Pleasurable Pursuits

"Emilia, are you all right?" Charlotte asked, gripping her shoulder. "You look like...you look like..."

"Please do not say it."

Charlotte shook her head, golden curls bouncing as she grabbed Emilia's hand. "We must away. I think Matthew's caught onto us," she said, nose curling at her brother's name. "We could have been in the carriage by now, but someone decided to vanish."

Emilia gave her a cross look as, again, they weaved through the crush of bodies, making for the front door. She couldn't resist stealing a glance behind her, but there was no sight of Averleigh. They emerged into the cool night air, and true to form, Charlotte's carriage awaited them.

"You must tell me everything," Charlotte said now, the command punctuated by the firm click of the door. She knocked on the roof, and they set off with a jolt.

Emilia stared up at Lucinda Lovegrove's shrinking townhome, thinking quite honestly that she didn't even know where to begin.

September 1830

Bath

It rained an excessive amount in Bath, fat, cold droplets that had a way of slipping beneath even the tightest of collars. Emilia sat back on the overstuffed settee in her aunt's favorite parlor at Wintervale Park and watched as water sluiced down the windows. Good for the plants, at least. Her relatives' home had fantastically manicured grounds, and the gardens boasted vivid roses of all colors and healthy herbs that flavored Cook's dishes in the most delightful ways.

Besides her aunt, there was Uncle Edmond, her father's younger brother and a successful businessman in his own right, head of a local shipping company. A modest number of maids and footmen were also quiet fixtures in the main house. It was a plain but charming brownstone, a Tudor-style manor, the interior decorating out of date but well cared for. It could, Emilia concluded, be worse.

"Where is Lulabelle? Emilia, have you seen Lulabelle? LULABELLE!"

Good grief, but Aunt Henrietta had a set of lungs on her, even at two-and-sixty. The object of her aunt's affection sauntered out from underneath a chair near the fireplace, stretching her front legs without a care in the world.

"Oh, darling, there you are," Aunt Hattie cooed, patting her lap. The spoiled white Persian jumped up, curling upon the woman's navy woolen skirts. Her aunt looked up at Emilia with sharp, rheumy eyes that missed nothing. Her grayed hair was pulled up in an elegant chignon, and her jowls waggled slightly as she spoke. "I do hope you've been adjusting well, my dear. Is there anything I or Uncle Edmond can do to provide more comfortable accommodations?"

Emilia thought back to her quarters, the faded blue carpet, the small but comfortable bed, the worn writing desk where she spent hours penning letters to Charlotte.

"Everything's been lovely, Aunt Hattie, thank you. Cook mentioned she wanted to steal me away to work on a new soothing salve later this week," Emilia said.

"Excellent, the last one worked very well on Edmond's gout," she said matter-of-factly.

Emilia made a face that her aunt could not see. Her uncle meant well, but had become a handful in his old age, rife with at least six ailments at a time, most if not all of them imagined.

From the doorway, a throat cleared. "Pardon me, ma'am, Miss Townsend, but the day's post has arrived," Bevins, Wintervale Park's butler announced, his tone as stiff as his posture.

"Oh, wonderful! I am eager to read the reviews from that new theatre play that came out last month. I've been begging Edmond for a trip to London, but the long travel bothers his -"

"His gout, yes," Emilia said, trying to project as much sympathy into her voice as she could.

She stood to take the post, rifling through a couple invitations for her aunt, correspondence for her uncle, and bless, a letter from Charlotte. Once she had disbursed everything accordingly, she took the seat overlooking the back gardens, and began to read.

Dearest Em,

I, for one, am thoroughly shocked that Bath is not a hotbed of revelry and mischief. You must make strides to change that moving forward. As it were, I find myself in the same tedious boat as you, for Matthew has ordered that I am to stay indoors "for the foreseeable future" after my "ridiculous stunt" at Lucinda's. Why my brother decides to act an ogre from some folk tale, I can't say; it truly exasperates me. Of course, it is much quieter in London now that the Season is over, so I take comfort in the fact I am not missing out on the best it has to offer.

I read your sister Abigail's engagement announcement in the papers last weekend! Can you imagine finding the man one will be stuck with for the rest of one's life in a single Season? The baron and Lady Bromley must be ecstatic, but I wonder if the feeling is mutual for Abigail.

That aside, at least you'll have the memory of the Earl of Averleigh's lecherous ways to keep you warm through the rainy Bath nights. I promise to visit as soon as Matthew lets me out of my tower!

Write soon,

Missing you dearly,

Please come rescue me from my brother,

Char

Emilia couldn't help but grin as she read, her best friend's voice almost sounding in her ears, but her heart thumped at Charlotte's comment on her scandalous excursion two months past; best not to let anyone see this particular missive. She tucked it safely into the pocket of her yellow muslin day dress and sat back with a sigh, unable to ignore the thrilling sensation in her stomach at any thought or mention of that man, or his wonderful mouth, or his talented hands -

"Did you hear me, Emilia?" Aunt Hattie said, waving her handkerchief like a white flag.

Emilia sat straight up and tried to push away the feelings of guilt. "Apologies, Aunt. What did you say?"

The old woman huffed, then smiled. "Margaret and the children will be making their way over to join us for dinner on the morrow!"

"Oh, how lovely," Emilia said, bringing her hands together. She hadn't seen her older cousin and Margaret's daughters in nearly a decade, and looked forward to company under the age of sixty.

"Please tell Cook to prepare a roast for the occasion and bring out a cask of the good wine. Now, I'm off for my afternoon nap," she said, shooing Lulabelle off her lap. "Wake me at exactly half past two; no sooner, no later. I'm sure you will find something to do in the meantime."

Emilia nodded as she contemplated rushing out into the rain and yelling into the void. "Indeed, Aunt Hattie. Enjoy your rest."

~

The following day, Emilia found herself nearly ankle-deep in wet soil. Cook had remanded her services in preparation for that night's dinner. "Mrs. Beacham, is this the mugwort you were referring to?"

"Good eye, Miss Townsend," the ruddy-faced woman replied, wiping her soil-covered hands on the generous expanse of apron tied around her waist. "That'll cut the beef fat nicely."

Before Emilia could ask about the leaf properties of mugwort, a dreadful screeching sound rent the air, and it took her a moment to realize it had come front inside the manor. She and Cook stared at each other, wide-eyed, before Emilia stood and dashed toward the house, most of her hair escaping from the kerchief she'd used to keep it back. Her mind flashed with the possibilities. Had Aunt Hattie fallen? Had Uncle Edmond expired over his luncheon? She flung open the glass paned double doors that led to the back parlor room, sprinting into the hallway.

"What is it? What is the matter?" Emilia shouted, stopping short when she came upon the crowded foyer.

"Emilia! Your cousins are here!" Aunt Hattie said, gesturing with her bejeweled walking cane to the four individuals ridding themselves of their outerwear, pink-cheeked with excitement.

She sagged against the corner of the doorway, pressing a hand to her chest. Emilia was certainly no athlete, and the sudden exertion had left her winded. She started when Cook nearly plowed into her back, equally worried and demanding to know what was going on.

"Good lord, what is the matter with you two?" the old woman asked, frowning as she took in the sight of them.

Cook dipped into a low curtsy, her bulbous nose nearly parallel with the freshly waxed floor. "Begging your pardon, mum, excuse me, I had just thought - well, that is, never mind, mum," she muttered, retreating from the hallway still half-bowed.

Lucky woman.

Aunt Hattie waved her hand as if to clear the air. "How was your journey, my dears?"

"Fifteen miles is hardly a journey, Mother," Margaret said good-naturedly, stooping a bit to press a kiss on her mother's cheek.

Emilia's older cousin was in her late thirties, attractive with chestnut hair and rich brown eyes set in a warm, round face. She had been quite sought after in her youth; Emilia remembered the bouquets and gifts of affection that packed their London townhome during her first season. She had been all of ten or so, staying up exceedingly late to hear stories of grand balls and handsome suitors.

Margaret turned her attention to Emilia, looking perplexed. "Cousin Emilia! You look...well." She smiled uncertainly.

It was then that Emilia remembered that her brown, well-worn dress was decorated in dirt and foliage, her hair windswept and tangled where it wasn't covered. She looked down at her boots to see they were caked in mud, and she knew immediately she had tracked a path through the manor. She reddened. "Please excuse me, I was out in the gardens."

"Doing what?" the oldest of the younger girls demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

If she remembered correctly, this would be Genevieve, who had always been a bit...spirited. The girl had inherited her mother's beauty, but her hair was fair, the color of cornsilk, and her eyes were blue, enviously lashed. She'd be ten-and-seven, then, just shy of her first Season that would be sponsored by Emilia's mother. The other of the daughters, Anne and Felicity, stood behind their mother, muttering to each other.

Ignoring the unfriendliness behind her younger cousin's question, Emilia smiled. "I was helping Cook collect herbs for tonight's dinner."

"Like a servant?"

"Genevieve," Margaret warned.

"Our Emilia is actually quite proficient when it comes to botany and the like. It is good for ladies to have useful skills, granddaughter," Aunt Hattie said pointedly.

Genevieve made a face.

Emilia's heart swelled. The baroness, her own mother, had never approved of her outdoor pursuits. She shot a grateful look at her aunt before she spoke. "Nevertheless, it won't do for me to look like some monstrosity from the loch," she said, and the youngest Townsend, little Felicity, giggled. "I will freshen up before dinner."

Hours later, the seven of them sat down to a bountiful dinner of squash-and-pumpkin soup, root vegetables, and a deliciously tender roast.

"Cook has outdone herself; don't you think?" Uncle Edmond boasted from the head of the table, chair pushed back to accommodate his sizable belly.

"You say so every time, my love," Aunt Hattie said, sipping the wine that had been brought up, a sweet red.

"Yes, well, it's true every time," he grumbled. "Anne, how are your studies going? Your father mentions you have a head for figures."

The middle Townsend sister was a quiet, brooding sort of girl, reminding Emilia very much of herself. She looked uncomfortable at the sudden attention. "Not as challenging as I would like, but moving along, Grandfather," she shrugged. "Though it is no matter."

"Why would you say such a thing?" Margaret asked around a mouthful of roast, frowning.

"Dear, do not speak with your mouth full," Aunt Hattie said.

Before Margaret or Anne could respond, Genevieve interrupted. "She wants to be a mathematician," she announced to the table. "Imagine that! A woman mathematician! She'll most likely end up like Cousin Emilia. Men do not pursue women for their studies. They pursue them for their pianoforte and conversation skills."

"And you certainly make a lot of conversation, dear cousin," Emilia said with a tight smile, resisting the urge to chuck a carrot at the younger girl's forehead.

Anne snorted, and then covered it with a cough. Genevieve remained oblivious.

"Grandmother! Grandfather! Guess what?" Felicity said, breaking the small cloak of tension. She was totally cherubic, all soft blonde curls and rosy cheeks.

"What is it, dearest?" Aunt Hattie asked, her chin resting on her palm, an indulgent smile forming as she waited.

"I got in big trouble from Mama and Papa the other day because I learned how to do a handstand! Mama said it is impolite because my skirt falls over my head and everyone can see my pantaloons!"

Uncle Edmond choked on his drink as Margaret turned bright red and rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. Emilia grinned as the family continued to converse and bicker, even as something like wistfulness flooded her. It had never been like this at Bromley House, for her mother was demanding and militant, and her father was always off someplace or another avoiding her mother. The relationship she had with her younger sister was civil at best, uninteresting at worst.

Emilia had always imagined she would be the indulgent kind of mother, especially where any daughters were concerned. She supposed she didn't have to worry about such things anymore. Suddenly, Cook's marvelous roast turned tasteless in her mouth, and she forced herself to swallow.

Later, as they made their way through a dessert of berries and clotted cream, Genevieve demanded attention once more.

"I heard the most interesting bit of gossip the other day," she said, wiping her mouth daintily. She had barely touched her dessert for fear of "ruining her figure."

"My governess says it is not polite to gossip!" Felicity said through a mouthful of berries.

Genevieve ignored her. "A lord straight from the upper crust is returning to his country seat shortly. They say he is an earl."

Emilia's heart quickened, but she brushed off the sudden nerves. It couldn't be. How many earls resided in all of England?

"Evie, where did you hear such a thing?" Margaret asked.

"From my dearest friend Molly Stanhope who heard it from Mrs. Stanhope who heard it from Lady Deerborn who heard it from Lady Havisham who -"

"You realize we are nearly done with dessert, yes?" Aunt Hattie said dryly.

"Still, it's so exciting!" Genevieve clapped her hands. "Mama, we must go to the tailors and have my wardrobe updated. What if we run into an actual earl?"

"Eh? Who's Earl?" Uncle Edmond demanded, finally looking up from his second helping of dessert.

"They speak of the supposed arrival of a peer of the realm, love," Aunt Hattie explained.

"Ah, of course," he said, reaching for his wife's hand. "That'll be Averleigh. He's young, but sharp. I do plenty of business with him."

Emilia's mouth fell open. This could not be happening.

"Good work ethic," Uncle Edmond continued. "I actually played mentor to him myself, you know."

Of all the damnedest coincidences...

"In fact, I meant to mention that I plan to have him over for dinner once he's settled at his estate. Haven't seen the lad in an age. We must give him a warm welcome back to the countryside."

Averleigh. Here. In Bath. Her mind swirled, and so did her stomach.

"Grandfather, you know him?" Genevieve demanded at a near-shout, slamming her palms down on the table. Anne rolled her eyes. "You said he is young...how young? Is he handsome? Does he have a wife?"

"We have a pup named Earl," Felicity said.

"Enough with these tedious questions, gel," the old man grumbled, looking at his wife for assistance.

"May I be excused?" Emilia asked, louder than she'd intended to.

"Are you all right, Emilia?" Margaret asked.

No. "Yes! Just a bit tired, is all."

"Probably all the mucking about in the dirt," Genevieve said, widening her eyes and sticking her lower lip out.

Emilia was going to strangle her.

"Of course, niece. The evening is yours to retire," Aunt Hattie said, watching her closely.

"Right. Thank you." She stood fast, and her utensils clattered against her plate.

"Goodness, do not break anything, cousin." Genevieve again.

Emilia did not reply and swiftly exited the room, her thoughts jumbled and racing. She had to write Charlotte and tell her that life surely must be playing the grandest jest, and that she was the target. Briefly, she contemplated absconding into the night to avoid the problem entirely, but Aunt Hattie had grown on her too much.

She entered her chamber, cast in shadows from the setting sun, and promptly fell face first onto her bed. She was well aware the word was frowned upon, but Emilia screamed into the bedclothes nonetheless.

"Fuck!"

~

In all honesty, Garrett St. James preferred the countryside to London. The water was cleaner here, and so was the air. He raced along the road, probably faster than his better judgement, but he hadn't been able to ride as such in the city, and Macbeth, temperamental stallion that he was, needed the exercise.

He wasn't exactly looking forward to dinner at Wintervale Park, but he had accepted Townsend's invitation despite this, as the man was mostly responsible for Garrett getting his foot in the shipping industry nearly a full decade ago. At three-and-twenty, it had been a dark time in his life, his father's passing a fresh sore, and his mother prone to fits of misery and weeping. Garrett had always admired and respected his father, so it was quite a shock to discover the man's immense gambling debts. His sister Portia had tried to offset the weight of his dubious inheritance with her dowry, but Garrett had refused, for it wasn't her place to worry about such things.

Mr. Townsend's estate was much as he remembered it, unassuming but well-kept, the winding pathway to the front neatly manicured, a small, bubbling fountain in the center. Bevins, the Townsends' butler (and Christ, the man had to be eighty if he was a day) stood waiting on the front steps, two groomsmen at his side. The three of them swept into a bow as he dismounted.

"Well met, Lord Averleigh. I trust your, er, ride over was pleasant?"

He probably should have taken the carriage, but the evening was unusually warm and clear, and he hadn't been able to resist. "It was, Bevins, thank you."

The man glowed with pride that Garrett had remembered his name. "Your horse shall be fed and watered in the stables during your stay. Please, come."

Garrett stepped into the foyer where Bevins took his outerwear, and his mouth began to water at the scent of the dinner that awaited him.

"Averleigh, m'boy!" a booming voice greeted him, and Mr. Edmond Townsend himself waddled towards the front of the house, leaning heavily on his cane.

"Mr. Townsend," he inclined his head, grasping the man's pudgy hand. "You are looking hale."

Edmond guffawed. "If only you saying such could make it so. The gout is killing me these days! That's not to mention these weak knees, and a small cough that I am beginning to suspect is a marker of consumption..."

Townsend rambled on about the various diseases he seemed to be battling all at once, and Garrett ran a hand through his hair, half in tempered impatience and half in attempt to tame the thick, unruly curls. He'd let his hair grow out a bit, and now he was dying for a chop, but for some reason, his valet kept talking him out of it.

"...anyways, Averleigh, do not get old. Come now, the wife and our girls are waiting."

Girls...plural? He would have to interact with more than Mr. and Mrs. Townsend tonight? Christ. Townsend led him to a drawing room with a seafoam-green theme that truly captured the essence of a blustery seaside town, various nautical knickknacks decorating the fireplace mantle, oil paintings of lighthouses and beaches, and sandy-colored furnishings. He heard excited chattering even before they entered.