I forgot to congratulate MissMae and KatHat in my note for chapter 35 and have been meaning to rectify that oversight ever since! They both made the prediction that Victoire would get 'crispy crittered' by lightening-and got me worried my story was way too predictable!
Thank you for all of your reviews, and for reading this crazy thing in the first place. There will be one more chapter after this, that I truly hope doesn't take so long to get up.
He moved on slowly, yet I soon lost sight of him; I sat motionless with terror; all power of action forsook me; and I grew almost stiff with horror; till recollecting that it was yet possible to prevent the fatal deed, all my faculties seemed to return, with the hope of saving him.
Evelina, or the History of a Young Lady's Entrance into the World
Fanny Burney
thirty seven
The doors of the church opened, the creak of the hinges preceded by the burbles of voices behind them; the excitement of the parishioners was nearly palpable, their eagerness apparent as they spilled down the shallow steps of St. Thomas and prepared to enjoy the remainder of their day—free from labor or other pressing duties.
Emmett stood at a distance he judged to be safe, covertly watching from the opposite side of the wide lane, his gaze trained upon his watch fob as though he were waiting for someone…which he supposed, in truth, he was. He hoped his dark garb, a tall black beaver and a heavy coat with wide lapels, would allow him to appear unassuming despite his size, disappearing against the gray brick of the buildings behind him. But as his gaze darted with regularity to the shallow church steps, he saw a tall young lady had paused, her gaze unmistakably fixed upon him.
Emmett did his best to refrain from staring in return, a burst of fear shooting through his chest at the thought that his lingering—or his appearance—might have caused suspicion. Isabella had confirmed Alice's expectation that he would be in no danger, stating that she had not been widely known in Heamoor.
It was Edward, ever cautious and concerned of any dangers that might befall their newly formed family, who had wondered if Emmett's resemblance to himself might trigger suspicion. "How frequently do you see gentlemen so pale now that the fashion for powder has passed? With eyes so dark—or tinted with that unnatural gold when we've fed? I was unfortunately notorious in the short time I was in the neighborhood, and fear someone might be clever enough to suspect a connection."
Alice had squinted, as if she exerted enough effort she might be able to see the future alter. But she had sworn she saw nothing.
The young lady on the steps of St. Thomas, however, was unabashedly staring, her blue eyes wide and somewhat stunned as she regarded Emmett as though she had once met him and was not pleased by the recollection of their meeting. His gaze fixed on his watch fob with sudden fascination as he combed his own mind for some indication he should recognize her, even thinking back to the haze of his human memories. But he felt certain he would recall someone with such scars, her oval face heavily powdered in an attempt to conceal the pits that marred her brow and cheeks.
A gruff voice caught her attention, breaking the spell. "Rosalie, what's gotten into you? The carriage is waiting."
Emmett glanced back across the street, absorbing in an instant the tall, burly figure of an older man who could only be her father; a beard obscured his strong chin, a peaked hat on his head indicating he'd once been with the Royal Navy though the belly straining the golden buttons of his jacket made clear those days were long behind him. The young lady started, wide eyes swinging to her father before she ducked her head, "Of-of course, I just thought…"
But the statement trailed away as she obediently followed the older gentleman to a waiting carriage—though Emmett was not mistaken in seeing her dart one last glance in his direction.
"Damnit," Emmett could not help the muttered expletive, for he was certain she had seen him looking. He briefly wished he had Edward's uncanny ability to hear thoughts, however much he knew the skill sometimes tormented the fellow, for he was certain it would solve the mystery of the scarred blonde's interest.
But he was distracted from this futile thought by the appearance of the person for whom this entire trip had been undertaken, his spine straightening and his hand rising to his chest where the letter he'd carried the many miles from Egremont rested against his silent heart. There was no mistaking this was the woman whose absence had brought Isabella such regret, for she matched the description Emmett had been given—and held the hand of a young girl with slickly plaited hair, slightly bowed as she stooped to listen to the child's chatter.
Quickly, Emmett moved down the lane, certain the parishioners were all too focused upon making their way home to notice the figure darting around the corner. He reached the rear door of the sacristy, which he had investigated the prior night under the cover of darkness, and swiftly ducked inside. The room was shadowed, but he had no difficulty finding the door into the main chapel, the aged frame allowing shafts of light through.
He did not pause once he passed into the chapel, his gaze fixed upon the open doors of St. Thomas where the vicar and curate lingered, conversing with a small cluster of parishioners who were less eager than others for their Sunday meal. He reached without looking down for one of the prayer books crammed with a hymnal into the cubby on the back of a pew angled towards the altar, his pace failing to slow as he passed the vicar with only a slight nod of acknowledgement. He was relieved to see the curate only vaguely nod in return, his attention unshifting from the stout lady before him who was proclaiming the merits of that morning's sermon.
The crowd had thinned but as he expected, the older woman and the young girl were slower in their progress than most; further, the young couple they followed were not moving quickly, for the lady was unmistakably increasing, her shawl doing little to hide the swell of her growing belly. Emmett passed them with little effort, and deliberately fumbled the prayer book in his hand as he did so, exclaiming with a huff of air in mock exasperation as he stooped to retrieve it.
The young girl, perhaps no more than four or five years of age, chose that moment to break free of her nursemaid's grasp, likely intent upon catching up to her mother and father with some words of inanity on her lips. Instead, she stumbled into Emmett, who could not help a slight cringe as her warm hands flattened against his trousered leg, his lips sealing against the too-close scent of human blood. But she likely did not notice the motion for she was rearing back, her eyes wide with something more than mere surprise.
"Excuse me," Emmett attempted to recover himself, rising to his full height and making his apologies to the nursemaid.
But her faded blue eyes were upon the child, her gaze concerned but also exasperated as she reached for the girl's hand. "Ach, Sukie, ye know better than to dart away in such a manner!"
The little girl paid no heed to her nursemaid, her eyes narrowing as they fixed upon Emmett's carefully composed countenance. "He's a bad man, Sheil," she announced, her lips set in a mulish line.
It was only then that the nursemaid's gaze fixed with any attention upon Emmett, and had he not been a vampire, he likely would not have noticed the barely perceptible widening of her faded eyes before her gaze quickly shifted back to the little girl. "I'll not have ye being so rude, Miss Susannah Dwrclir!" The Welsh surname rolled off her tongue easily.
The young couple that had been proceeding before the nursemaid turned at this disturbance, the pregnant woman's features wrinkling with consternation. "Sukie, are you misbehaving? So soon after church?"
"No, Mama—"
The little girl attempted to defend herself but her nursemaid did not allow her to finish, her voice gruff but firm as she interrupted, "Ye know very well ye had no cause to be so rude, for the gentleman was only pausing to fetch his prayer book." Her gaze lifted to Emmett, and he could see that somehow she knew he was there for her, for it was apparent in the innocence of her question, "Weren't ye, sir?"
Emmett did not hesitate despite his internal surprise, simply nodding and replying, "But of course. And I apologize for startling your charge."
"Pay her no mind, sir," Sheil continued, then, her gaze shifting to the young couple, "We'll catch up with ye, Mr. and Mrs. Dwrclir."
The lady hesitated but her husband seemed happy to be free of the disruption, simply nodding in Emmett's direction before continuing on his way, his wife's hand tucked in the crook of his arm.
"Ye look very like him, ye know—though ye are much above his height," her gaze narrowed, "And your hair is far curlier."
"I—" Emmett did not know whether to protest and feign ignorance, or to acknowledge the truth of her observation. His gaze fell to the young girl standing at the nursemaid's side, her small face wrinkled with a mixture of defiance and fear. She knew to be afraid of him, though the adults around her did not.
"Well, we must be on our way," Sheil's gaze fell to the child as well. "Though I suppose I will have an hour to myself once supper is finished and ye are too weary to put off your bedtime any longer."
Finally, the child was distracted from boring Emmett with a mutinous gaze, her expression instantly filling with denial as she exclaimed, "But I am never tired, Sheil!"
"Aye, but ye will be, Sukie, once you've had your supper."
And with that, the two continued down the lane and Emmett could not help from watching them go, the prayer book loosely clasped in his hand. He was unsurprised when he saw the nursemaid glance back over her shoulder, her gaze knowing.
Emmett lingered before the church for a few more moments, pretending interest in the prayer book and occasionally checking his watch fob though he was highly aware of the passage of the minutes. It was not until the last parishioner had strolled away, the vicar waving from the steps of St. Thomas, that Emmett set forth with a swift, purposeful pace. He was easily able to follow the scent of the elderly woman and the little girl, though he made a show of occasionally pausing and peering in the windows of the shops he passed, feigning curiosity in the wares on display.
He hesitated as he reached the outskirts of the town; to the east he could see the chimney stacks and church spires of Penzance while pastures and farmland stretched directly before him to the south. If he continued, it was unlikely he would fail to draw the notice of anyone who happened to pass, and he could not think how he could appear at the Dwrclir door with any excuse that would not immediately fall apart under the least scrutiny.
After all, he had contemplated a few stories while preparing for the journey, thinking he might claim acquaintance with Charles Swan, Isabella's father. Or perhaps he could pretend to have been one of Sheil's charges as a young boy. But Alice's nose had wrinkled with reservations while even Isabella had shaken her head, quietly stating, "It would be too well known, even in Heamoor, that Sheil had only ever served the Swan family. After all, she risked her life for me; she would not have done so had she not borne feelings like that of a mother."
"Which she could not possibly feel if she had passed from employer to employer, looking after a multitude of children," Edward added, understanding her reasoning.
"You may have to go about this in a surreptitious manner," Alice had warned him. And, as he darted into the woods and cautiously approached the nearest house, he realized she had been right. The Dwrclir's resided too far from the town for him to pass their home unnoticed, and there was no excuse that would allow him entry unquestioned. As he crept past hedges that concealed him from view of the narrow road, Emmett wondered if Sheil's insight into who he was would extend to forgiving how he must intrude on her now.
He lingered near the hedges for some time, waiting for the light to fail and for the faint sound of voices within the house to fade. He drew the letter from the breast pocket of his coat, fingering the paper idly, his fingertips able to detect the fibers indented by the pressure of the quill. Though the letter was still sealed with a wafer, he had some of the words memorized by this method—and Isabella had warned him he would likely have to read the letter as Sheil had never been able to do more than sign her name.
It was with this thought that Emmett finally rose from where he had been sitting in the shade of the hedge row, his gaze thoughtful as he contemplated the house in the failing light. The roof was steeply pitched but he did not doubt that the few domestics serving the household resided beneath the eaves. He wondered if Sheil shared a room with anyone, or if she slept in a trundle bed in the children's bedchamber—for he had heard the squall of a toddler earlier, followed by the soothing sound of the elderly woman's voice.
There was nothing for it but to find out for himself. He moved swiftly, leaping the hedge and crossing the short distance of scythed grass to the rear of the house, where a garden was just beginning to put up shoots and leaves. He was moving at such a fierce pace that he easily leapt the distance to the roof, pausing for only a moment to ensure no one detected the faint thump that had accompanied the motion. But there was no stirring within the house; the master was reading in the small study belowstairs, a pipe at his lips, while the mistress slumbered peacefully in a bedchamber with a candle burning on her dressing table. Emmett could smell the tallow and the tobacco, and hear the faint beating of half a dozen hearts.
Carefully, he clambered down a drainpipe until he was parallel to the highest window. A swift glance inside determined the chamber was empty, the narrow bed neatly made, a stub of a candle unlit in a simple pewter chamberstick. Quietly, he tested the window frame, exhaling with relief as the sash easily gave, allowing him entry. He hesitated once his boots were firm upon the bare floorboards, listening to the faint sounds of a household growing quiet with the close of the day.
Only when he was certain he would come upon no one in the corridor did he approach the low door, ducking through and pausing in the hallway. Perhaps he should have been unsurprised to see the elderly nursemaid peek around the frame of a door further down the hall; he had heard the sound of her heart beating, the steady rasp of her breath—but he had not realized she was waiting for him.
A needless finger over her lips, she ducked back through the door behind which she'd been leaning. Emmett silently followed, struggling to push away a dart of fear that she might have an enormous frying pan in her hand, as Isabella had told him she'd once wielded in defense of her charge.
When he ducked into the small bedchamber, she swiftly closed the door behind him—but did not brandish any weapon in her hand, her features simply expectant and somewhat grim as she moved to a wooden chair in the far corner.
"Aye, ye are very like him," she uttered as way of greeting, leaning back and retrieving a bit of darning from the small table at her elbow. "Stole his way into Swan Cottage at least twice, he did," she continued, her gnarled fingers deftly weaving yarn through the hole in the stocking in her hands. "Though I never knew his means of escaping notice."
Emmett did not know what to say in reply and so remained silent.
"But ye are not his brother—or cousin or some other relation," Sheil continued, her gaze rising from her mending to regard him with a hard stare. "Ye are alike but it is not blood that makes ye so."
"No," Emmett finally spoke, agreeing with her insight. "What we are—"
But she waved a hand, a puff of air escaping her lips. "It makes no matter to me," she interrupted. "As long as it means my Isa is safe." The impatience that had accompanied these words immediately faded from her gaze and she leaned forward, every appearance of disinterest and bravado fading as she asked, "Isa is safe, is she not?"
"Yes," Emmett replied swiftly, moving further into the room and reaching into his breast pocket. "I am here on her behalf."
"Aye, thank God for that," Sheil murmured. "There were such rumors following that mob snatching her away—and when Justice Hale finally concluded she must have died in the spring, I knew not whether to be relieved or filled with grief." She shook her head, her gray hair covered by the clean muslin of a simple mob cab. "But I thought…" she hesitated, her gaze lifting to Emmett, something pleading entering her voice. "I thought I should know—that I would feel it in my heart should she have perished in that terrible attack—or thereafter."
Emmett nodded. "She longed to write to you, but did not dare risk sending a letter that might make its way into the wrong hands."
"Aye," Sheil nodded, her voice turning grave again. "As she very well might. She and Mr. Maçon are still notorious here, ye know?"
Emmett shook his head. "I have only been in the neighborhood a day and have not made the acquaintance of anyone here."
"As ye might well avoid doing," Sheil replied. "I may not be the only one who wonders at your resemblance to Mr. Maçon."
Emmett nodded, thinking of the young lady on the steps of St. Thomas, her blue eyes almost arrested by the sight of him.
"But that is not what ye came to tell me," Sheil continued, "As I imagine ye are more than capable of taking care of yourself."
Emmett could not help a soft laugh at this, nodding once at her observation. "Yes, you are right. And I likely shouldn't linger longer than necessary."
Sheil's soft chuckle in response was wry. "What would the Dwrclir's think if they knew I had a young man in my room!"
Emmett smiled before crossing to the stool she gestured to, indicating he should sit. "Did Isa tell ye I cannot read?" She waved a hand, "Oh, shop signs and such, but nothing more than that."
"Yes," Emmett replied, sliding a nail along the wafer and opening the pages of the letter. "She warned me that as long as I was successful, I might be required to read the letter to you—as it was unlikely anyone else could be trusted to do so."
"She's right," Sheil sighed, taking up her darning again. "Even Mrs. Berty gave credence to those blasted rumors that Isabella had something to do with the storm that took the lives of those fishermen." She snorted. "As if Isa would harm the hair on a man's head."
Emmett did not speak, his lips thinning as his mind was taken back, unbidden, to the night of Victoire's demise. But he did not wish to dispute Sheil's belief in her former charge's innocence, simply flattening the pages of the letter upon his thigh and asking, "Shall I?"
Sheil nodded once, the motion abrupt.
"Dearest Sheil," Emmett began.
First, you should know that I am safe. I have been safe this twelvemonth with Mr. Edward Maçon, whom I now call husband—as you might have expected to occur if malevolent forces had not interfered. What is more, you should know that I am happy. How could I be anything other with such a husband at my side? But I'm certain you are eager to know the details of how this all came to pass and I will do be my best to endeavor to tell you…
The letter went on to detail that they had surreptitiously made their way from Cornwall, giving the reassuring detail that Edward had acted with honor and respect the entirety of the time. She described the details of the house in London though she did not share the exact location, and skewered with wry detail the modiste who had provided her wardrobe. "…being familiar with Renée's accent, you would have laughed to hear her attempt at approximating the same."
A single silent tear slid down Sheil's withered cheek, though her gaze did not lift from her darning, as Emmett went on to describe the details of the wedding. He paused, thinking to offer her a handkerchief, but she waved the slip of cotton away and brushed impatiently at the tear. "Her mother would have been pleased she was married by a priest, is all," she gruffly explained. "But go on."
So Emmett continued, speaking Isabella's word aloud, detailing the wonder of Hyde Park, so green and peaceful within the bustle of London, and the extravagance of Vauxhall Gardens. Emmett would have blushed had he still been capable of the reaction when he came upon her description of the two women Isabella had thought were actresses, only to be told by Edward that they were Cyprians. Fortunately, Sheil simply emitted a bark of laughter that she quickly bit back, her eyes dancing as she motioned for Emmett to continue reading.
Isabella glossed over the reason for their departure from London, sparing Sheil the needless anxiety of what they had all endured now that the danger was past. Instead, she described the wild, untended garden surrounding Carlisle's home near Oxford, then skipped with little reason other than the need to find a home large enough for their household—preferably near the sea.
So we are settled safely, and not far from the sea, which is of great comfort to me. However, you must know that I think of you every day, and pine for you much as a child pines for its mother. Though, truth be told, the poignancy of this sentiment may be more deeply felt, for I know my mother to be lost to me while you still walk the earth, bringing comfort and discipline, and patience and good humor into the lives of your charges.
You are welcome here, and Mr. McCarty can ensure your safe passage. You have but to speak the word and know that I would be happy to have you once again at my side.
With all my love,
Isabella Maçon
Emmett raised his gaze from the page, unaware that his expression was filled with expectation until he found himself faltering, his hesitant smile fading at Sheil's abrupt response.
"No, no, what could the child be thinking?" Her voice was rough, her darning discarded in her lap as she lifted a frowning gaze. Emmett did not speak, regarding her with confusion. "As she said, she is settled," Sheil reasoned, "What need has she for me?"
Emmett opened his mouth to protest but Sheil was shaking her head. "No, I understand she may want me—but she does not need me." A faint smile crossed her lips but her blue eyes were undeniably sad. "She is safe, among friends," she nodded towards Emmett. "With a husband who would go to the ends of the earth for her." Her eyes sank shut for a brief moment as she shook her head again. "She does not need me."
"Miss Cadwallader," Emmett began, protest apparent in his voice.
But Sheil would have none of it, her voice firm as she interrupted, "You'll not convince me, young man, and I don't truly believe that's what she sent you here to do." Her gaze was steely as it met his own and Emmett, who knew he was capable of crushing a man's skull with the force of his strength if he so chose, found himself quailing before her.
"Isa sent you her to reassure me, to share the news of her life now—but convincing me to remove from my home was not your ultimate goal, now, was it?"
Emmett could do nothing but nod, his gaze on the worn floorboards beneath his feet. "She wished you to know you were welcome. I suppose I expected—"
"Aye," Sheil nodded, knowing what he had expected. But she did not castigate him for his presumption, her voice comforting when she spoke next. "But take heart, young man. She will only be disappointed for a moment when you return without me."
Emmett was unsurprised to find this was true. He knew Isabella's character to be resilient, and that her disposition was almost one to be willfully happy, to find the good in circumstances which others might have found defeating.
"Ah, I might have expected," she'd softly exhaled when he'd returned to Egremont with no one at his side. "She is a stubborn thing, unaccustomed to change," Isabella had smiled as she spoke the words, but Emmett could see her lips tremble with a hint of sadness. "Perhaps another time."
For though Sheil could not reside with them, Isabella would not accept that there was no manner by which remaining in touch was not possible. After all, if Emmett had once stolen into the Dwrclir home to read a letter to the aging nursemaid, could not such a method be used again to ensure Sheil knew Isabella was well and happy? Though it was risky, and Edward had severe reservations about pursuing the matter, Alice confirmed there would be no repercussions—with one caveat.
"Only Carlisle or I should go." Her gaze fell upon Emmett, curiosity evident there. "Emmett was seen by someone—though I can't imagine how she might have known you."
Isabella could tell Emmett would have flushed scarlet had he been capable, his gaze cast guiltily to his hands. It was only then that he shared how a young lady had stared at him while he was waiting opposite the church, confessing that he had not thought to admit to the odd occurrence as it had resulted in nothing untoward, and he did not wish to worry Edward or Isabella unnecessarily.
"Scars?" Isabella faintly echoed.
"Who is it?" Alice asked, her voice soft.
"Rosalie Hale," Edward quietly answered for his wife, for he recalled with no effort the statuesque blonde to whom he'd introduced himself after walking with Isabella to the dressmaker's in Mousehole.
"Should we be concerned about her?" Alice asked with a faint frown.
Isabella shook her head, "I think not—not living so distantly from Cornwall." Her gaze shifted from Alice's curious expression to Emmett, who hung his head with something like shame. Her own countenance was wondering, attempting to see him with fresh eyes, to note how his ivory pallor and flawless skin marked him as different from anyone living—and yet eerily similar to Edward, who Rosalie could not have met more than once or twice. Yet something about Emmett had caught Rosalie's attention, perhaps something beyond a resemblance to the mysterious Frenchman who had once passed through the small Cornish town.
Alice's caveat was heeded without question in the following years and though Emmett was disappointed he could no longer provide such a special favor to one to whom he still thought of himself as owing a debt, it was widely agreed that Carlisle was a far more appropriate message-bearer. Between his scholarly manner, his golden appearance, and his unassuming bearing, he drew no notice in his travels to Cornwall, in the few days he resided in Heamoor, or in slipping in and out of the Dwrclir house to provide the latest news to Isabella's former nursemaid.
However, in the fourth year of this endeavor, Carlisle had a traveling companion of which he was initially unaware. Emmett could not have said what compelled him to steal away from Egremont while Edward and Alice were away hunting, and Isabella slumbered in her bed; the only thing he was certain of was that he could not get the image of Rosalie Hale out of his mind. Since he had first heard her name in the week following his return from Cornwall, it had echoed through his head like a soft bell, a chorus to a song he could only just hear, distracting him from whatever task he pursued.
He had tried to forget her, to forget the sight of her stunned gaze, bright blue and arresting. He tried to tell himself that she had not appeared pleased to see him, to somehow recognize him and his resemblance to the Frenchman that had once passed through the neighborhood. Isabella had shared the enmity the Hale family held for her and the Swans when pressed for more detail, confessing the role her mother had played in saving Rosalie from the burning fever of smallpox…leaving her alive but terribly scarred. He had told himself that his strange obsession with her was a fancy, that nothing could come of it—yet still, he had stolen away, unable to watch Carlisle go for a third time without following.
He had gotten no farther than Claife Heights when the faint sound of booted feet speeding across damp grass met his ears. He had stopped short, the motion so abrupt that the turf beneath his feet skidded up beneath the soles of his boots, wet earth revealed beneath churned grass.
She was upon him in seconds, her pale features set in a manner he had not seen since Victoire's demise. Her eyes shone in the pre-dawn darkness, the amber color evident to his sharp gaze, the scent of the deer she'd killed drifting from her bare palms.
"Is it so bad?" Emmett could not help asking, unwilling to make a pretense of greetings and pleasantries. She knew him too well.
Alice did not speak for several seconds, but her gaze did not grow vague, indicating that she was examining the future, looking for outcomes he could not see. When she spoke, her voice was solemn. "It will set us all upon different paths for a time." She paused, tilting her head. "Is this endeavor worth that?"
Emmett's gaze fell, for he did not know for certain. He did not know her, did not know what he was about, what would result from seeking her out. "I have to try. To see."
"Very well." Alice responded with a sharp nod. "I will try to explain to the others."
Then she was gone, skirts straining at her legs, her body a diminishing blur in the darkness of the park.
Emmett took a deep needless breath, watching her go, before he turned south and continued on his way.
He made the journey on foot, uncaring of the muddy condition of his boots and trousers, unconscious of the travel grit that dusted his brow and hair. He had no intention of pausing to linger needlessly in inns and hotels, to give the appearance of humanity when he arrived in Cornwall. She already knew he was different. And he had no notion of whether he intend to approach her at all—or if he simply wished to catch another glimpse of her, to somehow answer the wordless question she had triggered in his mind by sight alone.
But somehow, in the corners of his mind, he knew that would not be enough.
What was more, the circumstances under which he encountered her could not have allowed him to remain an observer, standing by the wayside without acting, without interfering.
Isabella had mentioned Alverton Manor as the home of the Hales when she had shared what she knew of the history of their family; Emmett could not forget the reservation in her dark gaze as she'd repeated the story Sheil had once told her in the darkened cab of a hired carriage after the disastrous snub she'd received from Rosalie Hale at a Penzance assembly ball. Emmett wondered at the nature of a girl grown so bitter from her disfigurement that she would lash out so publically at someone with so little connection to the cause of her scarring. He wondered at the scars that might lie inside, where no one could see.
The manor was not difficult to find, for a village of the same name bordered it, and laborers were winding down the narrow road as the light began to fade, returning home after a day of work. Emmett avoided them, knowing his bedraggled appearance would attract notice, stealing through fields that had not yet been harvested, and lingering in sparse copses of woods between the meadows. Only after night had fully fallen did he approach the imposing stone house bordered by wrought iron fencing, gazing up at the few windows lit by the yellow glow of candles. He was uncertain what to do next.
He had still not determined a course of action when the sun rose, stealing into the boughs of the cedars that bordered the rear of the house in the instance that a gardener or groomsman might have reason to work in the yard. He watched the house with frustration, wishing for some sign, some indication from the girl that had haunted him these past years. He even wished for Alice's guidance, though he knew she would likely be reluctant to give it if what she had told him was true—that his actions were going to result in the splintering of their makeshift family.
Emmett sighed, unwilling to follow the path of such thoughts, for what could it mean? That Isabella would resent him so greatly for having pursued such a fanciful fixation that she would banish him from her presence? She was too forgiving and empathetic for such a thing, though he would not put it past Edward to wish to punish him with such severity.
It was pointless to try to make out the ways and means of Alice's visions, for he knew her predictions could bear fruit in ways he could never anticipate. Instead, he watched as the butcher, coalman, and chandler all made deliveries at the rear of the house, listening as the chandler flirted outrageously with the housekeeper who received the delivery; he overheard two hall boys exchange gossip about the head footman as they crossed the yard with a buckets of chimney ash hanging from their hands, their pale faces dashed with gray soot. His head lifted as candles slowly began to flare to life in a few windows as the sun began to set again, anticipating that with darkness, he might be able to draw nearer to the house…he might be able to slip inside.
Emmett waited for the sun to fully sink below the horizon before he dropped from the fragrant boughs of the cedar—but before he could take a step towards the house, the hushed sound of a door slowly shifting open distracted him. The sound came not from the servants' quarters on the ground floor, but from somewhere above and to the left, near what appeared to be a drawing room boasting an array of glass doors that opened onto a terrace.
Emmett froze, watching with a vigilant gaze for a servant who might be attempting to steal away, perhaps seeking a few hours with a sweetheart. Or perhaps it was the master of the house, wishing to take a turn on the terrace while enjoying a few puffs on his pipe. But the hinges of the door creaked and the motion ceased, indicating the person was attempting to be covert.
Emmett's eyes narrowed, thinking back to his own days of service, wondering what mischief he'd unwittingly stumbled upon.
But his lips parted as he saw a familiar figure appear in the gloom, her lithe frame unmistakable as she stole down stone stairs that led from the terrace to the lawn below. Her head was uncovered, a strange sight given the time of day, her blond tresses bound in a loose braid knotted into a bun at her nape; tendrils framed a face that appeared anxious and saddened as she drew near. Whatever garb she wore was concealed by a heavy cloak of dark wool.
Quickly, Emmett melted back into the stand of trees before she could discern any presence other than her own, watching with a deepening frown as she darted into the trees before glancing back towards the house. There was a desperation to her pace that did not indicate any sweetheart was waiting, her blue eyes strained though her heart beat with a slow steadiness that belied the anxiety of her appearance.
He could not help following at a safe distance, carefully avoiding any twigs or branches that might snap beneath his tread—though she was moving so swiftly, he was not certain she would have noticed the sound. His wariness led him to move far more slowly, worried that if she saw him she might scream, or if she recognized him, grow angry and call for help. He had no wish to frighten her—though he did not know what he would say if she did allow him to approach without crying out. He moved so slowly, so cautiously, that she almost stole from his sight, disappearing amongst the shadows of the trees like a ghost.
It was only then that he quickened his pace—though Emmett found himself nearly halting in surprise as he saw her figure stoop a few yards ahead, reaching with gloved hands for stones at her feet. Her hands slid into the pockets of her cloak as she continued moving forward, gliding across the ground on swift feet.
She stooped again before the reached the stream that bordered the southern edge of the manor, and he could see the strain in her posture as she straightened to her full height with more stones weighing her down.
Emmett was uncertain to do, watching with parted lips as she paused at the edge of the water. It moved swiftly, for it was spring and rain had swelled all the waterways in the past months, portending a good harvest for that year. She did not hesitate long, stepping down the bank on feet that seemed far too sure for the task she was about to undertake.
"Rosalie."
Her name escaped his lips, low and urgent—for he knew not what else to do, certain that if he raced towards her, sweeping her from her feet, rescuing her from the path she clearly wished to take that she would scream, and that the noise would draw attention for miles. And he had no will to cover her mouth, to squelch her cries as he'd once done to Isabella Swan. He would never act such a monster again.
She turned swiftly, her skirts swirling more slowly in the water at her feet. Her countenance was filled with shock, but he felt his own surprise at how quickly she recovered, her gaze narrowing, her lips thinning.
"You have no business being here."
"I could not stop thinking of you."
Her features twisted. "Of the freak? Of the disfigured girl who might have been beautiful?"
He shook his head, daring to take a step closer. "I don't know that I would have noticed you if you had not noticed me first."
This surprised her, blue eyes widening as her mouth fell open. But she quickly recovered again, her chin lifting as she snapped, "I would have thought you would have a French accent."
Emmett nodded, "It would be a fair assumption as I am acquainted with the gentleman you reference." His gaze briefly fell before lifting to find her pale face in the growing gloom. "But we are not related as you think."
"What does it matter?!" she flung up a hand in an impatient, angry gesture. "What does any of it matter?!" Her gaze dropped to the rushing water at her feet and Emmett could sense the intention in her words.
"Rosalie," he spoke more urgently, taking another hesitant step forward. Yards of distance still separated them but he knew he could cross it swiftly should she choose to act rashly. "Don't do this."
When her eyes lifted from the water, tears blurred her gaze, her lips trembling as she fought back the sobs shaking her frame. "Why?" she cried. "What reason do I have for remaining on this earth?" She covered her eyes, her shoulders hunching with the force of her tears. "Who are you to tell me I must live?" The words were almost for herself alone, a mutter that Emmett might not have heard had had been human. "You know nothing."
"You are right," Emmett nodded in agreement, which startled her enough that she lifted wide, damp eyes to his face, her hands falling to her sides. "I know very little," Emmett continued. "The longer I am on this earth, it is every day more clear to me how little I know." He inhaled and felt a tug at his heart at the scent of her tears upon the air, mixing with the fresh rainy smell of the stream, and the green of the forest and fields around them. "Yet I do know that even when life seems at its darkest, even when it appears as if there is only reason for despair—even then there is cause to hope." His gaze fixed upon her, seeing that she was listening, that she was absorbing his words as though they were water and she had been long lost in a vast desert. "There are mysteries and surprises and pleasures big and small that make life worth living." He paused, considering. "Or at least, very interesting at times."
The laugh that burst past her lips at these final words appeared to surprise them both, her gaze startled as it met his own, a gloved hand at her lips. They were both silent, realizing that some corner had been turned—though she did not yet move from the stream where she still stood.
"Who are you?" she finally whispered, breaking the silence.
Emmett squared his shoulders, realizing this was it. This was the moment in which he played his hand and resolved the fixation he'd felt these past years. He lifted a broad hand, fingers splayed, palm facing the sky. "If you come with me," he promised. "I will tell you."
Rosalie moved from the stream with such swiftness that he could not help but smile—but the expression faded as he realized she was not slowing, barreling towards him with such urgency that he stumbled back in sheer surprise at the force with which she collided into him. He did not dare breathe as her arms snaked around his shoulders, her face buried in his neck, hanging onto him as though she was drowning.
"Tell me your name," she whispered for she felt at least this she should know. She should know the identity of her savior, of the man who had appeared like an angel, however mud-stained and dusty, to rescue her when she had been unable to find a reason to go on.
"Emmett," he quietly answered, his arms rising to hesitantly circle her waist, his lips moving against the softness of her hair as he spoke. "Emmett McCarty."
"Emmett," she repeated the syllables, the name a sigh that held a sense of contentment she had not thought herself capable of feeling any longer. "You will take me with you, Emmett?" she asked, lifting her head to regard him with a hopeful gaze.
Emmett could do nothing but nod, his amber eyes slowly filling with the same hope and happiness.
"Yes, Rosalie," he replied. "Yes, I will."