the sidewalk on the other side of the brick wall, Emma eases herself into the crowd of Londontown, her mother hot on her heels. Casually, Emma says, "I'm only helping the cause."

Sighing, her mother threads her arm through the crease in Emma's elbow. "If you're sure. I merely mean to remind you that some unmarried men see children as a burden."

"And if the suitor is truly meant to be my husband, then he will love and accept the boy with as much fervor as I have."

That love she wants - the one that has her father looking starry-eyed at her mother, the feeling that consumed her when she first saw Henry on the other side of the workhouse glass - she feels it deep in her gut the first time she's introduced to one Neal Cassidy.

Son of a London merchant, Mr. Cassidy enters her life in a swooping fashion: a few weeks after her streetside discussion with her mother, Emma once again finds herself in the city, strolling through the streets with Elsa at her side. Out of nowhere, a rogue carriage comes barreling toward them, a wheel wiggling loose of its mooring. Too caught up in conversation and facing away from the unfolding situation, Emma is none the wiser to the possible danger her life was in until a young man forcefully grabs her by the elbow and drags her out of harm's way.

"Excuse me!" she yells, wrenching her arm away from this stranger's hand. "How dare you!"

A laugh comes from beneath shaggy brown hair. "I won't apologize for saving a beautiful maiden's life," he says.

His words fluster her, make her blush and cover her mouth daintily with her fingers. Emma looks to Elsa to gage her reaction, and her friend's face is one she was certainly not expecting to see. Her lips are pursed, her eyebrows raised, and her posture more closed off than usual.

Left on her own for a response, Emma returns her gaze to the man. "Your words are too kind, sir."

"Nonsense," he responds merrily. "I only ever speak the truth." Bowing gracefully, the stranger holds out his hand and Emma gently places hers there. "Neal Cassidy, at your service, milady."

Tittering slightly, Emma grants him a nod back. "Emma Nolan," she says. "I suppose I should be thank you for saving me from that carriage wheel."

"All in a day's work, Ms. Nolan."

"Lady," she corrects him. He cocks his head to the side. "Lady Emma Nolan."

"Really now," he says, his voice rising in disbelief. "And just what kind of lady might you be?"

"My father is the Baron of Misthaven," she says proudly. Aristocracy may not mean as much as it once did, but the lineage of Misthaven is long and historic, impressive to even those who aren't quite sure what an aristocrat is.

Neal smiles, a cat who's got the cream. "Well, Lady Nolan, it has been my pleasure making your acquaintance today."

It's classic, timeless, the perfect storybook relationship from start to finish: after their introduction on the streets of London - after which he escorted them to the tea room - Emma expects not to see him again. But he shows up the next time she's in town, this time on her way home from an afternoon at the workhouse. And the next, when she's with Elsa and Anna, her younger sister. Mr. Cassidy seems to show up everywhere, each time with a new anecdote or reason for joining.

"Does this not seem a little too," Elsa hesitates, searching for the correct word, "coincidental? It seems like every time you come to town, you stumble upon Mr. Cassidy."

Emma laughs, twirling the stem of the flower the man in question had bequeathed to her this time they'd crossed paths. "I wouldn't think of it as coincidence," she answers, staring down into the heart of the flower. "I like to think of it more as fate. After all the trouble with suitors I've had, Lady Fate finally decided to treat me well."

She keeps that reasoning in mind when Mr. Cassidy leaves bruises on her arms the next time he sees her alone, marking her as his possession in the middle of crowded London streets. The same when he loses his temper, starts a brawl, and ends up blaming her, accusing her of starting the whole ordeal so he can leave without question, making her sick with nerves for a week: that a few rough moments must be suffered through in order to gain the nirvana fate has in store for her.

(Ms Gibbs is the one who frequently sees her sneak from the kitchen and off to town, but never mutters a word when Emma comes back looking worse for wear. The maid merely helps her clean up and formulate excuses for parents' inevitable reveal.)

Despite Elsa's multiple warnings and the wounded ego she sometimes endures - she was raised with Graham's ribbing, but even some of Neal's words are coarser than she can imagine - Emma pursues him. There's a tug in her gut that drives her to enjoy their increasingly frequent encounters. He's charming, Mr. Cassidy. He's excited about her - or at least he seems to be - and exciting to be around. It gets to the point where she wants to see him purposefully, and not risk the chance of not seeing him.

So she does what everyone - Elsa, Graham, her parents, all of her propriety lessons - has told her not to do: Emma calls on him. He's told her that his father is a wealthy merchant dealing with precious jewels from the African colonies, and that's enough information to find out exactly where the Cassidys live. Graham finally gives her an address in the city from a docksman.

Emma approaches the classic townhome, whitish exterior with black window trimmings and chandelier hanging on the portico. She knocks and is greeted by what she assumes is the elder Mr. Cassidy. He's older than she expected; Emma supposes that, with how vivacious Neal is, his parents would be rather young. His weight is supported by a cane, causing the strands of his long gray hair to sway over his face.

"May I help you, dearie?" he asks.

After licking her lips and breathing away her nerves, Emma says, "I was looking for Mr. Cassidy. Well," she nervously chuckles as she corrects herself, "the younger Mr. Cassidy. Neal."

She can feel his eyes roam over her, taking in her appearance and overall countenance. It's unnerving, to say the least. She's beginning to think that she has the wrong house, maybe Neal lives one more over or on Fenchurch and not Gracechurch, when the distinct sounds of footfall coming toward the door.

The Mr. Cassidy she knows and may even love appears over his father's shoulder and Emma lets go of a sigh she didn't know she was holding. He's not dressed for public and the sight of him in simple dress threatens to overwhelm her.

Catching her eye, the younger Mr. Cassidy sends her a wink before talking to his father. "Papa, you didn't tell me we had a beautiful guest in our midst."

"I didn't know you were expecting any calls," his father grumbles. His accent is more evident in this disgruntled tone, having completely bypassed her notice until just now. He's Scottish, way out of his territory and homeland. Offhandedly, Emma wonders how he found his way down to London.

Pushing in front of his father, Neal turns his attention to her. "I'm always expecting the Lady Emma to call on me," he says. "More hoping than expecting, but it seems that my dreams have finally come true."

It's certainly not the first time she's blushed due to something Neal has said, but it's certainly the first time she's done so so furiously.

"Then by all means," Mr. Cassidy growls, "invite the girl in."

"Of course, of course." Pushing his father out of the way, Neal's smile warms her heart and calms her nerves. "Please, do come in, Lady Emma. Welcome to our humble home. It's probably not as nice as Woodlands, but far be it from me to put words in your mouth."

(She starts calling him by his birthname that day so as not to confuse the two Mr. Cassidys in the house, but not without consternation.

"Really, Emma, it makes more sense if you call me Neal. I don't want to be confused with my father at all."

"I don't know; it seems improper with us knowing so little about each other."

Neal comes to a stop in front of her. Turning slowly, a grin spreads across his face. He steps toward her and Emma does all she can not to swoon. "That is a situation easily remedied.")

With her visit to the Cassidy house on Gracechurch, it's as if some seal has been broken. She tries to see him whenever she's in London volunteering at the workhouse and Neal calls on her frequently, most often at Woodlands. He seems to really take to the place, asking how they acquired this vase or what current deals her father is bartering. With ease, Emma shows him the ins and outs of estate living: riding, hunting, even sitting down at dinner parties with her parents' acquaintances. Her mother sends her knowing looks whenever she catches them about together, coming back from the stables or sharing smiles across the dinner table. Her father, in his usual way, gives Neal cautionary looks and Emma understated silly faces.

Not everyone, however, is as excited for Emma's new suitor as she or her parents are.

"Emma, be careful," Elsa warns her as they sit down for tea one of the few days Neal doesn't call on her or vice versa. "You know nothing about this man. There are people out there hunting for titles, not love."

"For titles?" Emma asks incredulously. "What would give you have idea, Elsa? That's not true for him; I told you that."

"I know, my friend, but I can't help the sense of dread that grows the longer your dalliance goes on." Curling her fingers around her wrist, Elsa settles her hands in her lap. "What personal stories has he told you?"

It takes a moment for Emma to truly think of something. "His mother," she finally says. "He told me about his mother."

"What about her?"

"That she's gone, died of the flu or some similar illness." Groaning, Emma rests her head in her hand in frustration. "Elsa, I don't have to tell you what he's told me." She sighs. "All you need to know is that I'm happy. This feels like the real thing." In fact, Emma's convinced that it is the real thing. Love, true love, the kind she was raised with and dreamed for. "Do you understand? Do you know the feeling I speak of?"

Shaking her head, Elsa admits, "Not quite." She pauses to take a sip from her cup, and Emma does the same. Then, Elsa sighs. "I know you think you love him, and I am overjoyed for you, but I only mean you should be wary. Don't you remember what almost happened to me and Anna when Hans came into our lives?"

Standing abruptly, Emma feels her cheeks flush. She's angry her friend doesn't trust her judgement. Comparing her Neal to Hans - a foreigner twelfth in line to his own throne who preyed on Elsa for her title, and then her younger sister - was not only hurtful, but uncalled for.

"Duly noted," Emma says sternly. "I apologize, Lady Elsa, I'm afraid I've forgotten a previous appointment." Emma rings the bell, summoning Lance. When the butler arrives, she tells him to call for a carriage and escort Elsa to the door. "She'll be on her way shortly." She understands she's being callous and unfair, but she'd rather risk her afternoon than her entire friendship. With a nod and a brief curtsy to Elsa, Emma leaves the room in a huff.

Instead, she writes a letter to Neal, telling him of the entire ordeal. She claimed that we knew nothing of each other, when I know the opposite is true, she writes. I know that what we have between the two of us is a solid foundation. We can go far in life if we go together.

Neal calls on her a couple days later after receiving and reading her letter. He's barely out of the carriage before he's offering a hand in condolence. Emma takes his offered hand without hesitation, unaware and uncaring of anyone who might see this blatant display of affection.

"I'm sorry, Emma," Neal says instead of greeting her. She leads him into the front hall before he speaks again. "To have such a dear friend hurt you like that over me."

Emma shakes her head. "It's not like that. Elsa doesn't understand. Not yet, at least."

They settle in the parlor, as the pair tends to do when they don't have concrete plans for a visit, and Emma signals at the lurking Lance for some tea.

"I do think she has a valid point, though," Neal admits. When Emma glances at him with an unspoken question on her face, he sighs and sinks into the couch's luscious cushion. "We've known each other these past two months and aren't officially courting. Some people might think the worst of our relationship."

"Does that mean..." Emma is afraid to ask, but the way this conversation is going, she knows that, by the end of it, she might finally be able to move forward with taking Henry in.

(And Neal still doesn't know he exists.)

"Do you want to court me? Is that what you mean to say?"

It takes a moment in which Emma wrings her fingers in her lap and Neal looks anywhere in the room that isn't her before he responds.

"Would that interest you?" Neal comes closer to her, scooting across the couch. He gets within reach of her hands and goes for it, stretching his arm out until he can intertwine his fingers with hers. She squeezes them and gives him a smile she hopes comes off as encouraging.

"I'd love to, Neal." But then she ponders on it a second more, the image of little Henry appearing in her mind's eye, and clears her throat. "There is something I should tell you, though," Emma parse out slowly, measuring her words while measuring his response, "that I haven't told you yet."

"I would only assume so." This time, Neal grasps her hand, running his thumb across the back of her hand. "Keep a little mystery, isn't that what governesses are teaching these days? Or those silly little novels?" he jokes.

Nervously chuckling, Emma wonders where the best way to start her tale. She decides on taking the route that casually builds up to her revelation. "Well, it's actually the reason I've been actively looking for a husband, so you should know it before we move forward," she reasons. Emma inhales to calm herself - her hand is in Neal's and the last thing she wants him to believe is that she constantly has sweaty palms. She focuses on their hands together as she says, "I've told you I work with the workhouse in town."

"Yes, you have," Neal confirms. She doesn't speak immediately, which has him leaning forward, coming even closer into her personal space. "Is that the secret? Have you met an even more handsome suitor working for your hand?"

"No, no," she titters anxiously. "At least, not in the conventional sense I believe you to be thinking of." Emma gulps. "My first trip there I met this little boy. His name is Henry and I intend on adopting him and getting him out of the workhouse as soon as humanly possible."

All Neal says is "How admirable."

"Quite." She's ruining this story, but, deep in her heart, she feels that Neal is trying to understand her explanation the best he can. He hasn't stood up and left in anger: he's still here, his hand in hers, listening to her ramblings. "The only trouble is that my parents won't take him in and they won't let me take him in being unmarried."

His comprehension arrives slowly, breaking over his face like dawn over the horizon. "So you're looking to marry so you can bring this young lad home?" he inquires.

Emma nods. Her gaze has remained stagnant on her and Neal's hands together, but now she raises her eyes to meet his. She knows he's got brown eyes, warm and comforting when she missteps and falls on a walk, much the same now. There's something else - another emotion she can't quite name yet - behind them, but her exploration of it is interrupted.

"Emma," he starts, "I'm glad that you told me about him. Henry?" She nods her head vigorously to affirm the information. "Henry is very lucky to have someone like you looking out for him."

"Is that you saying no to a courtship between us?" Emma asks frankly. "Because, and I most sincerely apologize, if I have to choose between a suitor and Henry, I will choose that little boy."

"No! No, no, that's not at all what I mean to convey, Emma," Neal quickly remedies. "No, I want to court you, Emma. I truly believe there's a connection - a deep connection - between you and I, and if that means Henry joins us, the more the merrier, isn't it?"

A wave of relief washes over her like nothing she's ever felt before. The man she loves - for now she's sure that is what she holds for Neal, there's no other explanation - wants Henry in their lives as much as she does. Her life could not get any better.

But the faster they rise, the harder they fall.

The morning she reads the announcement - "Lord and Lady Page and Mr Cassidy happily announce the betrothal of their children, Neal Cassidy and Lilith Page, to be married in the spring." - Emma's stomach drops lower than the seat on which she sits. She slowly sets the paper down, covering her what-will-remain-uneaten breakfast, and staring straight-faced at her mother.

(He just wanted the title. She wasn't the quickest way to it and so he moved on.

Elsa wasn't lying.)

Mary Margaret, of course, notices the change in her daughter's disposition. "Whatever is the matter, honey?"

"Neal is to be married," she says quietly, surprising herself for even speaking. At her mother's raised brow and confused expression, Emma folds the paper and hands it across the table. Emma watches her mother unfold the paper and flip to the announcements section. She watches those kind green eyes widen in surprise.

"Oh, darling," her mother croons, her expression falling into sympathy. "Emma, I can assure you, your father and I had no idea when we were discussing the terms of your courtship with Mr. Cassidy."

"No, I'm sure it didn't." She can't decide if she's numb from betrayal or relief. From hurt or happiness. Suddenly, Emma stands from her seat at the table, forcing the chair she sat in to wobble and fall. "I'm sorry, I must excuse myself, Mother." And with a slight nod and curtsy, she leaves the dining room, her mother staring worriedly after her.

(That unknown emotion she'd seen in Neal's eye when she told him of Henry - it was betrayal.)

0000

It's her quiet place, somewhere she can go where nothing and no one can bother her. Not her parents, not any chaperone they send with her, not the constraints or concerns of class and industry. Not even the wreckage Neal left of her heart.

She's pretty sure that no one knows she frequents this factory warehouse, partially burned down in a fire a couple years ago and never rebuilt. Its replacement in Manchester is by far one of the most successful, always in the news for breaking this record of income or that number of products made. No, this empty shell of a building - with cracks in the walls, no doors on their hinges, and sunspots filtering in weak light from the ceiling - is hers alone.

(Vaguely, she wonders if this is how her city sisters feel - how she might feel - in a marriage not for love. Empty, sad, dreary.)

No one should be here. And yet she is.

There's one part of the main floor that's completely leveled and flat, the wall fallen away enough to let the light in, where she likes to dance. Her body's movement to the song inside her head calms her, relieves her of any stress she might have. When she finds the time to come down here, close to the shady and untrustworthy dock workers and the sound of the Thames - it's those times where she finds herself at peace with whatever fate she's destined for.

The sun is weak today; rain has dampened the horizon for the past week and the smoke wafts over the small waves in the river. It's not the most pleasant weather, but it's the nicest they've had all week. What little warmth the sun offers falls on her cheeks. Emma breathes deeply, setting aside the thought of suitors and marriage, of her parents' debt and Uncle James in the workhouse.

Today is for her. This excursion is for her, damn the consequences and lectures she'll get for it later.

The first notes that chime in her head are something akin to a waltz - slow, measured. With no partner, an onlooker might find her back-and-forth swaying a bit odd, the type of action that gets a girl sent to the asylum or accused of hearing voices.

Emma's found in her short time out in society that dancing is all the better without a partner. No bumbling fool to step on her toes and no musicians to dictate how and at what speed she bends her body. The downbeats have her rising on her toes and the offbeats have her twirling around. Her skirts float around her waist, occasionally snagging a bit on fallen wood.

As a smaller child, she'd had dreams of becoming a ballerina. In better times, Mother and Father had taken her to see the Russian ballet perform Swan Lake. The primadonna was the most graceful woman she'd ever seen.

("Mama, I wanna be her when I grow up," little Emma whispered to her mother as Odette pirouetted across the stage into her lover's arms.

"You can't be her, darling," Mary Margaret said, patting her daughter's hand. "You can only be you. But I know that you are going to grow up to be a wonderful, beautiful woman.")

Ballet had never been part of her lessons. French, yes. Arithmetic, yes. Regular dancing – waltzing and such – of course. But ballet had always held a particular fascination. With the help of her maids, Emma taught herself the basics. It was her escape from arguments with Mother, poor hunting with Father, and any abysmal suitor experiences.

She hums the notes as she remembers them from the orchestra all those years ago. It's not exactly on tempo, but then again Emma's never been all too good at singing or music. This time around, she imagines herself in Odette's shoes. A princess cursed to be a swan for the rest of her life. Sure, it wouldn't be the best of circumstances, but it would be peaceful. Just floating around on the water, no concern for marriages or debts or workhouses.

A sudden "Your Grace" shocks her out of her fantasy. Emma's arms slam across her chest, ready to protect and explain herself. Her eyes shoot open and dart toward the sound, only to be surprised when nobody appears. She's still alone in the warehouse, nobody hiding among the fallen beams and ash. The only hint of another being is the vague outline of a shadow on the wood of the docks outside the wall.

"Who's there?" she asks to the air. The fright causes her to breathe even more deeply, her chest heaving. Nobody immediately appears or responds, so she asks again, her voice stronger and more demanding. "Who's there?"

Slowly and sheepishly, a dark-haired man reveals himself, stepping out from behind the destroyed wall. His head hangs in shame, keeping his features hidden from view. "I apologize if I was too bold, love."

"Too bold?" Emma asks in confusion. "How do you mean, too bold?"

When the man lifts his head and shakes the fringe away from his eyes, the breath in Emma's chest halts. It gets stuck between her lungs and her mouth at the sight of blue. This stranger's cerulean eyes are nothing like she's ever seen before; far more gorgeous than the murky depths of the river she was raised on, she imagines his eyes are the same color as the sea surrounding the Caribbean colonies.

"I meant when I said you were graceful," he explains, gesturing toward her makeshift dance floor, "as you were dancing. Like a swan."

"Oh," she pauses. So this man wasn't sent to look for her and probably doesn't know her status. She was just a random woman dancing about in an abandoned building to him. "I'm sorry, I heard something else."

The man shakes his head and waves off her mistake. "I should be the one apologizing. I seemed to have interrupted a beautiful performance."

That makes Emma blush. "No, hardly. I come here sometimes when my responsibilities start to feel...overwhelming."

The man nods, "I am in complete agreement," before gesturing to the boatyards behind and beyond him. "Something about the tranquility of the water soothes the soul."

Emma only responds with a quiet, "Quite," and then the awkwardness that usually accompanies unchaperoned interactions between the two genders ensues.

(It's not as uncomfortable as other instances, though, and that in itself is a bit...unsettling.)

She fidgets in the silence, a habit all her governesses used to chide her for. Despite her parents' insistence to always speak her mind, entering society taught her to speak when spoken to, respond to questions but never ask them in a public setting. Which means Emma's relying on this nosy man to either continue or bring an end to this conversation.

(She hopes and prays for the latter.)

However, the stranger thinks otherwise. "How did you find this place?"

"I don't think it's wise for me to be speaking with you further," Emma says.

"Why not?" the man asks.

Scoffing, Emma steps toward him, out of what's left of the factory and into the sunlight. "An unchaperoned lady talking to a strange man in the midst of these times." She shakes her head. "Think of the gossip that would ensue."

"So you are a lady?" the stranger qualifies. Emma mentally scolds herself. "I figured as much. The dames of lesser fortune aren't nearly as elegant."

The coy smile that decorates her face now she knows is something obscene, but she doesn't care a lick. Goodness me, she thinks. Mentally and physically shaking her head clear, she vows to him, "Whatever the case may be, not another word of information shall pass my lips. Good afternoon, sir."

This time, the man scoffs. "As you wish, milady." As he leans forward into a bow just less than proper, he asks kindly, "May I at least have the pleasure of knowing the name of the graceful dancer before me?"

In all honesty, Emma wants to tell him her name. She isn't sure why: he's pleasant enough to converse with, has provided a great relief from the propriety of titles and class even for their brief interlude. Wants to hear him say it in that certain charming accent of his. But her family name is already in enough danger as it is because of her uncle's recklessness. So to have this man - whose name and purpose she has no idea of - know her name is to know her status, which in turn is to encourage him to leak it to the press for a quick coin.

No, she can't tell him her name. She might not be able to do much for her parents, but keeping them from a scandal like this is good enough.

Emma shakes her head. "No."

He seems taken for surprise, his spine straightening and his brows rising into his hair.

(They seem to have a life of their own, his eyebrows, moving up and down in an oddly expressive fashion.)

"May I inquire as to what I have done to offend you? How have I not earned the reward of acquaintanceship?"

That makes Emma let out quite an unladylike snort. "What have you done to know my name?" she counters. "You ruin my peace, you interrupt me mid-dance, and you frighten the living death out of me."

Raising his hands in defeat, the stranger laughs heartily. "All truths. Again, I apologize for my impertinence." He offers his hand to her. It's more out of propriety that she takes it (her manners are nothing if not ground into her mind and soul) it. Bowing at the waist, the man presses his lips to her knuckles.

(She absolutely does not blush. A stable or servant boy's lips have graced her skin before, but there's something about this man's that are inherently…different.)

"If ever you find yourself in need of reprieve again…" He pauses for a moment, adding to the tension already between them. "Or merely desire to see this handsome face again, don't hesitate to ask a docker or the quartermaster for Killian Jones. They'll know exactly where to direct you to reach this dashing rapscallion."

Not attempting to hide the rolling of her eyes, Emma chuckles. "Now you are too bold." She hesitates though, thinking over her next words carefully. "If ever I have the need, Mr. Jones, I assure you."

Killian Jones nods and then slightly bows again. "Until the next time we meet, Lady Swan."

Emma doesn't correct him. He doesn't know her true name, but the pet name he's chosen for her…

(She thinks she's fine with that.)

0000

Lance finds her shortly after she returns from the abandoned warehouse.

"His Lordship requests your presence in his study at your earliest convenience," the butler monotones. Emma nods silently and heads up to her father's library. Her nerves, despite everything, begin to get the better of her.

(It's not the first time she's run off on her own, but it's been awhile since he's lectured her on the subject.

What a way to make your daughter feel better on this already red-letter day, she thinks.)

But her nerves fall away when Emma knocks on the sturdy wooden door. Her father's deep voice allows her entrance, and she slides in, letting the door shut with a satisfying thump. The baron turns around and, seeing his daughter, forgoes his current task in favor of opening his arms wide.

"Come here," he says comfortingly. When Emma doesn't make to move immediately, David wiggles his fingers. "Come on, darling. You know you can't resist the opportunity to hug your papa."

(Even at nineteen, it's very much true.)

Emma gradually picks up speed, making her way across the room until she's safely cradled in her father's arms. His hand smooths the hair at the back of her head. It isn't until now that she realizes how devastated she is about the news of Neal's engagement. Surely she knows herself enough to know that she was in love with him - that this is heartbreak she feels her father trying to heal her from. But something so familiar and comforting about her father's embrace breaks her. The tears come full force, easily soaking through the top two layers of garment covering her father's shoulder.

Shushing her softly, David begins to rock his daughter back and forth, creating a soothing rhythm for her to focus on. "Everything will turn out as it should, my dearest daughter," he murmurs. "Even if it hurts for now, it will get better."

Emma sniffles and clears her throat before answering. She may not have been completely aware of being in love, but she does know the situations in which her voice may betray her. This, most certainly, is one of them.

"But it was so real, Papa." She sniffs again and thinks out which word exactly will come out of her mouth in order to calm herself. "I loved him and he was courting another woman the whole time."

"I know, sweetheart, I know."

The silence that follows David's admittance doesn't go on for that long. Thoughts spin through Emma's head faster than a horse galloping through the pasture, but it's the one - the one that jump started this entire 'find a husband' endeavor - that forces a gasp from her lips.

"I told him about Henry," she whispers to her father. "I told Neal about Henry and how I wanted to get him out of the workhouse."

"Have you told any of your other suitors that?" David asks.

Trying to recall and finding nothing, Emma shakes her head. "I mean, I told Graham, but I didn't expect him to be amenable to my proposal." Eyes wide, she looks to David with fear and confusion. "That's not why he's betrothed to someone else, right? Because I told him that?"

"You know I wouldn't know, honey."

She thunks her head into his shoulder soundly. "You could at least pretend you knew and tell me no regardless," Emma suggests petulantly.

"Ah, but then I would be lying to you just as he did, wouldn't I?"

Emma heaves a sigh. "I suppose." Burrowing further into her father's arms, she stays quiet for a moment. "Papa, are you sure you and Mama won't take in Henry?"

David laughs. "We've had this discussion already, Emma."

"But I'm going to be a spinster," she groans. She feels like a child again, knows that she reverts to this whiny almost-Emma when she speaks of her desire to save Henry. She can't help herself. "I just want Henry to have the opportunity of a life outside of workhouse walls."

Fervently, her father reassures her. "And he will. You won't become a spinster, either." He pats her between her shoulder blades, his attempt at calming her down. "A young man will peak your interest one day, and he'll look at you as if you are the stars in the night sky. He'll treat you as his own Majesty, the queen of his heart, the sovereign of his lifeblood."

His hand comes up to cradle the back of her head. It's her father's small tell: every time he really wants her to know that he cares, his hand wraps around the base of her head, just as Emma's sure he did the first time he held her. He rocks them slightly from side to side, lulling her into a fatigued trance. "You shall tell him of Henry and he will jump at the chance to care for this boy, cherish him because you love Henry and this man loves you."

Wistfully, Emma sighs. "You make it sound so easy."

"It should be simple, with the right person." He says it like it's the truest fact in the world.

(And, now that she's think about it, it should be. The sky is blue. It rains often in London. Love and life is simple with the right person.)

David kisses her on the crown of her head. "Life is made up of moments: good ones, bad ones, all of them worth living," he says. "You've got to live through the bad ones to experience the good ones."

"It's just been bad moments after even worse moments for months now," Emma complains. "First Uncle James, then the suitors, and now this ordeal with Neal." She flicks her fingers up at each passing obstacle. With a cant of her head and a dour frown of her lips, she says, "Don't you feel like you deserve a good moment? We deserve a reprieve."

"And your happy moments with Neal were the break you deserved, for now," her father contends. Gently, he strokes her hair, from the crown of her head down to the tips at her midback. "Worry not, my darling daughter. Everything will turn out as it should be."

0000

For a long while, the only time Emma deigns herself good enough to leave home is when she's scheduled to be at the workhouse. The only thing that gets her out into society is the promise that, at some point in the day, she'll be able to see Henry.

What she does at the workhouse depends on the day. Her favorite days are when she's charged with the children: making sure their spirits are high, their brains are taught, and their fingers aren't broken. Henry tries to hold back the special bond between them, but always ends up failing adorably by hanging off her skirts.

Other times, she's bunched in with the working women, mending clothes for them and serving the small meals they're given. And yet other times, Robin takes her under his wing and shows her how to file the paperwork associated with the running of the workhouse, or the transfer of workers, or just about anything else.

She's never, ever allowed in the men's quarters. It's the one thing that Robin and the mysterious foreman agree wholeheartedly on.

(Emma's still yet to meet the head guardian, charged with the entirety of the workhouse. According to Robin, he's always dealing with unruly debtors or attending a yet another meeting in Parliament on the benefits of workhouses.)

(She's convinced this foreman figure doesn't exist, that in all reality it's Robin and he just doesn't want to own up to the title.)

It's not the most fashionable role to play - it's dark and sometimes smoky - but the rewarding feeling Emma walks away with every time she heads home from the workhouse is irreplaceable. Some of the women might wither away from toil and sickness, but Emma likes to think that what little she does makes what's left of their lives a little more bearable. And though the children might have streaks of dirt on over their faces, the lights in their eyes when she walks in the room for their lessons cannot be dimmed.

(Especially Henry's.)

However, much to her dismay, she's made no progress in coming closer to adopting Henry. The suitors her parents have presented to her - in name and theory only - have done nothing but frighten and depress her. It's not for lack of trying on anyone's part, but after Neal left her high and dry, the romantic nature of men has been soiled transiently, if not permanently, for Emma.

"What am I going to do, Graham?" she moans, falling back into the settee. Her friend sits across the parlor from her, content with his teacup balancing on his knee. "I adore Henry and I know he does the same, but I can't subject myself to marriage with the first stranger who proposes."

"I've an idea," Graham says conspiratorially, "and you might not like it, but it would benefit all parties involved."

Silence hangs between them. When it gets to be too heavy for Emma, she raises her eyebrows and hits Graham's shoulder. "Well? What's this brilliant idea?"

"I've a mate," he starts, "a friend of a friend, really, who's recently gone through a rough time with his lady."

Emma rolls her eyes. It's typical of Graham to try and solve two problems with one solution. "Are you suggesting I court this man with the intention of marrying him because he needs a wife?"

"I'm suggesting you meet this man with the intention of courting him to save both of yourselves."

"And how exactly would I be saving him?" she asks. In turn, Emma leans forward, matching her friend's posture. "A title? Graham, you know as much as I do that those mean nothing anymore. You're planning to sail away from yours."

Heaving a sigh and rubbing at his forehead in frustration, Graham corrects her. "No. You get the monetary security your parents want and he gets a wife. A partner in life who takes no tomfoolery and can knock some sense into the," he hesitates, searching the space between them for the correct word, "rambunctious lifestyle he enjoys leading."

Emma pauses, thinking over what her friend's said. "So you want me to tame the beast," she states simply.

His head rolls around on his neck for a moment before conceding. "In so many words, yes." Emma scoffs and sits back in her chair. And then, realizing that an idea like that is incredibly insane, she stands up and begins pacing about the room.

"I know it isn't the brightest prospect, Emma, but he's an honorable man at the heart. Just meet him. You don't even have to tell your parents at first. Say you're calling on me at home and we'll go to him. I'll chaperone."

Arms crossed over her chest, Emma turns and glares at Graham. "There is so much that can go wrong with that brilliant plan of yours. So much that is wrong with it."

"While true, remember," Graham says with a smirk, "be merry, for tomorrow you may die."

Pointing an accusatory finger in his direction, Emma says, "That is irrelevant."

Graham's smirk melts into a genuine smile. "You need the money. He needs the companionship." He claps his hands and then settles easily into his chair. "It'll work, I promise."

With that, he reaches forward for his cup of tea and takes a sip far too happily for Emma's taste. "Call on me Tuesday next and then worry for not a thing after that."

0000

Emma's body flies up and slams back down on the carriage seat. The road leading to Wolverton Estates has never been smooth - holes every couple of yards, hidden under grass in other places, and practically a nightmare in the bitter months of winter - but taking it twice in as many hours is the worst.

"And you honestly have to ask my reasoning for never coming to call on you?" Emma asks, trying to brace herself for the next bump and failing miserably.

Graham sits across from her in the carriage and merely shrugs. "Maybe if you came more often, you would get used to it," he replies.

"Yes, or my body would be irreparably shaken out of sorts." The carriage jumps over another hole in the road. Graham's smirk grows when Emma reacts to the motion. She rolls her eyes. "So, where did you meet this friend of a friend you so want me to court?"

Taking a deep breath, Graham looks out the window, reminiscing as the trees begin to thin out the closer the ride to town. "It was after I'd gone down to the docks in search of a crew to join - "

"You've found a crew?!" Emma yells. "How could you not have told me!?"

"I haven't found a captain who's willing to let me on their crew, which is why I haven't told you." Emma calms. They're still bouncing around, much more gently now.

"Anyway, after a rather long and unproductive afternoon, I went to a local pub for a pint. We got caught up in a conversation over rugby and the water and..." Graham trails off when he sees the incredulous look on his friend's face. "Whatever's the matter with you?"

"You want me to court your drinking buddy," she says flatly. "You want me to meet and possibly marry the man you met at a bar."

"Yes, that's what I've been trying to say this entire time." Heavily sighing, Graham sinks back into the fabric of the seat. It's luxurious - a soft, red velvet with a golden trim - but time has not been kind to it. When they were younger, they used to sneak into the stable and bounce around in the carriage.

Her friend's hand runs across his forehead in mock frustration. "Cripes, Emma, I knew you were dense, but never to this degree."

Emma rolls her eyes. "Do I at least get to know the name of this man?"

"Jones."

She waits for something, anything, else to supplement the name. "Is that all?" she asks. "What if that's not his real name?"

"It's his last name," Graham reassured her. "He once told me how his brother is a huge merchant who trades across the ocean, Liam Jones."

A brief thought flits across her mind: the man she'd met at the docks, the one who frightened her in the warehouse ruins, his last name was Jones. K-something Jones. She can't remember much of what he said, other than he was charming (like Neal was) and she was heartbroken (because of Neal).

"So Jones is his last name," she says slowly, the meeting with the man on the docks fresh in her mind. It would be too much of fate's interference, too big a coincidence if they were the same person, right? "All right. This ought to be interesting."

0000

Graham and this Jones fellow agreed to meet at a coffeehouse off Oxford Street. It's busy with foot traffic and the carriage rumbles by. The vehicle rolls to a stop, causing a breath of relief to leave Emma's lips, in front of Turk's Head coffeehouse. Men of all sorts file in and out, with even more sitting and being served outside in the mild London weather. Few women hover nearby, either as bar maidens or lovers.

The footman opens the door and Graham steps on to the street first, taking the servant's place to hand her down. The moment Emma descends from the carriage, she feels all eyes fall on her. It's obvious why: she's young and attractive, with an equally handsome escort, entering one of the city's most notable men's clubs, for all intents and purposes.

"Are you sure it's wise to meet here?" she asks though she knows it's too late to change their course.

Her friend takes her arm and threads it through his crooked elbow. "It'll be fine," Graham assures her. "I won't leave your side. And, if need be, we can take a walk. This is just a meeting place, a familiar point to start this courtship."

Emma scoffs. "You're quite confident."

His wink is obscured by the shadow of the doorway. "I am, and for good reason as well." Ushering her inside, Graham respectfully nods his head toward the owner of the establishment, who returns the gesture, and shows Emma to a table. He pulls out the seat for her, the one facing the back of the club, patterned with full shelves of books.

(Though it's a beautiful sight to behold, Emma knows he's done this on purpose. He's hiding his friend from her until the last second.)

(She hates it.)

"I have full confidence that you and Jones will hit it off," Graham declares.

"And whyever do you believe that?" Emma asks. She's goading him, producing a conversation topic, but also trying to get a better sense of this man, the one Graham thinks is the solution to her problem.

Graham grins like he's in on a secret. Which, in all fairness, she thinks, he is. "You'll understand shortly. I promise."

The owner comes to their table, a pewter mug in each hand. He's barely set them down on the table before Graham shouts an excited exclamation.

"I'll be back in a jiff," he tells Emma, slamming his hand on the owner's back on his way to the door. For her part, Emma silently sips from the proffered mug until her friend returns. Graham comes back into her sightline while his mate - this Jones character - stays behind her.

"Lady Emma Nolan, I'm pleased to introduce you to my mate, Jones."

"Killian Jones," a deep voice corrects Graham, sending shivers down Emma's spine. "I figure it's only right for a lovely lady to know my full name from the beginning."

She knows that voice.

She knows that name.

And once she twists around in her chair - so fast it makes her head spin - she knows that man.

And the moment her eyes connect with his, Emma's jaw drops. They're all too familiar: she's seen them before, in the weak English sunlight and not the darkness of this coffeehouse. They're blue, open as the fields between Woodlands and Wolverton Estates.

Coincidence, then, is not too far out of the question.

"Swan," he says softly. "I never thought you would coming calling on me."

"To be fair," she insists, "I didn't." Emma gestures to Graham, who's moved to her side and in between them, just as he promised. "My dearest friend here called on you in my stead."

"Ah, yes." Killian Jones nods sagely. "Our mutual friend, milord Fulham." His smile changes as he looks to Graham instead of her. "Remind me to thank you most graciously, mate, at a later point."

Graham nods, but his head shares looks with the both of them. "You know each other already?" he asks. Then, looking to her, says with a chuckle, "Dear Emma, what trouble have you gotten into lately that has you and the likes of this ruffian crossing paths?"

"It's none of your business, if you must know."

"The Lady Swan has made a habit of twirling and dancing among the docks," Killian provides. He winks at her. Emma rolls her eyes.

(Now she can't go back to that warehouse in her times of need. Many thanks, Mr. Jones.)

"That's how we first made our acquaintance," he finishes.

Forgoing propriety, Emma smacks him, aiming for his knee but ending up on his thigh. "Don't tell him that," she growls. "Nobody knows about that."

The bow he bestows on her is far too dramatic for ayn reason other than a play in the theater. "A thousand apologies, milady," he says with a nod to Graham. "Aside from this bumbling fool, your secret is safe with me."

The other man, for his part, sighs and offers Emma his hand. She takes it, allowing herself to be pulled up from her seat. "If you both are quite done, might I suggest we go for a walk?" Graham proposes. "Perhaps down to the docks?"

Killian agrees wholeheartedly. "Fitting, if you really think about it," he mumbles to the both of them. With Emma's hand still in Graham's, Killian offers his arm to her. "Would you do me the honor of walking with you down to the docks, milady?" he asks.

It takes great effort not to laugh at his question. "If Graham doesn't deem it immodest, I don't see why not, Mr. Jones."

"Please, love," he begs her, "call me Killian."

0000

Killian's overall countenance makes her wary, and multiple times during their stroll, Emma is glad to have Graham less than a step behind them. It's not that he's not charming or shy or all-around endearing.

He reminds her too much of Neal. Because this is how Neal wooed her, tricked her. This is how Neal won her heart fast and broke it even faster.

But she did that by herself. To herself, with no one's permission. This time, she reasons, Graham's approved of the suitor. And from what she learns in their conversations, Killian might actually be a better man than Neal.

(Not that she tells him that. Oh goodness no. Even a small comment the likes of "Thank you for not walking like we're escaping from a fire" make his eyes light up, his smile widen, and his chin tilt down. It's almost as if Mr. Jones takes everything she says as a compliment, has it float straight from his ears to his ego, inflating far more than it already has.)

His brother is the famous international merchant, Liam Jones. Emma's confident enough in that truth, especially when he points out his brother's ships along their trail. Though he doesn't work within the family business, he does enjoy being by the water, dirty as it may be.

("It's calming, Lady Swan," he urges, tugging slightly on her arm. Killian catches her eye with his and smiles. "Don't you think so?")

And there isn't that tugging feeling Emma had when she first met Neal, the one that had her sneaking into town unsupervised and made her feel as if she'd perish the moment she left his presence. Instead, there's a warmth of camaraderie between them that fills her chest.

Emma is content. It may not be the love her parents have, but she can imagine living out the rest of her life with Killian Jones. That's how Her Majesty and the late Prince Consort came to fall in love, wasn't it?

"So, Lady Swan," Killian begins, "you seem to know quite a lot about me, but I've yet to gain much knowledge about you."

Emma hums, looking coquettishly down at the ground. They're moving in sync - left foot, right foot, left, right. It's comforting in spite of the conversation topic she's been avoiding telling him since they set off from the Turk's Head, the reason she's even trying so hard to find a fiance.

"Are you telling me that a man actually wants to know something about a woman?" she teases.

"I mean to say I want to know more about you," Killian easily answers. Pointing at her in accusation, he adds, "There's a secret behind those beautiful green eyes of yours and I'm merely curious as to what it might be."

"Mr. Jones, I hardly believe us to be acquainted enough for me to reveal my deepest confidences," she chides him.

He laughs, stroking what little facial hair decorates his chin. "Truth enough, milady," he concedes. "May I, then, bother you with one question?"

Emma shrugs. She looks over her shoulder - "Of course, Mr. Jones." - to make sure that Graham still hovers behind them. He does, hands behind his back and grinning at his friends in front of him. He catches her glance and nods toward her, both a reassurement and a reminder to pay attention to the man next to her.

"Why are you intent on marrying me?"

The question takes her by surprise. So much so, Emma stops walking, causing Graham to brace himself on her shoulder to keep from knocking her over.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Is that not what this meeting was for?" Killian asks. Looking over his shoulder, he gestures to Graham with a wave of his hand. "If not, my mate has sorely misrepresented your intentions."

"My intentions?"

Killian nods slowly. "Graham told me you've been searching for suitors since shortly after season's end," he explains. "My question is why?"

"Isn't that what is expected of me?" Emma retorts.

"I suppose." She can tell he's not at all happy with her response. His eyebrows crinkle together, either in confusion or discontent. He opens his mouth once as if he was about to say something, but reconsiders it a moment later. "But, if it's not presumptuous of me, you don't come off as the girl whose only dream is to wed."

Emma sighs. She should have figured he would catch on to that soon enough. If Graham's told him a single memory of her from childhood, Killian would know that dinner parties and idle fashion didn't at all suit Emma's interests or desires. But she's reluctant to tell anyone, let alone this man - whom she's just properly met - about Henry after what happened when she last told someone.

She glances briefly up to meet Killian's gaze. There, she finds something reassuring, a yearning of a sort telling her she need not be afraid to share her burdens. Despite having recently met - or met again, that being the case - Emma trusts him.

(The third time's the charm, is it not?)

Besides, Killian is her last chance at a real suitor. If he rejects her offer, then she's back to square one, off to every party and social calling in hopes of finding a suitor kind enough to accept her and her baggage. If Emma's doing this all in, she needs to be completely honest.

(Maybe it was the lack of complete honesty that drove Neal away from her and to this Lilith character.)

"I want to take in a child," she finally says, staring intently at her stationary feet. "A little boy, to be specific. He's about seven years old and has never seen sunlight and I'm doing everything in my power to get him out of the workhouse he's in." Unplanned emotion clogs Emma's throat. Recollections of her last encounter with Henry and the last time she recounted this story mix together, drawing up sadness and hope into a massive block of her voice.

After a few unsuccessful attempts, she swallows the obstruction down. "I asked my parents if they would take him in, but they told me they were too old to raise another child," Emma continues, "that it's my turn, but they don't want me to do it alone for fear of me being sent to the workhouse because I am unwed."

For a moment, she peeks at the men flanking her on either side. Both seem to be listening attentively to her tale. It only occurs to her now that both Graham and Mr. Jones were unaware of the passion behind her quest. In fact, Mr. Jones' eyes bulged, making his blue eyes even fairer and more attractive in the dreary dock light.

"I know, it's not at all ideal for a marriage," Emma says nervously, stumbling over the words ideal and marriage, "and if there was another way where I didn't need to involve a gentleman such as yourself, I would take it." Gazing directly at Killian, taking in the curve of his brow as it rises with query, she explains, "But I've been trying for months now and I do not believe there's another way."

With a decisive glance at her fingers twisted among their brothers, Emma breathes deeply and looks ahead. She's giving both men a moment to contemplate her words; meanwhile, Emma observes the ships and wood walk before them, her heart somehow a little bit easier.

(Damn this man, this Mr. Jones. The water really is calming.)

"I've overwhelmed you." It's not a question, but a strong statement: she nearly did the same to herself. Her eyes shift from her surrounding to her closest friend, his eyes wide with fright. "The both of you. I apologize most profusely, but, if you recall," she directs to Mr. Jones, "you did ask me why I wanted to marry."

"I do." His voice is a shadow of its past intonation. "I'm glad I did."

Emma's shoulders slump. "I knew it would be too much," she concedes. "Don't worry, Mr. Jones. I didn't expect much from this meeting. To be quite honest, I only came to keep my old friend here from bothering me too much."

On his account, Killian shakes his head quite forcefully. "Lady Swan, you mistake my words for a refusal." Emma faces him, her brain moving far too sluggishly in comparison to how her neck whips in his direction. "While it does seem a peculiar reason for a woman such as yourself to marry, it is not at all obscene."

"What are you saying?" she asks.

Killian looks at Graham for a second before connecting his eyes with Emma's. In a scandalous move, he grabs her hand.

(It's warm, calloused on his middle and pointer fingers. He must write a lot to have such pronounced injuries.)

"I can be of service. My occupation…" He hesitates for a moment before restarting. "I'm the guardian of the workhouse in London. I can search for a procedure that would allow the lad out and into your care. Our care."

That throws her for a loop. Well, two things stun her, only one of which she vocalizes. "You're the foreman who's always too busy?"

(She's just told him about Henry and he's already professing his care. Their care.)

His eyebrows raise high on his forehead. "What does that mean?" Killian asks.

Emma laughs and flashes an eye at Graham, who smiles and explains. "Emma here volunteers her time at your place of work quite often."

This time, when Killian's eyes go wide, she gets to watch the entire transformation. It's humorous, to say the least. "You're the stubborn aristocrat Robin keeps going on about?" he asks incredulously.

"It seems I am. I'm glad my reputation precedes me."

"Indeed." As his eyes return to a more normal size, the width of his eyes transfers to the spread of lips, opening to show Killian's white teeth. "It's nice to have a pretty face to picture when Robin grouses."

(Emma can't tell if his words are meant to be a compliment on her looks or a criticism of her presence at the workhouse.)

"So now you have a better understanding of my reasoning behind marrying," she says, making sure he knows what she intends to do in the future, should Killian choose to be a part of it in any way.

"Yes, indeed I do." Adding further intrigue to the personality behind the man, Killian takes to silence. He gives Emma and Graham a small nod before leaving them, walking toward the edge of the dock.

"Do you think he'll jump?" Graham jests, leaning down to whisper.

Emma shrugs. "I honestly haven't a clue." She crosses her arms over her chest, anxiously watching Killian get closer and closer to the water below. "I know it's quite life-changing on top of an already life-changing enough proposal, but there really is no other way to phrase it."

Large hand landing on her shoulder, Graham's words are reassuring: "You've done what you can with him. The rest is his choice."

The minutes seem to drag by. Killian spends a long time looking down at the water. As his companions on the walk, Emma and Graham stay silent further back, maintaining their balance the best they can when a wayward ship or boat floats by, sending waves beneath their feet.

Emma's taken to counting the warps in the wood under her feet to bide her time when footfalls draw her attention.

"I'll do it." Killian's voice is firm and commanding - no questions allowed, no second guesses to the matter.

And still, Emma can't believe it. "Really?" she asks. "You're accepting? You're alright with me using you like this?" Her voice has shot up an octave, if not more, but she honestly can't wrap her mind around it. If she were in his shoes - a friend of a bar mate asked her to marry - she'd take a step back and send him in the direction of the closest church or asylum, she can't quite decide.

Killian chuckles. "It's not using me if I agreed to all the terms beforehand." Though he does hold up a hand to stop another of her exclamations. "Those are all the terms, correct? There isn't some dark dirty secret you plan to reveal only when it's useful for you?"

"Well, you would get a title someday, but it wouldn't mean much." Emma supposes that, if he's reacting so well about Henry, he might to the say for all of her dirty laundry. "Some regrettable events have recently befallen on my family, leaving us without any huge amount of funds or a bit of a shadow to our name." A quick glance to Graham has a smirk spreading across her face. Cocking her brow, Emma inquires, "Changed your mind yet?"

"Not at all." Shrugging, Killian is the perfect image of nonchalant and unphased. "Women ask after my job and find it too abhorrent or dirty for them. Who knows when I'll receive another offer from such a forward lass."

(He's actually okay with this. Killian's it. One day, not too far in the future, she's going to be Mrs. Killian Jones.

Cripes.)

Despite her misgivings and concerns, Emma grins wide. "Mr. Killian Jones, you are a saint."

He smiles back, the words obviously stroking his ego as she previously observed, but the blush on his cheeks betrays his true feelings. "Lady Emma Swan, you're quite the marvel yourself."

"Nolan," she corrects him. At his confused expression, she expounds. "My family's name is Nolan."

Clucking his tongue, Killian shakes his head. "Oh no, love. You'll always that lass I saw twirling about in an abandoned warehouse." He winks at her, that saucy tongue peeking from between his lips for but a moment. "You'll always, first and foremost, be my swan."

0000

Killian decides to escort her back home the next time she's at the workhouse, finds her walking among the rows of women sewing other people's clothes. He greets her with a quiet smile and Emma can't help but bite her lip.

He asks her parents' permission to court her that evening, after her father invites him to stay for dinner and her mother sends her questioning and almost pitying looks.

(Her father refers to Killian as Jones almost immediately, a nickname she adopts as well when he's frustrated her in any number of ways.)

(For his worth, Killian takes it in stride. He insists on pushing her buttons on purpose, Emma believes.)

Their courtship is short. A chaperoned outing or two at the most, and then down to the business of the wedding. She tries to reason with herself: this isn't a marriage for love, more out of necessity. If she wouldn't have shamed the family name, Emma would have probably skipped courtship and gone straight to the altar just to get the ordeal over with. No fancy balls in their honor, nor parties or gifts or really anything to celebrate this union. All business. Better for her to be safe and unhappy than dead or a whore.

(She'll never be able to truly enjoy the wedding portraits the way her parents do theirs.)

It's a simple affair, the wedding. Nothing too gaudy — that's not his style and she hardly has enough for a dowry.

(He tried to tell her parents he didn't need one, didn't want one, but she's nothing more than a pawn in a game meant to keep her parents out of the workhouse or shipped off to a colony. Surely he must be rewarded for taking her off their hands and out of their pockets.)

Her parents are there, Father at her side, Mother teary-eyed in the front pew of the church, and Elsa next to her, lips pursed but expression otherwise neutral. Graham and his parents behind them, along with a few other of her family and parents' friends. A quick glance at the opposing side has even fewer people. A man taller than her fiance, with curls of auburn atop his head, stands at the front, a soft smile on his lips. Emma can only assume this is her soon-to-be brother-in-law, the Liam she's heard all about.

(Later that evening, Emma learns from Liam's wife Ruby that he's awaited this day since his mother showed a younger brother wrapped up in her arms and not a sister.

"He hasn't kept quiet on how excited he is to officially have a younger sister to dote on," she says, eyes all moony as they watch the brothers laugh across the room.

"Surely you'll have a daughter all your own one day for him to spoil," Emma insists.

Ruby nods, curling an arm around hers and pulling Emma closer. "With God's grace, yes, but to dote on a sister is far more different and amusing than it is a daughter.")

And straight in front of Emma, just to the right of the priest, stands Jones, dressed in his finest. It surprises her, to see him in Navy regalia. Blue suits him quite well, brings out his eyes even more, even from yards away.

(She didn't know he served. It'd been peaceful for so long, she'd forgotten what war time was like.)

(This man is to be her husband in a matter of minutes, and she doesn't know that he served in Her Majesty's Royal Navy, the pride and joy of the country's military.)

The ceremony is short and to the point. She vows first, "To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part." Standard words for a standard practice. It's nothing more than what needs to be said.

But him...Oh, he throws her for a loop, taking the vows into his own heart and mind.

"Lady Emma, I take thee today as my wedded wife. To have and to hold from this day forward. I will protect you, and cherish you, and any children God grants us. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, till death do us part." His words are so sincere, his eyes wide with wonder and intrepidness and, by God, Emma feels like she's stolen this man's life away just to reach her own means. "I pledge myself to you on our wedding day and everyday for the rest of my life, dearest Emma, my beautiful Swan. My wife."

Unbidden tears spring to her eyes, forcing her to drop one of his hands to dab them away. He gives a small chuckle, and his fingers join hers on her cheek. Quietly, he says, "I apologize sincerely. I did not intend to upset you."

That causes her to giggle. "Don't all brides cry on their wedding day?" she counters.

Killian shrugs. "I've only known brides to be blushing and beautiful, both of which you are, unsurprisingly."

Through the few tears still rolling down her cheeks, Emma emits a brief chuckle. "There's no need to flatter me any more, Killian," she tells him. "We're getting married."

He leans forward so that the tip of his nose touches hers. "All the more reason to do so," he whispers, a telling grin spreading across his lips.

Liam slaps his brother's back, getting him once again focus on the priest marrying them, on the words that come out of his mouth instead of the sly smile Emma feels cross her face in response to his.

Though it seems much to the clergy's chagrin, he bids that the groom may kiss his bride. Emma looks at her husband - dear Lord, she's a wife - expectantly. She's nervous, her teeth coming out to bite on her lower lip. Taking a step into her personal space, Killian sets his hands on her shoulders.

And asks, "May I kiss you?"

It stuns her, to be fully honest, though she isn't quite sure why. He's been nothing but the truest gentleman she's even had the pleasure of hearing about, let alone knowing, and now she's married to the man and he's asking if he can kiss her.

Words failing her, Emma merely nods, small and succinct. If possible, Killian's smile grows wider. Her eyes fall shut as he approaches, so that the only reason she knows he's kissing her is because of the pressure on her lips.

It's...actually quite a pleasant sensation. Now that she knows basically what it feels like, she can feel his hands large at her waist. Testing herself, Emma pushes back, her hands coming rising to cup his neck between them. She can feel the rapid pulsation of his pulse beneath her palm and when they separate briefly to breathe, she can equally feel the movement of his Adam's apple when he gulps.

When they pull back, touching only with clasped hands, the few gathered are applauding the nuptials. Emma feels her cheeks go red at the same time she sees Killian's flush.

"You asked me," she whispers. "Why did you ask if you could kiss me?"

Killian shrugs. "It seemed rude not to give you a choice," he says matter-of-factly.

Even as they're settling into their shared chambers that night, his facade doesn't fade. He's lying across their marriage bed when Emma enters from her chambers in only her shift. She's wringing her fingers over her stomach, the weight of the situation heavy on her shoulders.

Killian sighs and reaches his arm toward her. "Don't be nervous. We need not consummate our union together, darling."

Hesitatingly, she nods in agreement. Her arms cross over her breasts, trying to hide them, though she doesn't know why. For all intents and purposes, in the eyes of the law and God, she belongs to him now.

Sitting up, Killian lets his arm fall to the mattress and slides toward her, but doesn't rise from the bed.

"I'm quite serious, Swan. What we do as a couple in our bedroom is as much your decision as it is mine."

She scoffs. "You say that now, but surely later, you will get tired of my disagreement and just–"

"Are you forgetting that I asked to kiss you at the altar not seven hours ago?" Killian asks. "I will not force myself upon any woman, least of all my own wife," he says sternly. "And you aren't to be one to question that. I am your hus–"

"You might be my husband, but I am your wife," she nearly yells. "I am a living, breathing being as much as you or your brother or any other man. I have thoughts and desires of my own that cannot nor should not be held at a lesser standard." She realizes, quite belatedly, that her arguments aren't necessary. Killian seems to understand that she wants them to be equals. "I am more educated than you, have been taught longer and more subjects than you. I am smarter than you, and you would be wise not to forget that, husband."

Killian's eyes widen, and then he smiles. He stands and approaches her, and she steps back, keeps moving until her back hits the wall. Emma begins to cringe, fearing a horrendous beating at the hands of her keeper.

(It's what Neal would have done, what Neal did.)

But his hands gently rub at her biceps and he crouches until he's at her eye level.

"Your voice has been heard and it shall not fall on these deaf ears again," he whispers. His lips press against her forehead and he pulls back. "I am so fortunate to have married you."

"Come now, Jones, don't be so daft," she says, trying to hold back a grin at the compliment.

(His and her freedom have officially been taken away from them, she should not want to smile, she cannot be at all pleased with this arrangement.)

(But his gentleness and kindness warm her heart and plants a seed of hope in her brain. Maybe this marriage won't be a complete sham after all.)

But he, somehow, sees right through her, already shaking his head before she even finishes her complaint. "Ah, ah, you must call me Killian, love, for you, too, are a Jones now."

(She hates how he's right.)

0000

Marriage, Emma finds, isn't as hard as she once perceived it. It's different, surely, but she finds herself waking up happy and falling asleep even happier.

Spending her wedding night at Woodlands is certainly an experience. Killian's brother and sister-in-law are off in another wing as normal guests do, but she and her husband sleep in her childhood quarters. For Emma, this is rule breaking: for years, she contemplated sneaking lads up to her room. Her plans were always foiled, but that night, as she bid her parents goodnight, her steps subconsciously lead her up the stairs to her room and, not knowing what else to do, Killian follows.

As her parents and Liam inform them at breakfast the next morning, it's the only time they'll be forced to do that.

"Consider it a wedding present," her brother-in-law tells them, handing Killian a key and a slip of paper. "Mostly for Emma." Liam winks at her and she blushes. "For taking my little brother off my hands and finally getting him out of our house."

(Emma feels Killian lean closer to her and whispers, "Younger brother, I'm his younger brother, not little," under his breath.

She giggles.)

"We figured you should really be off on your own," the baron says, taking some toast from Lance' offered tray. "As much as we'd love you both to live here, your mother and I both agree that it could potentially lead to some awkward encounters."

"Though you shouldn't take that as any indication that we don't want you to come visit," her mother interjects. And with a hand toward Liam and Ruby, she adds, "You two as well. We're all family now. You're more than welcome to visit and stay should you find yourself a bit sick of city life."

The couple share a glance before Ruby claps happily and says, "Thank you, that's so kind. We'll be sure to send ahead should we come by."

"And if at any time, my beautiful bride gets to be too much of a burden, please be sure to send her back home to me." Liam grins dopily at his wife. "I'm sure to be missing her."

"I, too, grew up near the forests," Ruby stage-whispers across the table, making sure everyone around hears. "My mama used to say I ran with the wolves."

In an equally loud whisper, Liam says, "I've still yet to been convinced otherwise."

The meal goes by with laughter and before Emma knows it, she's blowing kisses out the window toward her mother, then her in-laws are waving goodbye from the carriage while she and Killian stand in front of a townhome. It's beautiful: the brick is just red enough to stand out among the duller houses on the street and the stair railings leading to the front door are a shiny iron.

"I can only speak for myself," Killian says, his eyes roaming the three floors above them, "but I did not know my brother loved me this much."

"Nor did I," she mumbles. Then she catches her words, the meaning behind them, and Emma shakes her head. "I mean, about your brother and you. Or my parents."

Killian rests his hand on the small of her back. The action stuns, makes her flinch at the unexpectedness of it all. "Worry not, Swan," he heartens, "I understand what you mean." With sure feet, he jingles the key between his fingers and walks up the steps.

She intends to follow Killian, but suddenly, Emma's feet are stuck in place, one on the bottom-most step of her new home. She's thrown back months in the past, to the first time she walked up the steps of a different townhouse, white on the exterior and holding hugely contrasting occupants. She's subjected to all of the memories - happy, sad, and otherwise - associated with the one person who lived in that charming city house in a flashing moment. It hurts. Her heart's beating fast and she can feel sweat starting on the back of her neck and there's absolutely nothing Emma can do to stop an oncoming panic.

Killian's halfway up to the entrance when he asks, "Are you coming, Swan?" When she doesn't answer immediately, he turns around, smile wide. "Swan?" he repeats himself. She wants to say something, anything to comfort and assuage his nerves, but her mouth is stuck wide, though she's not sure why or how. Quickly, he jogs down the steps and sets his hands on her shoulders, giving them a slight shake. "Emma, what's wrong?"

"I don't think I can do this," she utters.

"Do what?" Killian inquires. "Be married? Emma, love, I told you, we're in this together, I'm not going to-"

"No," Emma whispers, "no, it's not that." She points to the house, what's supposed to be their home, in front of them. "I can't go in there, not again."

"Again? Emma, when was the last time you were in this house? I was under the impression you'd never seen it before."

Shaking her head, she takes her foot from the bottom step. "I haven't."

Killian throws his hands up in the air in confusion. "Then what's wrong, Swan?" he asks.

She grabs his forearms and yanks them down to his side. Breathing deep, Emma says, "Before we got married, when you asked me about all my secrets," in one exhale. She squeezes her eyes shut, sneaking a gander with one. "I may have withheld one."

"What?" He risks a quick glance at the building before looking back at her. "You hate townhomes? You want to live with your parents or my brother and his wife?"

"No, that's not it at all." Her grip on his arms tightens. She's using him as her rock, the thing to anchor her at the foot of what's going to be their home. "Before I met you, I meant to court and marry another man, named Neal. He lived not too far from here, in a place that looks similar to this."

"He must have been quite the merchant."

"He lived with his father," she says offhandedly. "His father trades in gold and such. Liam probably knows him." Inconsequential, undeniable facts. They help her parse out the mess of thoughts running through her mind, but they're not at all what she wants to say. "I digress. I think I saw this and it just…" Emma meets his eyes and the depth of their color allow her to finally breath, "reminded me of everything he did to me."

"What did he do?" Killian's hands grasp at her upper arms and jostle her lightly. "Emma, what did this muck snipe, ass of a man do to you?" His voice is astringent, the protectiveness obvious. It's so unlike the Killian she's become familiar with that she physically tries to take a step away. Sensing her skittishness, he lets go of her arms and allows her to move.

"Our courtship was to be announced," she explains, "but then he became engaged to someone else."

Livid unintelligible mutterings slip from his mouth. With their newfound space, Killian runs his hand through his hair and over his face. "The lowest of class," he grumbles in frustration, "how dare he do that to my wife."

(It's the first time Killian's referred to her as his wife. She feels like she should be happy about this, she revel in her new title, but she can't fully enjoy it.)

"Killian, it's fine." Once again, Emma's the one grabbing at Killian's arms. She's trying to settle him, calm him down by downplaying what can't be fixed now. "It's in the past. I've got a wonderful husband now and a brand new home to explore and settle into."

"Emma, it's not fine," he admonishes. "You've said it before yourself: you, too, are a human. Anyone who treats you less than that is the worst type of person." Slowly, Killian's hands come up to cradle her face. His thumb settles comfortably in the dent of her chin. "Neal may be a part of your past, but he's helped make the woman I married. Do not devalue any part of you." Killian shares a small smile. "Promise?"

Her shoulders shake slightly, on the verge of tears the likes of yesterday, but Emma nods. "Yes, of course." She sniffles.

Hesitating for a moment, Emma watches Killian's anger dissipate in his eyes as he nods. Mischief replaces it. Before she can accuse him of devilry, Killian crouches down and scoops her into his arms.

"What in the world are you doing?" she shouts, laughter softening the severity in her question. "Killian, put me down!"

"I shan't!" With Emma curled up in his arms, he mounts the stairs and pushes open the door to their home. "Last time you walked up the entrance to a house like this, the person who lived in it left you alone." He sets her down on her feet in the entryway. "Never again. This is our home. It may not look like much right now, but we will make it ours."

Emma chuckles before turning to her husband and saying, "Thank you, Killian. Thank you for understanding."

"This time, it really is nothing, love. I, too, understand the feeling of betrayal." At her perplexed look, Killian coughs and clears his throat. "When I was younger, I fell hard for a widow. Milah - that was her name - her husband was a criminal sent to the Australian colony for his crimes."

Emma's surprised by how hard it is to swallow before asking, "Did you love her?"

She's doubly taken aback when Killian doesn't answer her question instantaneously. His hand rises to scratch behind his ear, and drags down his features until he's pondering and scratching at his facial hair. "I did," he admits. "A small part of me still does and always will."

"That explains Graham's introduction of you," Emma recalls with a sad smile. "If I recollect correctly, he said you were having trouble with your lady and you needed a wife to counteract your rambunctious lifestyle."

Killian starts scoffing until his exhalations transform into full-fledge chuckles. "Bastard."

"He only wanted what was best for you," she argues sympathetically. Then she shrugs. "You have to give it to your mate, though. He saw you in despair and did what he thought would aid you best."

Nodding deliberately, Killian mulls over her suggestion. "I suppose I can't fault him for trying," he ultimately decides to say. On a sigh, he continues, "I loved Milah wholeheartedly and well. But then her husband found his way back from the prison island." Emma knows what's coming - for as much of an act he puts on from time to time, Killian's eyes are far too expressive and open for her to deny the outcome of his story - and it hurts even her when he whispers, "She chose him over me."

"I'm sorry." It's the only thing she can conceive to say. Just as in her situation, she can't protect him from something that's already happened in his life: she can only offer her condolences and help him move forward with his life. His life with her.

"What Graham said was true: after she returned to her husband, I lost myself in drink. I stayed in my room and read. Liam and Ruby were worried for me." Killian pulls at his high collar, uncomfortable, she can only assume, with how weak he seems. "It wasn't until Graham stumbled into me at the coffeehouse and started a brawl that bloodied the both of us that I realized how much I needed to change." A fond expression falls across his face as he looks down at her, the few inches separating their eyes shrinking. "And then he told me about you."

Emma gulps. "Do you mean to say I've changed you?" she asks hesitantly.

"You've helped me mature a tad, darling," Killian admits. "For the better, I'd like to believe." His hands are at his side for the moment, but he soon opens them wide. When Emma doesn't move, Killian sighs and shakes his head. "We're married, Swan. One day, we'll engage in far more crude activities than an innocent embrace."

"I know what a hug is, Jones," she grumps. Emma approaches him until she's close enough to his arms to fold around her body.

(He's warm. Hot, even. She made note of the fact while sitting next to him in the carriage over here, but wrapped up in it - her face against his shoulder and his arms across her shoulders - it's almost overwhelming.

Almost.)

Tentatively, Emma returns the gesture, winding her arms around his waist. "We'll change this place, spruce it up," Killian pledges, his voice sotto voce in her ear. "We will wash away those memories of Neal and his townhome and our home and our life will take their place."

Emma realizes how cozy she feels - how she's unconsciously huddling closer into Killian's embrace - and can't deny herself a secret grin. Her face is hidden in her husband's shoulder. "How in heaven did the fates bless me with you as a husband?" she asks after no uncertain amount of time.

She feels more than sees the rise and fall in his shoulders. "They saw two broken hearts and figured they'd still work when put together." They separate, disconnecting every part of their body save for the index finger on his hand, which hooks around two of her fingers. Gently, Killian begins to pull her toward a room off the entryway. "Come, let's see what tomfoolery we can uncover for ourselves."

0000

To say the first few days - nay, weeks - of living away from her parents with a man she hardly knows are awkward would be an understatement. All her life, she's been taught to stray away from men, their habits and such, because how they shave their facial hair or whatever is some huge secret. A matter of hours into her marriage to Killian reveals that none of those 'secrets' are too scandalous or frankly worth keeping secret for so long.

Three days after their wedding, she watches him shave over the wash basin for the first time. It's hypnotic: the way he glides the edge of the razor up and over his Adam's apple, pulls the skin on his cheek to assure every sprout of hair is cut. Emma can't fathom how he's out in the cool morning air, actually doing productive things.

(She, on the other hand, has the bedclothes pulled up and over her face so only her eyes show.)

"You're staring, Swan." The chuckle in his voice subtly worries her, the image of Killian slicing his neck far too vibrant in her mind.

"I'm sorry I'm concerned for my new husband," she mutters. Her breath is hot enough to warm the bottom of her face and she savors it while it lasts.

Placing the razor on the dresser, Killian turns to look at her, eyebrow cocked and eyes way too blue for such an ungodly hour. "Have you never seen a man shave?" he asks.

Emma shrugs. "Never had the occasion or reason to."

A fortnight after their wedding, Liam comes to call. The three of them have a lovely dinner together and, afterwards, her brother-in-law suggests he and Killian go into the study for drinks. Her father and uncle often did the same thing, sending her off to bed and her mother upstairs to read.

"Swan, love, do come with us," Killian says as he stands up.

"Am I allowed to?" she asks, glancing at Killian, then Liam, and back again.

Killian shrugs. "I don't see why not. This is your house as well last I checked." When she didn't make to move from her seat at the dinner table, he inclines his head toward her. "Unless you don't wish to accompany us."

"No, no, I'd love to come." This time, Emma stands from her chair and takes the hand her husband holds out for her. "I merely thought it was a boys' club or something. I didn't want to intrude."

Liam releases a hearty laugh as he follows them to the study. "Emma, you could only make after dinner drinks better."

And Killian was right: the more time they spent as a couple in the townhome, the more it felt like a real home. A new beginning for the both of them. Factoring in the commute from her new living space to the workhouse, Emma had a lot more free time, and she puts it to good use. A conversation over dinner produces the decision that, though it's just the two of them for now, the house is too large for Emma alone to upkeep.

(She briefly entertains the idea of asking Ms. Gibbs to come from Woodlands, and perhaps Lance and one of the footmen as well. She settles for asking for recommendations and guidance in the matter. Both of them are more than happy to be of assistance.)

This starts her three-week long endeavor to hire a permanent housekeeper and a manservant, all the while making the high entryway more welcoming, the three guestrooms more homey, and the rest of the house somewhere she'd want to come back to.

(Emma decides their bedroom should focus on the color blue. Even when he's gone, she'd always be able to hide away in their room and be reminded of Killian's eyes. They are her favorite feature of his.)

(When he first sees it, said eyes go wide. "You've made it blue," Killian mutters. "Blue like the sea and the water." He walks further into the room and hangs off one of the poles of their four-poster bed. "It's so calming.")

(It really is, in more than one way.)

As is the routine they've managed to comfortably settle into. Killian's not exactly her husband - technically, they aren't married, seeing as the relationship has gone unconsummated - but they aren't complete strangers at that. As sad as she is to admit it, Emma would consider Killian her confidante: she assumes it's only natural, what with the living, breathing, and sleeping in the same bed together. It's not the marriage she'd always dreamed of, but she's happy with it.

But every time Emma tries to bring up Henry, something else comes up. They're either interrupted by a wayward horse on the way to the workhouse or Booth the manservant would be confused over something in his quarters. Even months into their marriage, Emma had only been able to explain and mention Henry maybe a handful of times. Her lack of progress not only takes a toll on her heart, but on the boy's as well.

"Can I come home with you yet?" he asks after the children's lessons, as the others run to get some food first. "Emma, can I go with you?"

It breaks her heart when, every time, Emma is forced to shake her head and sadly respond, "No, Henry. Not yet."

She tries to pretend that his downfallen expression doesn't massacre her emotions, but if a tear or two rolls down her cheeks on more than one walk back home, she's reminded of what Killian told her when she told him about Neal: she's only human.

(Soon, she tells herself. They'll talk about it soon.)