"Easy, girl...easy now." Neal soothes the mare with a few soft pats to the neck as he leads her forward by the reins. "You don't have to worry about good ol' Rose ― she's a quiet one. No surprises from her."
Emma rolls her eyes. He not only insisted on her using a saddle with a monkey grip ― which he laughingly told her was installed for the sake of young riders ― but he also won't let her walk the horse herself or touch the bridle. When he suggested a ride, she agreed because of a romantic image in her mind, of flying through fields with the wind whipping her hair.
The only things moving her hair are low tree branches that nearly swat her in the face, and only her thoughts are flying, not her body.
How very disappointing, she muses.
"When you ride for the first time ― really ride ― your legs feel as stiff as blocks of wood afterwards. You should be thanking me for saving you hours of pain and bed rest." He looks up at her, flashing a cheeky grin. "Come on, I can feel your glare burning holes into my back."
She scowls at him, crossing her arms over her chest. "Then stop treating me like a child."
"Hey, I cannot be too careful with the Master's valued governess, can I now? He would have my head if anything happened to you ― or use me as target practice," he grimaced. "Locksley loves archery as much as his namesake would suggest."
"I do not see him robbing the rich to feed the poor, so I am sure you are mistaken about his temper, Mr. Neal."
"Cassidy. The name's Neal Cassidy."
"Well, Mr. Cassidy, you may be knowledgeable about horses, but you know nothing about governesses." She clings again to the monkey grip, rocking in the saddle with Rose's every step. This rhythm will take some time to get used to. "A governess is, above all, expendable. There are many women in my line of work who need a good position, such as this one, with a good family. I have heard many accounts of young girls being thrown out for the smallest errors. Please do not pretend that either of us are indispensable here."
He raises his brows. "I never said we were ― only that you are worth more to our employer than I am. Of the two of us, it is you he would not wish to be hurt, Miss Swan."
Emma winces inwardly at his formal tone. Why do her words all come out wrong?
"Ah, here we are ― whoa, Rose." The gentle mare obeys. "May I help you get down from your roost?"
Peering around, she gathers they have stopped at an apple orchard. There are no fences indicating the end of Robin's property, so these scores of apple trees must belong to him. "Why are we here?"
He bites down his lower lip, scrutinizing her. It is unnerving. "Come down, and I'll show you." His hand is extended. An offer she can refuse if she wishes to.
It is more than a little humiliating to have to rearrange her skirts and slowly lift her right leg over to her left side so she can dismount. Surely, he caught a peek of her undergarments during the scuffle she had with her dress. When her hand slips into his, she slides down from the saddle and falls right into his arms.
They are closer than they have been since they met, bodies a hairsbreadth away from each other. His arms are wrapped around her shoulders, hard and warm. Fixed on her face, his gaze is unflinching and still. His eyes flicker down to her lips for a moment, then peer at a tree behind her back.
"These apple trees are famous ― it's one of the reasons Regina likes to be outdoors more than indoors when she visits. You know of Regina Mills? Locksley's fiancé?"
"We have been introduced," she says stiffly, disliking the very mention of the woman. Prickly and unfriendly, Regina is a force to be reckoned with, especially when she is upset. The last time they were in the same room, Henry was almost in tears. "She despises me."
He chuckles. "Find me a person that she favors, besides Locksley. I have heard stories, though, about her past...it was not a pretty tale. Her mother separated from her father when she was young ― quite the scandal, at the time ― and then the man she was engaged to died―"
"I do not want to hear her story, if you don't mind." Her chest tightening, Emma breathes in sharply. Cold ― that is what Regina is. Cold and judgmental of strangers. If it were possible, their paths would never cross again. Alas, Miss Mills is Robin's paramour and is not going anywhere. Saying good-bye to her would also mean parting with Henry, an event Emma would most certainly not like.
Neal is fingering apples that hang low from swinging branches near the ground. They are ripe enough to be picked, with their enticing red hue and shine. Suddenly, she feels quite hungry. Rose looks hungry as well.
"Tell me something." He snaps an apple off from its stem. The noise makes Emma jump in her shoes. "How much do you know about Robin Locksley?"
She shrugs, holding on tightly to her shawl. Does it really matter, when they are just servants? "The housekeeper, Miss Adelaide, told me he was a lawyer when he was younger, famous for taking indigent cases."
"His father wanted him to go into law ― it wasn't Locksley's choice. The old man was not malicious, but wanted his only child to have a good life. After his death, Locksley married his childhood sweetheart ― whom his father had disapproved of ― and quit his firm for a time, living off his inheritance. Then his wife, Marian, convinced him to return to his work. Noble woman, she was. He started investing: in his estate, in factories, in other ventures. His clients love him. Many people, especially those he has helped directly, are grateful to him for all of his humanitarian efforts. He does not practice law anymore, but he oversees his firm and gives young lawyers a chance to build their reputation."
Rose is focused on the apple in Neal's hand, covered in bite marks. He is too busy chewing it to notice the gleam in her eyes. Grinning to herself, Emma plucks another apple from a nearby branch and holds it under the horse's muzzle. No one can tell her horse teeth do not chomp when the creature they belong to is hungry.
"My, my," she tsks, letting Rose have control of the apple core, "you say you do not gossip, but you know more of our employer's history than I do. That speaks of personal interest."
He shrugs off her curiosity as if she asked about horseshoes instead. "He's a regular hero ― engaged to Regina Mills, cotton mill queen. Her father owns many mills across the country." Neal rolls his eyes. "A society woman and a philanthropist ― what a match."
She crosses her arms over her chest. "If I did not know better, I would say you're jealous of him, Mr. Cassidy. All this talk of his virtues, his pursuits, his accomplishments. Do you fancy such a life for yourself?"
His loud laugh scares a number of blackbirds from their hiding places in the trees. "You're jesting." Tossing his apple core, he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. Rose trots over to where the core fell, snuffling blades of grass in search of it. "No, I did not come here to become an acclaimed lawyer with the 'Evil Queen' as my betrothed. The look on that woman's face could shatter a mirror. Locksley's a good bloke, but the reasons for his romance with Regina Mills are his own and certainly not ones I share, considering all her problems. Perhaps love really does make you do crazy things."
This is more information than she needs to hear. It would not be wise for her to defame her employer's fiancé with any further comments. Neal is but a stable hand ― Regina does not care about his opinion. But if Emma's dislike for her reaches Regina's ears, the post of governess at Sherwood Manor will be open again in record time. Besides, why is Neal harping on about Robin and Regina?
"Like it or not, Henry is my student and her adopted son." She points her chin in the air. "It would be best not to judge Mr. Locksley or Miss Mills in any way. I am here to teach their children, not to question them. I know my place."
"You are afraid of losing your position over a few words?" He teases her serious countenance with overly wide eyes and raised brows, pretending he is shocked by her reply. "Where's your sense of courage? If you find Mills that intimidating, I am surprised you've lasted this long in the game."
All of her frustration from the day boils over. He dares to question her competence and her motives? He is a stranger to her, and she to him. It was a mistake ― a great, stupid mistake ― to make his acquaintance. To want to establish a friendship of sorts.
She always takes chances on the wrong people.
"Game? This is no game ― this is my livelihood we are discussing, you insufferable cad!" He is gaping at her, muttering apologies. But she will not listen. "Neal Cassidy, you know nothing of who I am and what I want."
Emma tries to mount Rose on her own, but she needs a boost to get on and she is unwilling to ask Neal for help. Throwing the reins at him, she stomps off in the direction they came. It is a long walk back to the manor ― her feet already hurt from the mere thought of it.
She does not get very far before there's a rumbling and the sound of heavy hooves hitting the ground.
Someone shouting her name.
The telling gallop of a horse.
Turning around, Emma gasps as Neal stops short, lifts her up in front of him like a rag doll, and then urges the mare forward with a sharp flick of the reins. She barely has time to settle onto the saddle, legs sliding apart, before her hair is streaming behind her and her eyes are watering. The monkey grip has been removed. Reaching for a fistful of the horse's mane, she hangs on to the long strands of hair with all her might.
Neal's arms tighten around her waist as her back collides with his chest. He snaps the reins again, guiding Rose among the trees, and Emma struggles to stay in place, her heart jumping up and down from every ripple of movement. The horse canters faster and faster, until they are in the meadows and the landscape is a streak of color.
She does not know if she should scream or shout or cry out from joy. Neal behaved like a scoundrel, challenging her so, but this ― this...
The true meaning of the wind was never clear until this moment.
Free as a bird, her heart dancing, Emma has finally found her sky and is soaring among the clouds.
Humming softly as she sweeps the floor, she glances at the windows she washed moments ago. Every surface in the cottage is shiny, even sparkling in the gleam of light that peeks through the glass. There is nothing like a tidy home, something she can take care of and watch over.
Inanimate objects are the safest things to become attached to. It is easier to cut off or forget about a material good than say, a person. She glares at the wooden chest, where Neal's letters and notes lie. Oh, that she understands all too well.
For the most part, Emma has been spending the last few days by herself, focusing on her teaching. August most graciously invited her to supper with his father, who seemed to be eager to talk with her again. She was thrilled to hear that and gladly accepted. She really likes Marco ― he has a warmth and charisma few people possess, and she feels honored that he enjoys her company. It would be nice to have these two men as her friends.
She's not alone. She needs to keep that in mind with every breath she takes.
The strands of stiff straw rustle against the wooden floor, reminding her that if she does not get rid of all the dust and dirt the broom has collected, it will just settle back into the corners where it was hiding before.
Careful to keep hold of the dust pile, she reaches for the door handle with the other. Quick as can be, she opens the door, scrapes the broom forward, and flings the dust out. Unfortunately, she forgot that the open windows would create a substantial draft ― one that blows the efforts of her cleaning straight into the air.
And right into the surprised faces of David and Mary Margaret, who both start coughing and sneezing from the sudden cloud. It seems the former was about to knock on her door.
"Dear Lord, I am so sorry," Emma squeaks out, covering her mouth with her hands. The broom crashes to the floor.
David's eyes are watery when he tries to smile. "It's, eh, just a little grit." He bends down to pick up the broomstick, offering it to her. "Mary Margaret, are you alright?"
Eyes squeezed shut, she searches her person and pulls out a small white handkerchief, dabbing at her eyelids. Then she sneezes again, into the cloth. "I'm fine." She shakes her head as if to wake herself up, finally looking at Emma. "Good afternoon!"
Emma squirms, all too aware of her soiled apron and shoes, the knotted scarf covering her hair. She has been cleaning since she came home from the schoolhouse, and this is most certainly not the way she wanted her friends to see her. She looks and feels dirty. "Hello," she replies in a small voice. "I honestly did not know you were behind the door, or I never would have―"
"Really, it's okay." Her gaze is as kind as always, and her smile is true. David nods his assent, running a hand through his hair. "We live on farmland, Emma ― we're used to dust. You have nothing to apologize for."
She sighs in relief. "Thank you."
David joins in, "We actually stopped by to ask if you'd like to have a picnic with us."
"Now? But isn't it too late in the day for a picnic?"
Mary Margaret laughs. "It is not nearly sunset yet. Besides, it is just down the road ― Ruth has been asking after you."
"She did?" Suddenly, her poor state of dress does not matter so much. "Well, if I might have a few moments to find my bonnet and shawl, I'd love to join you."
The smirk on her friend's face is telling, especially when she glances at the two items hanging on the decrepit coat rack by the door. She steers David away from the door and they wait outside while Emma washes her hands and her face, combs her hair, and wipes down her apparel. She has to remind herself to lock the door.
Secure in the thought that her home is safe and clean ― one can never be too certain about either ― she soon finds that her bonnet is unnecessary, as the sunshine is not strong and the breeze has become mild. She ties it around her neck nonetheless, not willing to go back and leave it behind.
The trio set off down the lane, Mary Margaret chattering gaily about her daily activities and some incident with the baker's wife. David listens, saying little. Emma also finds herself at a loss for words, too busy staring at the wide open fields leading to the Nolans' farm.
She is accustomed to seeing gates and fences, men marking their territory and making the world that much smaller. The emptiness of enclosed land reminds her that life is a set of chains. Women are never expected to be more than they appear to be, like a landscape behind stone walls. At first glance, it is mere property, for no one sees the thriving home of the creatures who inhabit it, plant and animal alike.
The exception was Graham, who told her that she can be so much more than a simple governess. Perhaps she was born to see the world, explore new lands, map out water and terra firma that have not been discovered yet. Perhaps she could be a great leader, who changes the country for the better.
All she knows is that she feels, in the deepest part of her heart, that she is meant to change lives. In small ways, or in big ways. For better, or for worse. But people will not even give her a chance to do that, because she is forced to model the paragon of womanhood, which states impossible things.
A woman ought to be kind. A woman ought to be gentle. A woman ought to be a wife and a mother.
By those standards, she is a lost cause.
"Hurry up, you three ― the bread will be stale by the time you get here." Upon seeing them, Ruth waves from her spot on the picnic blanket, which is under a leafy apple tree. There is no fruit hanging from the branches, but there are plenty of leaves and thick buds, a good indication that blooms will soon follow in their stead. Grinning from ear to ear, David waves right back. His eyes are so bright with love for his mother that Emma has to look away.
They wade through tall grasses and resting hay to get to Ruth. Seeing Mary Margaret lift her skirts above her ankles, Emma does the same so she doesn't trip over the layers of her own dress. She lags behind on purpose, not wanting to interrupt the reunion between mother and son. Although they live together and see each other every day, their mutual attachment is stronger than any separation. As she watches them interact, her desire for the parents she never had is rekindled, burning at the forefront of her mind.
To see a mother's loving smile is to look upon the face of God.
Her arrival entailed of a one-hour carriage ride from the station.
Pink blossoms from swaying tree branches swats at her head as the driver ― who never offered her his name ― clucks at the horse to go a little faster. The long road seems to go on forever. Tall, motionless cypresses line both sides, mute soldiers who eye her as she passes under their watch.
Robin's estate was wild, more forest than civilized abode. Oaks and spruces and evergreen pines with overlapping limbs all threatened to swallow Sherwood Manor whole ― a small ship floating in the middle of a dark green sea.
This house is different, more luxurious cottage than sprawling mansion, with simple off-white paint and Dorian columns lining the walls. It guards acres of meadows and flowering fields, with trees distant and spread out among high grasses. It is a quaint building, clearly custom designed by an architect.
She loves it already because of the lilacs, climbing rampant over the gates with their mother shrubs clearly left untrimmed. They give the house a human touch, make it less strange and new.
"This is it, Miss." Holding her gloved hand firmly, the driver tries to help her down from the carriage, but she almost slips off the last step. The wide-brimmed straw hat she wore for the trip tilts to the side, and the heels of her shoes sink into the soft earth.
There are no other servants at the gate. Hefting her sole piece of luggage, the carriage driver unlatches it, barely leaving enough room for her to squeeze through the iron bars. With the clang, the gate shuts closed behind them ― the end to one story, and the start of another.
The finely etched oak door calls out, full of promises.
For the first time since they met, the driver gives Emma a wry smile, his gaze filled with pity. She must look a sight, unwilling to move, cowering beside him. Her feet feel glued to the ground. "The Humberts are good folk, Miss. You'll be alright here."
She only hopes that it's true.
"Mother, if you have any more lemonade, you'll finish it all," David whines. When Ruth laughs merrily with Mary Margaret, he takes advantage of their distraction and steals the jug away.
"My darling boy, with his sweet tooth ― he does love his sugar so." She reaches over and pinches his cheek. His entire face flushes crimson.
Leaning back on her hands, Emma grins, enjoying the family scene in front of her. It has been far too long since she shared a similar one. Graham and his mother. Pushing away thoughts of her pending reply to his letter, she stares up at the sky, so near sunset but not yet touching that time of day. It is peaceful here, under the shade of this gigantic tree. She can almost smell the mouth-watering scent of apple blossoms.
Her stomach growls at this, satisfied and full to the brim. Supper was light, consisting of baked potatoes and beans and buttered bread and a berry pie Ruth made herself. David seemed to be embarrassed when they were passing the few dishes around. Did he think Emma would turn her nose up at humble fare, when she has eaten such meals all her life?
No bountiful feast at a rich man's table can compare to home-baked bread and the fruit of the earth.
After enduring more teasing from his mother, David points out a solitary figure in the distance, walking along the main road. "Hey, isn't that Killian?" Jumping to his feet, he cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, "Jones ― Jones! Don't make me use my shepherd's crook to pull you over here!"
The suspenders he has over his trousers, and the straw top hat he tips respectfully in greeting, complete his look as a gentleman farmer, a handsome figure against that natural background she loves so much. He pauses, then climbs over the main fence meant to keep the sheep in, but he doesn't come closer or approach them. David walks out to him and they become engaged in an animated conversation. She cannot believe her eyes when they shake hands and Killian walks back to the path, using the small gate to exit the field. Not knowing why, she rises to her feet.
When David hops over, slightly out of breath, Mary Margaret asks, "How is he?"
"Right as rain." He uses the ladies' divided attention as an opportunity to finish the last of the lemonade. Ruth mock frowns at him. "Said he'd love to stay, but he has work to do at the lighthouse. He sends his salutations to you all."
It sounds like he did not stay because she is here. Emma frowns. She steps nearer to David so that her words will not be overhead. "Is that all he said?"
His glance is pointed when he answers, "He did ask about you. He asked if you are well."
He wants to stop looking at them ― at her, smiling and laughing, looking happy and peaceful among the Nolans and David's lass. She is clearly enjoying their picnic ― and I am bloody glad of it, he reprimands himself.
It is torturous to be so close and yet so far away from Emma's presence, the one thing in his life right now that brings him a glimmer of hope and light. But he is a glutton for punishment. He sharply turns his face away from the sight in front of him.
Clinging to the shadows of the trees and a pole of the fence, Killian keeps his hat lowered down and peers from underneath the brim as he stares at the dusty road ahead, long and winding and leading to his empty house. He should walk off, turn back to his cliff where he hangs onto the edge of his own sorrows, not worrying about Emma's pain. Hasn't he suffered enough, without caring for yet another who needs more than he can give?
He will keep his word, go through with his plans. Emma was right. It is wrong of him to allow his feelings for her to grow. She is a flower in the midst of weeds ― and he is such a weed, a choking, grasping man who has nothing but a broken body and broken dreams. It is dangerous for her to be entangled with him.
"Killian."
His eyes snap open. Her hands curl over the top plank of the fence as she leans against it.
When she catches him ogling her lips, she lowers her gaze to the ground, blushing. His heart will not leave him alone, caught on the image of loveliness before him. The feelings he wants so desperately to quash ― for her sake ― rattle around in his chest and his head, until he is dizzy from her.
"You won't stay?" she whispers. Her hair is blown about her shoulders by the rising wind on the lane, causing her to tuck her curls behind her ears.
His hand itches to do that for her, but he keeps himself in check. He thought honesty was lost to him, but he can be open and direct with her, not mincing words. "It is better if I do not," he stammers, his voice hoarse and low to his own ears.
The hurt that ripples across her expression takes him by surprise. "Why? Have I done something to upset you?" She swallows, then bites down on her lower lip. "You do not have to go because of me. I can go―"
"No," Killian nearly shouts. Seeing her flinch, he clears his throat. "It is not that. I thought you would like some time alone with the Nolans."
Without me.
Emma looks puzzled. "And why does that mean you cannot join us?"
Out with it, Jones. "If I recall correctly, love, the last time we were in the same space, you were quite distraught." It is hard to tiptoe around the memory of her crying, or his choice to give her hope he doesn't have himself.
"That wasn't because of you," she says quickly. "That was..."
"More memories?" He cocks his head.
"Yes," she whispers back, bowing her head. Her shoulders drop. "It had nothing to do with you, Killian. You were considerate and kind―"
He scoffs at that. "Kind? Me? Not bloody likely, lass."
Emma squints hard at the bottom of the fence post. No doubt she has seen a squirrel hole, he thinks. She bends down, and her golden locks tumble forward. Killian cannot stop himself from inhaling the wave of her perfume, savoring the blood cascading through his veins.
Then she straightens, staring at whatever it is she now has in her hands.
A wildflower, with long white petals. She is holding it out to him by the stem, reaching through the wooden bars between them. "I was meaning to ask when I should return for my portrait."
Their fingers touch when he takes her offering.
A smile tugs at his lips, and he tucks the flower into the pocket of his trousers. "I might be able to complete it from memory."
"Good Lord, you will not even let me have an excuse to come up and visit you, will you?" she chuckles. Her cheeks are still pink.
Now it is his turn to swallow thickly. "I was not aware that was something you wanted."
"It is." Her hand clasps his, warm and soft and gentle. "I hope you see me as a friend. I care for my friends."
Only common sense ― his iron resolve ― some vain glimmer of reason pulls him back from lunging forward, cupping the nape of her neck, and kissing her senseless. Squeezing her hand, Killian tries to smile back. He shouldn't be bloody welcoming her to the lighthouse, when she is not supposed to come before it's ready for her.
Nevertheless, she seems satisfied with that response. Turning around, Emma starts to walk in the direction of the far-off picnic.
When she notices he's not following, she turns her head and looks back at him. "Well? Aren't you coming?"
She is inviting him to be with her.
She wants him to walk by her side.
Damn his promise to stand back.
Grinning widely, Killian jumps over the fence for the third time. She is halfway across the field when he catches up to her, running like a madman. The smile she gives him then makes his heart thrum slow, steady beats.
The way Emma looks at him in that moment makes him all the more determined to make her happy.