Young Writers Society

Chapter 1:

On dull, rainy days, such as this, Elizabeth Marton would find herself with almost nothing to do. Her younger sisters, Anne and Kitty, the latter being an unquiet, rowdy sort of girl, would always busy themselves in some manner - Anne usually with a book in the library. Consequently, Elizabeth would find herself in the company of her elder sister, Janet. And very good company it was, too. When the weather persisted on crying, talking seemed to be the best remedy.

It just so happened, that, upon one of these such days, it was announced that a ball would be attended the following Wednesday, held by Inklefield's, the house over the way, latest resident; a young gentleman of not more than seven-and-twenty and with a large fortune to his name. He was, of course, none other than the man with the title: Mr. Edmund Fitzwield, whom had been the source of many a chinwag amongst the ladies of the area, as the question of whether or not he was single was the sole concern of many the richer ladies, including Elizabeth's mother, Mrs Marton. What with four young daughters to marry off, and not one son whom could inherit her husband's main fortune after his death, the subject of Mr Fitzwield's engagement, whether under way or not, was very much to her interest.

And so, once the invitation to the ball at Inklefield house had been delivered, many of the members of Roland house were bubbling with excitement. Elizabeth wasn't, however, although she she looked forward to it very much and nor was her father, or her sister Janet, the latter being about as much interest as Elizabeth herself was. But for her mother, Mary and Kitty, the subject of the ball was very much of interest and discussed to such a degree that even Janet, with her sweet temper and placid ways complained, as positively as possible, about the affair to Elizabeth.

"It simply won't do," she told Elizabeth one evening whilst they were perched upon the chairs in the parlor "That the others are conversing in such an obsessive manner about these things! Kitty's mind is rouge enough without more being contributed."

"All the same, my darling Janet," replied Elizabeth, for once upholding position as consoler. "I do look forward to the prospective schemes very much and you cannot deny how much you love a dance."

Janet let out a little sigh "True, Lizzie. It is true. And I am, too, very excited about the opportunity to start new acquaintances..."

"Well then, you must focus on that!" Exclaimed Elizabeth, and the matter of the ball was no longer discussed by the two eldest Martons.

Chapter 2:

The following Wednesday, the very day the ball was to take place, came round at last. Mrs Marton bustled around the house in such an agitated manner that her husband felt the need of shutting himself up in the library until the carriage arrived to take them to Inklefields. "Oh my goodness!" Mrs Marton kept exclaiming "Janet, darling, ask one of the maids to do your hair!...And hurry, Anne! Put that book away and find Kitty's sash!"

Elizabeth, meanwhile, dressed without fuss and sought to keep out from under her mother's surveillance as much as possible. When the carriage arrived, however, Elizabeth hurried from her her room and seated herself promptly between her father and Janet, but only so that her mother could not lecture her.

Inklefield house was a fairly large, elegant being, standing at the foot of a shallow hill and with fields all around, pleasing all of the Martons greatly to see it. At the door, they were graciously handed out by a manservant, and lead towards the party, where two tall, handsome young men stood to welcome them.

"Mr. Fitzwield." Introduced one of the men and Elizabeth was sorry to see her mother increase greatly in pomp. "It is such a pleasure to meet you, dear sir, for we have heard so much about you. And, pray, introduce us to your most wonderful companion."

"Thank you." Nodded Mr. Fitzwield "And, yes, this is one rather particular friend of mine, Mr. Emmerson."

The second gentleman, Elizabeth was disgusted to see, did not even incline his head to acknowledge them all, and she shared a swift look with Janet, who looked equally amazed.

But Mr. Fitzwield, noticing nothing peculiar about his friend's behavior said "Mr Emmerson owns a large estate further up north. Near the Peaks, I believe." And glanced at his friend to continue.

Mr. Emmerson nodded curtly "Yes. Pickely house. You may, perhaps, have knowledge of it." His voice was of deep, curt nature. Mature, but with an edge of immense pride to it. Not at all like Mr. Fitzwield's whom's was gentle and modest, although, too, being of mature quality.

Mrs Marton, eager to please, nodded readily. "Why, yes." she said. "I have indeed heard of it." And without further ado, she changed the topic, most unskillfully, back to her own family, introducing her husband, daughters, then, again, her daughters, to the gentlemen. Edmund Fitzwield looked rather amused, but seemed, at least, to take great interest in the family, nodding, smiling, and just generally being civil to all of them throughout the conversation, unlike Mr. Emmerson, whom was rudely examining his fingernails and the embroidered tapestry behind. Again, Mr. Fitzwield took no notice and Elizabeth wondered, as they were lead into the ballroom, where many a celebrator was already gathered, what had brought on such strange behavior. But her sisters and parents seemed completely unperturbed and embraced the spirit of the dance floor with relish. The Martons had been the last to arrive, hence the gentlemen following them into the ballroom and, whilst her parents waved over the Joneses, a family with whom they were very well acquainted, and her sisters found their own company in others, Elizabeth, left alone, moved towards the edge of the dance floor to watch Janet dance. Janet, with her pretty looks and fair ways, attracted many a partner and, as Elizabeth watched, her sister danced nine dances, very gracefully, in a row. Thrice, even, she danced with none other than Mr. Fitzwield himself, which was more than could be said about the other young ladies in the room.

Once she was quite satisfied with watching the dances, she turned and moved away from the floor, towards the side of the ballroom, which was the habitat of many a table and comfortable chair. However, upon reaching the area and selecting a table to sit at, Elizabeth Marton discovered that none other than Mr. Emmerson had followed her. Politely, she offered him a seat, which he took, without so much as a gesture, of any sort, given in return. Nor, for an entire minute and a half, did he say anything at all to her and it was only because Elizabeth, in an attempt to get him to talk, asked "Do you have any other relations down here, staying at Inkle field with you?" that he spoke at all.

Upon being asked this innocent question, a look of slight irritation crossed Mr. Emmerson's features and, although he did open his mouth, it was in a reluctant and contemptuous manner that he did so. "Two sisters. Both of them are younger than myself and are situated up in Pickely." And, with that, he was silent again.

Furious with him, Elizabeth was about to ask what he could ever mean by coming over to her if he should not wish to say even the tiniest of things to her, but, before she could allow these feelings of negativity to spill out, a cheerful voice boomed out from behind her "Good evening, Miss Marton."

Elizabeth jumped and turned around her head to focus on the face of the newcomer. It was Mr. Fitzwield, and he was accompanied by none other than her own elder sister, Janet.

"May we join you?" continued Mr. Fitzwield pleasantly, looking at Mr. Emmerson with a very odd, almost amused expression upon his face. "Goodness, Mr. Emmerson!" He then Exclaimed "I've been looking for you everywhere... As well as becoming acquainted with your charming companion's sister, Janet, here, of course." He added, and he beamed over his shoulder at Elizabeth's sister, who's cheeks grew pink, looking both nervous and pleased.

Emmerson said nothing.

Elizabeth nodded. "Oh, yes," she smiled "Janet is such a wonderful thing. Very kind, generous and easy-to-please."

And she watched Janet's cheeks grow even pinker.

"Anyway, Mr. Emmerson." Said Mr. Fitzwield, his attention, once again, on the reserved man seated beside Elizabeth. "As I said, I have been looking, most feverishly for you. Come and dance, dear friend, for I would love to watch, and pray bring along Miss Elizabeth as your lucky partner,"

Elizabeth groaned a little to herself, for, as much as she would have loved to dance, she felt sure that dancing with such a gentleman as Mr. Emmerson would be pretty awful indeed.

But she needn't have worried.

"Dance with her?" Asked Emmerson incredulously of his friend. "Tell me what on earth could ever tempt me to dance with such an ungraceful figure as her? She is a very plain girl; most certainly not pretty enough to dance with!"

It was, funnily enough, the longest and most spirited thin he had ever said in front of Elizabeth and, although it did hurt her pride a little to hear it, her curiosity was greatly aroused by the circumstances under which such an insult has occurred. Certainly, Elizabeth concluded, he was an arrogant man. Very proud and so much so, that no matter what he should have said to her, nothing could ever have tempted her to dance with him either.

Chapter 3:

Upon leaving Inklefields and returning home to Rolands, most of the rest of Elizabeth's family had heard what had been said of Elizabeth by Mr. Emmerson, told, Elizabeth presumed, by Janet, whom was such a confiding sort of person in times such as these, that was not to be blamed, for conversing over the matter, by Elizabeth. But it was Mrs Marton's decidedly talking of the matter over and over again, that caused Elizabeth's spirits to fall. "Oh, Lizzie!" Her mother kept saying "That most awful man! I am quite disgusted by him for imagine someone telling one of my daughters that she is plain and not pretty enough to dance with! Imagine!

"But Mama!" Reasoned Kitty, the youngest "Mr Emmerson is rich, of so everyone says, richer, even, than Mr. Fitzwield, and so he cannot be blamed so harshly of thinking others below him..."

But not one other person in the family was listening to her.

"Don't speak to him, Eliza!" Cried Mrs Marton heartily to her second eldest daughter - and very loudly, too; Secretly, Elizabeth wished her mother would quieten, but she dared ont say so.

"You must never have an acquaintance with a man as poorly-mannered as that! Never, Lizzie, do you hear me?" And Mrs Marton carried on her dire warnings and expressions of disgust throughout the rest of the evening.

Later that night, Elizabeth confessed to Janet that, although what Mr. Emmerson had said had been horrible of him, she couldn't help but be curious as to why the man behaved in such an awful manner. Janet agreed and the sisters parted, on friendly terms, to go to bed, promising one another that all was to be well in the morning.

However, it was not quite to be so. By morning, the news of Emmerson's disregard of Miss Marton had spread even to those in the town nearby and even though, at lunchtime, Mr. Fitzwield came round to supply a full and heartfelt apology of his friend's behavior, claiming, really rather gallantly, that he had not one, sole idea as to why Mr. Emmerson had been so out of character, Elizabeth could not be cheered up. Mr. Fitzwield also bid his compliments to all the family, especially Janet, a thing which excited Kitty and their mother immensely, for they were sure, most certainly sure, that Mr. Fitzwield's affections for Janet ran much deeper than mere friendship. As it was, however, the entire family was invited over to Inklefield's for the following day, and Elizabeth immediately vowed to steer well clear of Mr Emmerson, no matter how out of character his actions, according to Mr. Fitzwield, had been.

But, most unfortunately for Elizabeth, any chance of avoiding Mr Emmerson vanished the moment their carriage arrived at Inklefield's; In an attempt to compensate for his friends behavior and attitude, Mr Fitzwield had placed Elizabeth directly in the company of Mr. Emmerson so that they should have the chance of gaining some alliance. But, alas, it was not to be so. Mr Emmerson was just as uncivil to Elizabeth as he had been with her the day before, avoiding any contact with her eye, entirely ignoring her, as well as everyone else at dinner, stabbing at his potatoes with such venom that gravy splashed ever the tablecloth. All this nastiness, however, especially that at the dinner table, was brushed off by Elizabeth, not out of any compassion for him, but merely because she refused to lie wounded, under a variety of excuses, most of them backed up by a grateful Mr. Fitzwield, such as "Mr. Emmerson did mention his habits of forceful cutlery work to me the other day; it all comes down to the strength gained from handing so many young ladies out of their carriages, I suppose..." or "I've always heard that the best thinkers are the quietest thinkers, isn't that so, Mr. Fitzwield?" But there came a most unfortunate time after dinner, when Elizabeth, nor even noble friend Mr. Fitzwield, could ignore Mr. Emmerson's behavior any longer. It happened as Elizabeth was playing at cards, and, yet again, she had been seated next to Mr. Emmerson. Halfway through the game, on purpose, and for no good reason other than to spite her, the horrid man knocked her hand into the main deck, causing cards to spill all over the floor. As everyone glared at him, and Elizabeth's wild rage showed up in her bright eyes and flushed cheeks, Mr. Emmerson did, at least, and much to his credit, apologized, also, on Elizabeth's silent instruction, did he bend on his hands and knees and help her to pick them all up. But the damage had been done to their already negative relationship, and, as neither one could care much for the loss, Elizabeth thought of him even more badly than ever before.

Chapter 4:

It was shortly after the disastrous card game had been packed away, that an unfamiliar young woman, of about Janet's age appeared in the doorway and introduced herself as Miss Lucinda Fitzwield, younger sister of Mr Fitzwield. The reason, she said, that their present company had not yet had the pleasure of acquainting with her was because, since her, her brother's etc, had arrived at Inklefield house was because she had, most unfortunately, been taken ill upon their journey. She was a very unfeminine woman, with a broad nose and shoulders to match and heavy eyebrows, so much unlike Mr. Fitzwield in appearance and, it so seemed, nature. She was spiteful and domineering, and seemed very much on the side of Mr. Emmerson. She also, as was the opinion of Mr. Emmerson, thought Elizabeth plain and hateful and relished in even more delight than Mr. Emmerson in tormenting poor Elizabeth. She had not thought she could find a person, in this whole world, whom she hated more than Mr. Emmerson, but yet here was this woman, wickedly standing before her. In fact, Lucinda Fitzwield was disliked so much by everyone, even her own brother, although he, at least, tried to be civil towards her, that when Mr. Fitzwield called for a turn about the grounds, she was left partnerless and had to be grouped together with Kitty and Mary, neither of whom, looked particularly pleased about the matter.

Mr. Fitzwield himself, however, partnered, to Mrs Marton's delight, Elizabeth's sister Janet, then paired Elizabeth, herself, with Mr. Emmerson, the latter of which, silently took Miss Marton's arm with such a peculiar look astride his features, that Mr. Fitzwield good-naturedly teased his friend all the way down and out of the house. Mr. Emmerson, of course, scowled some more and said, amidst a mellow laugh from Mr. Fitzwield, that he would rather marry a slug than Elizabeth. Elizabeth, meanwhile, wisely chose to ignore it. If that dratted, awful man chose to be so ill-natured than so be it. At this rate he wouldn't get even a slug to be his wife, and that satisfied her. Likewise, for most of their journey, Mr. Emmerson ignored Elizabeth back.

There came a time, however, where Mr and Mrs Marton, Kitty, Anne and therefore Miss Fitzwield grew tired and walked back up the distance to the house. This turn in events left only four of them left, a-walking and what an odd mixture of people it was! There was Mr. Fitzwield, conversing animatedly with Janet, whilst in front, strode the entirely opposite couple, marching along like soldiers and not talking to each other, going at such a mighty pace, so eager to get out of the company of each other, so Elizabeth was sure, that they soon left Mr. Fitzwield and Janet quite behind. Now without fellow company, nor his friend to guide him in situation, Elizabeth, within several minutes of only the sound of their shoes and the path to accompany them, decided to make the utmost best out of the dismal walk, and decided to attempt at figuring out Mr. Emmerson's true and unconcealed character. Her first idea of a topic to make him talk, came about as they strode through an avenue of neatly pruned hedges and she said civilly "Do you much like gardening? For I feel as though hedges such as these must take up an awful amount of time to prune. Do you keep such things at Pickerly?"

Mr. Emmerson looked at Elizabeth in great surprise. "Yes." he curtly replied, "But I am not too fond of gardening myself."

"Me neither." Said Elizabeth. "I suppose, then, as you do no gardening yourself, that you must hire someone to keep your grounds for you?"

"Yes." Said he, and they walked, once more, in silence, although Elizabeth was using the time to try to make something of Mr. Emmerson's personality. If only he had asked some questions of his own, for then she might have managed it. The walk, she thought bitterly, had been very much wasted and she hoped that Janet's time with Mr. Fitzwield had been more productive, and it was, that night, of Mr. Fitzwield, as she lay in bed. Why, she wondered, was he so desperately keen for her to become acquainted with Mr. Emmerson?

Chapter 5:

Over the next few weeks, whilst Mr. Fitzwield became more attached than ever to her sister, Janet, Elizabeth grew less and less civil towards Mr. Emmerson, so much, this showed, in fact, that he even left her alone for a short while, keeping out of her way as much as possible. His friend, on the other hand, Mr. Fitzwield, seemed persistently determined to build even just a fragile alliance between Elizabeth and Mr. Emmerson that he was insistent on their never leaving each others' sides. The reason why, we are soon to find out.

Funnily enough for poor Elizabeth, however, it was not only Mr Emmerson who hated her. From even their first proper meeting, during which she had rudely criticized Elizabeth's choice of dress, Miss Lucinda Fitzwield had made it quite clear that she, like Emmerson, whom she seemed to admire, cared less for Elizabeth than she would of a dead fly on her pride rosemary bush in the garden. By now, however, everyone in the town knew of the feuds between two people associated with Inklefield house and Miss Marton and, although Elizabeth chose to ignore it, the feelings acquired, when two people so severely hate you, are not nice burdens to have.

The Martons were, once again, at Inklefield when the discovery, made by Elizabeth's sister, Janet, was revealed and everyone was mid-way through a game of cards. For the present, Mr. Emmerson was winning, urged on by Miss Fizwield, whom kept lounging over his shoulder in a disgraceful manner and whispering tattle, of what, no one knows, into his ear. Elizabeth, whom hated both of them far too much to even think about caring, did not find the scene much worth watching, but Mr. Fitzwield, seated by Janet, found the whole arrangement quite disturbing. Janet, whom cared for him very much, noticed this, and, as Mr. Fitzwield called Mr. Emmerson out of the room to talk, she followed, feeling ever so slightly guilty, behind them, completely unnoticed by any of the others. She found them, at last, after stopping at each door to listen, and heard as thus follows:

"My dear friend, you know, in due course you will be in great want of a wife-"

"I know, Fitzwield, I know... But I am clueless as to what you expect to happen between her and myself. We have no friendship, none at all, and I must make it clear to you, friend, that anything you may wish, or suspect, is impossible."

"Impossible, perhaps, but not undesirable. Mr. Fitzwilliam Emmerson, do not deny me your true feelings-"

"I am not! You are highly mistaken. I may have another woman in mind."

"Well, I laugh at you for saying so, Will. My sister is not suitable as a wife for you!"

"Lucinda? Your sister? I think not! Lucinda means nothing to me! And nor, Edmund, does Elizabeth!"

"Then whom? Whom is it whom catches your fancy? If it is not Elizabeth - which I strongly doubt - nor my dear sister, then who? Surely not one of the younger girls? Or Janet? I beg you not to tell me it is Janet..."

"Sometimes, Edmund, you are a fool. It is neither Janet, nor any other Marton sister. You will not know the lady of whom I speak. But prey now, dear friend, let us dwell on my affections no longer. Tell me of your attachment to a certain Janet Marton."

But by this time, Janet could hear no more, although, yes, she had found out an awful lot. As fast as she dared, she hurried back downstairs and sat there in her own thoughts

for almost the entire duration of the rest of their visit. Oh! To tell or not to tell Lizzie! Mr. Emmerson was in want of a wife, was he? And dear Mr. Fitzwield seemed to think his eye was set on Elizabeth! Her own sister, Elizabeth! The one Mr. Emmerson so disliked. But had he not made it plain that it was neither Elizabeth, nor Lucinda Fitzwield, nor anyone else whom had caught his fancy... And, on top of that, they'd spoken of herself! Her, Janet! And now Mr. Fitzwield, whom she so admired, was in love with her! Oh, how she had so much to tell Lizzie! But, for now, the women were playing at piano and Janet knew that she would have to wait to inform Elizabeth of her news...

The next morning, upon hearing Janet's story, Elizabeth laughed and laughed and laughed, until the tears rolled down her cheeks. "Mr. Emmerson? In love with me? Oh, Janet, it it too, too hilarious for words!" Exclaimed Elizabeth to Janet as she clutched her sides. Then, she stopped and looked at her sister slightly more seriously than before. "But, tell me, dear Janet, of yourself and Mr. Fitzwield."

But Janet blushed crimson, unable to spill even a word and when, the next morning, a note arrived at the house, hand delivered by Mr. Fitzwield himself, inviting all the family to his second ball in one-and-a-half months, Elizabeth said slyly to Janet "Oh, how often that man invites us round! I wonder whatever could be the cause of i!"

And Janet laughed and poked her sister, then went and brought the invitation to their mother, whom, of course, was delighted.

Chapter 6:

Every respectable family in the area was expected to come to Inklefield's latest ball and everyone Elizabeth knew looked very much thoroughly forwards to it, including herself, as the last one, as a result of Mr. Emmerson, she had not found particularly fun.

When the day of the ball at last arrived, and the Martons stepped in through the doors of the house, they found a very odd sight awaiting them indeed:

Just as had been the case the last time a ball had been held, whilst Miss Fitzwield was not there to meet them, the two gentlemen once more stood there to greet them. What was different, however, was that Mr. Fitzwield appeared to be keeping a firm hold of Mr. Emmerson's arm, the owner of which looked very much in want of a means of escape. But as the Martons approached, Mr. Fitzwield smiled gaily at them all and said "I wondered whether Elizabeth would mind playing along on the piano a couple of times before we begin, accompanied by Mr. Emmerson, here, whom has great talent and whom it would make my day to hear."

Mr. Emmerson tried, in vain, to free himself from the clutches of his friend, but stopped as he realized Elizabeth was silently quaking with laughter at him. Unable to resist, said Elizabeth teasingly, "I hope you are not scared of performing alongside myself."

Mr. Emmerson snorted impatiently. "Of course not!" He snapped, but Elizabeth noticed that he had gone rather pale. Good. She thought, satisfied. I am glad he is nervous. For, after all he's done, this is only a small part of what he deserves.

But she fixed a dazzling smile upon her face, instead of gloating, took Mr. Emmerson's arm in hers and lead the way to the piano stool beside the dancefloor, the other guests at the party crowding round to watch.

She began, first of all, to play one of her favorite tunes, one that ought be unfamiliar to Mr. Emmerson and which would require a male soloist. It was unkind, she knew, to pick a song with which her companion should not be able to follow, but Elizabeth began the opening bars anyway.

Upon the first note, a look of immense surprise landed upon Mr. Emmerson's face and Elizabeth struggled to suppress a chuckle. However, to her great annoyance, the look of initial surprise was soon replaced with a flicker of pleasure and Mr. Emmerson actually managed to sing the entire song as though he had sung it many times before.

As the last lines of song faded away, and Elizabeth's fingers came to ease over the piano keys, Mr. Fitzwield came suddenly behind them, urging on the wild applause. "Beautiful." He smiled. "You see, Mr. Emmerson, did I not say that the mixture of your two voices would sound marvellous? Now, come sit by me and hear Elizabeth play some more." And the two gentlemen went away, leaving Elizabeth at the piano alone. As she played her final two songs, however, her mind stayed strangely absent. Could Janet have spoken the rightful truth of Mr. Fitzwield trying to match herself and Mr. Emmerson into an engagement?

Once her playing time was over, and Elizabeth left the stool to another young woman, she was asked to dance by a vicar from the town, whom she gracefully accepted. Meanwhile, on the other side of the ballroom, Mr. Fitzwield spoke to Mr. Emmerson, the latter whom was watching Elizabeth dance with apparent great attention. His friend indeed noticed this, and decided to approach the subject of Elizabeth with care. "How pretty Janet Marton's eyes always look..." Mr. Fitzwield said, dreamily. "But I am sure you've noticed how very similar they are to Elizabeth's."

Mr. Emmerson made no reply, but his expression twitched ever so slightly.

"She's a bright girl, is Miss Elizabeth Marton. Very shrewd. Most remarkable young lady. It's a pity you dislike her so, Fitzwilliam." Continued Mr. Fitzwield, pressing his advantage. But Mr. Emmerson only shook his head. "Pray tell me your reasons for speech and, should I consider them satisfactory, than I shall feed you no lies."

Mr. Fitzwield sighed. "I cannot, dear friend, tell you of my reasoning. If you yourself are unable to admit it, or, in the least, take note of it, then you are a fool, Fitzwilliam, for you are only stacking your pride against you and giving yourself great grief. But, so be it! I can push you no further although I will do my best to get you to open your eyes. You ought listen more to your heart than your head, Will. It is not a sin, nor a weakness that you are suppressing, and -"

But he got no further, for, quite suddenly, up had stood Mr. Emmerson and he had, like wax, melted into the crowd.

Chapter 7:

When the dance ended, Elizabeth, having already done two others, feeling rather warm and secretly glad to escape the vicar, for he had made her uneasy, moved towards the punch table to pour herself a drink. But, no sooner had she selected a glass, then a male voice, slick and awfully familiar, offered to help pour it. Elizabeth jumped, almost out of her skin and dropped the glass on the floor, where it smashed into a thousand tiny shards. For a moment, she struggled to place the voice, still in a state of shock. It wasn't Mr. Fitzwield, whom she knew was busy dancing with her sister, nor could it be Mr. Emmerson, for she could see him nearby, talking quietly to a smartly-dressed man in a blue suit. That, then, left one person. Turning slowly around, Elizabeth came face to face with the vicar. He'd followed her, and she could smell the champagne on his horrid breath.

"Hello, again, Miss Marton." Whispered the vicar, seductively, smothering her hand in his and caressing it possessively. Elizabeth shivered and felt a strong desire to snatch her hand away. But she stayed, for courtesy's sake.

"I didn't mean to startle you. Are you in good health? You look slightly drained."

"I thank you, sir." Said Elizabeth evasively "and goodbye!"

"Wait!" Cried the vicar "would you care for a walk? I wish to propose to you. Alone."

The last part greatly confused Elizabeth, whom merely stared at the vicar incredulously "Propose?" She gave a shaky laugh, as if it were all a joke. "A likely story, sir! But, in case you are not trying to prank me, then I must tell you a very firm no. I will not and cannot marry a man like you! I have known you a mere hour! Of course I turn you down!"

"Well, Marton," sneered the vicar, his voice and breath becoming more and more repulsively vulgar all the time. "If you shall not be my lover, then you are my enemy! Goodbye! And may God punish you!" And with that, he left, leaving Elizabeth to tremble where she stood.

It was also then, that Janet appeared and so did Mr. Emmerson, Mr. Fitzwield hot on their heels. "Lizzie!" Cried Janet, rushing to her sister's side, despite all the broken glass. Elizabeth did not think that there had ever been a time where she rejoiced over the appearance of her sister more than she did then. "Oh, Eliza! What ever happened to you?"

And Elizabeth told them the whole sorry story. When she was done, the expressions of her companions registered varying degrees of shock and possible anger, where Mr. Emmerson was concerned. Mr. Fitzwield then summoned a maid to sweep up all the broken glass, whilst Janet checked her sister over for signs of harm. Finding none, she lead Elizabeth home to Rolands.

Chapter 8:

The news that the drunk vicar from town had actually proposed engagement to Elizabeth Marton of Roland house seemed to greatly interest a large number of people. For some, the news was taken - as Miss Lucinda Fitzwield took it - as some great joke, but for others, namely Elizabeth's family and friends, the affair was a subject of concern. Either way, the gossip traveled like wildfire. Mr. Emmerson, was also a source of many a gossip, for it was said that, after Elizabeth had been taken home, he had suddenly developed the most terrible headache, right out of the blue. Mr. Fitzwield, it was noticed, however, seemed to be the main encourager of the stories, chiefly the ones involving Elizabeth and heartbreak.

However, many of the rumors were driven right out of people's minds when, some time in November, it was announced that Mr. Emmerson's mother and two younger sisters would be coming to visit them all shortly.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Anne Marton upon the time of their arrival - during which the Martons were at Inklefields - jumping up from the window seat in the library. "Mr. Emmerson, you had better come and look! Is that not your family crest on that carriage?"

At once, everyone crowded around Anne as a black carriage drew up outside the front door and out stepped the guests.

There came a tall, dark-haired, elegant-looking woman of about Mrs Marton's age first. She was very graceful and rather proud-looking, but not so much that she seemed haughty. She had high, prominent cheekbones and was succeeded by the elder one of Mr. Emmerson's sisters, Ophelia, whom, too, had the dark hair of the rest of the family, but whom had less prominent cheekbones than her mother and whom, in terms of build and shape, looked funnily like Lucinda Fitzwield, whom she seemed to be friends with; as Ophelia stepped out of the carriage, Miss Fitzwield said loudly "Ah! My most intimate friend!"

"And most intimate partner in destruction." muttered Mr. Emmerson darkly, putting about that he thought rather ill of Ophelia Emmerson but, thankfully, Lucinda Fitzwield did not hear him.

Last of all, walked the youngest of the Emmerson family, Georgia, and she was the loveliest of them all. Although, unlike her brother, her hair was chestnut and she was of the opposite sex, it was obvious that, even from a distance, how alike they were in looks. Georgia Emmerson, like Mr. Emmerson, had the same handsome face and grey eyes, and she was - there was no other word for it - lovely. She walked with good posture, although it was not in an extraordinarily proud way, and she seemed to be permanently smiling. She was more pretty, even, than Janet and, according to Mr. Emmerson's delighted change of expression, she was his personal favorite. Elizabeth, slightly awe-struck, could see why, for, if indeed she was as pleasant in nature as she was in looks, then Georgia Emmerson must be the loveliest person to walk the soils of the earth.

Chapter 9:

The news that the drunk vicar from town had actually proposed engagement to Elizabeth Marton of Roland house seemed to greatly interest a large number of people. For some, the news was taken - as Miss Lucinda Fitzwield took it - as some great joke, but for others, namely Elizabeth's family and friends, the affair was a subject of concern. Either way, the gossip traveled like wildfire. Mr. Emmerson, was also a source of many a gossip, for it was said that, after Elizabeth had been taken home, he had suddenly developed the most terrible headache, right out of the blue. Mr. Fitzwield, it was noticed, however, seemed to be the main encourager of the stories, chiefly the ones involving Elizabeth and heartbreak.

However, many of the rumors were driven right out of people's minds when, some time in November, it was announced that Mr. Emmerson's mother and two younger sisters would be coming to visit them all shortly.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Anne Marton upon the time of their arrival - during which the Martons were at Inklefields - jumping up from the window seat in the library. "Mr. Emmerson, you had better come and look! Is that not your family crest on that carriage?"

At once, everyone crowded around Anne as a black carriage drew up outside the front door and out stepped the guests.

There came a tall, dark-haired, elegant-looking woman of about Mrs Marton's age first. She was very graceful and rather proud-looking, but not so much that she seemed haughty. She had high, prominent cheekbones and was succeeded by the elder one of Mr. Emmerson's sisters, Ophelia, whom, too, had the dark hair of the rest of the family, but whom had less prominent cheekbones than her mother and whom, in terms of build and shape, looked funnily like Lucinda Fitzwield, whom she seemed to be friends with; as Ophelia stepped out of the carriage, Miss Fitzwield said loudly "Ah! My most intimate friend!"

"And most intimate partner in destruction." muttered Mr. Emmerson darkly, putting about that he thought rather ill of Ophelia Emmerson but, thankfully, Lucinda Fitzwield did not hear him.

Last of all, walked the youngest of the Emmerson family, Georgia, and she was the loveliest of them all. Although, unlike her brother, her hair was chestnut and she was of the opposite sex, it was obvious that, even from a distance, how alike they were in looks. Georgia Emmerson, like Mr. Emmerson, had the same handsome face and grey eyes, and she was - there was no other word for it - lovely. She walked with good posture, although it was not in an extraordinarily proud way, and she seemed to be permanently smiling. She was more pretty, even, than Janet and, according to Mr. Emmerson's delighted change of expression, she was his personal favorite. Elizabeth, slightly awe-struck, could see why, for, if indeed she was as pleasant in nature as she was in looks, then Georgia Emmerson must be the loveliest person to walk the soils of the earth.

Chapter 10:

Later at dinner, a very fine-tasting meal of wild, marinated salmon, garlic butter, garden peas and new potatoes, more chatter arouse, again concerning Mr. Emmerson, whom was sat at the sides of Kitty and Mr. Fitzwield, opposite Elizabeth, Janet and Anne. Mr and Mrs Marton, Georgia, Lucinda and Ophelia were situated at various other points around the table, and Mrs Emmerson was seated at the head of the table, with Mrs Marton on her left and Mr Marton on her right. Throughout the first course, of rich cream-of-kale soup, there was a flow of talk, mostly about how sullen Mr. Emmerson was, how well he did (or didn't) play music, sing, dance or play the piano. Miss Lucinda Fitzwield and Miss Ophelia Emmerson, however, seemed mostly concerned with is fortune and estate; Pickely house. "I must say, if I were an heiress of Pickely, I should not ever wish to leave - unless, of course, I indeed managed to find a very rare better place - for it is such a fine house. So very, very fine..." Said Miss Fitzwield over the voice of Mrs Marton, whom was saying loudly "Quite awful, he was, to my Elizabeth, and I am sorry to have to ponder it, for he is a very handsome man, possibly the handsomest I have ever seen... It is such a shame..."

"Indeed." Agreed Mrs Emmerson gravely. "And I am sorry to hear it, for he is my very own offspring. My eldest child. My heir. But I quite agree, for he is exceptionally handsome. Not that I ought think so of my own son, that is..."

And so this talk continued, Mr. Emmerson sitting in an almost miserable silence. Several times, he would stop eating, put down his spoon or his knife, look up to glare at everyone in the room, then resume his paused eating. But it was with no relish, none at all, and even Elizabeth began to feel a little sorry for him.

And then, as they were halfway through the main course, it became Kitty Marton's turn to speak, and what an unfortunate speech it was. Boldly and just as loudly as her mother, she said, so that the whole table should hear, "I don't think that I have ever had the misfortune to meet anybody quite as hateful as Mr. Emmerson and I should think that anybody whom is unfortunate to be the one he sets his heart upon ought to be perfectly indifferent to him. The man shall be quite loveless!"

Mr. Emmerson froze, mid-way through a forkful of salmon.

"Kitty!" Cried Janet in horror, "Oh! You must not say things as horribly malicious as that to poor Mr. Emmerson!"

But Kitty, whom held up the childish habit of doing and saying exactly as she pleased, without any regard for anyone, merely shrugged. "Just because it is malicious, does not mean that it is untrue, Janet, and what I said is true. Mr. Emmerson shall be quite loveless! Especially if he chooses Elizabeth: She cannot stand him, can you, Lizzie?"

Everyone's gaze turned to Elizabeth, except Mr. Emmerson's, for he could not bring himself to meet her eye, but Elizabeth, although she knew she ought say something to defend Mr. Emmerson, she could not bring herself to speak even one word. And so she merely sat there and raised her head to watch Mr. Emmerson's reaction. Nor was it a nice one.

At Kitty's remark, he had paled quite suddenly, then slammed the fork into the plate, so hard that Elizabeth thought it should splinter. The plate remained intact, however, although garlic butter did splash all over the place, including over Kitty's brand new creme dress. The entire table at once fell utterly silent, except the youngest Marton sister, whom squeaked in dismay.

Mr. Emmerson stood up, shaking very visibly from head to foot. "I do not think that I am hungry any longer." He said, in a voice that was choked and which rang around the room sounding far too loudly than it should. "Possibly my headache from the other night had returned. Most unfortunate. Goodnight!" And he turned and walked briskly from the dining hall, leaving an awfully awkward silence in the place of his presence.

It was noticed that nobody felt very hungry anymore and the other Emmersons, only two of which looked even remotely worried, decided that it would be best if they made their leave early.

"Of course." nodded Mr. Fitzwield, dutifully. "I shall call the carriage. Thank you for coming. I am sure Mr. Emmerson will understand your motives for leaving most acutely, but, for now I think it wise to leave him be for the time being."

"Can we go home, too?" Wailed Kitty Marton tearfully, but not because she had any regard for Mr. Emmerson; her dress, she decided, had been utterly ruined by the garlic butter, and it had all been that Mr. Emmerson's fault! She told this much fiercely to Anne, whom loyally agreed with her little sister, although she privately thought that Kitty had been so dreadfully mean.

And so, the Martons bid their farewells to the company and returned, soon afterwards, to Roland house in dismally low spirits.

Chapter 11:

Not much was heard of Inklefield house over the next two weeks. According to Mr. Fitzwield, whom often stopped at Rolands to see Janet and to bring the Martons updates, Mr. Emmerson had remained shut up in either his room or the library, without seeing or speaking to anyone in the house. He used his own toilet, ate meals, which never consisted of much and which were mostly left uneaten, in his own room and nor did he let any one of the staff in to clean.

"Evidently the poor gentleman has been most mortally offended." Mr. Fitzwield told them all, one morning after breakfast. "Possibly, of course, my friend still feels a little off-colour, but I am privately sure that the wound runs much deeper than that. We must all try to be more civil towards him in future. Let us all treat him gently."

"I feel rather pitiful for him." Said Elizabeth to Janet several hours later. "How awful it must be to have everyone ridicule you like that, and publicly, too! I would not like to be in Mr. Emmerson's shoes at this very moment."

"No." Agreed Janet "Nor would I. If you and mother and Anne and Kitty and father treated me like that... Oh! how much I should feel grief! How foolish we are being, Eliza, discriminating Mr. Emmerson like this!" And her pretty eyes filled with sudden tears.

"Let us hope that we are not the only ones to feel remorse." said Elizabeth. "You know..." She said, thoughtfully "I wouldn't be at all surprised if Mr. Emmerson turned out not to be so bad. You see, Georgia seems to really look up to him. And remember when he made me spill all those cards?-"

Janet nodded.

"-Well he seemed sincerely sorry then..."

Possibly you are correct, Lizzie. And dear Mr. Fitzwield seems to trust him, too, and ever so much. What ever shall we make of this dreadful business we are in?"

I do not know." Said Elizabeth. Then she smiled slyly, seeing her sister's flushed face as she spoke of Edmund Fitzwield. "But goodness me! Mr. Emmerson isn't the only one rumored to be in love!"

And Janet laughed and laughed and laughed along with her sister. "I do." She said, at last. "I do love him. But I am worried that he is indifferent to me."

Indifferent!" cried Elizabeth in amazement. "How could a man whom looks at you with such adoration as he does, possibly be indifferent to you? My dear Janet, it is not possible!"

"Perhaps." Said Janet quietly. "But I am not to judge upon the matter."

"Well, we shall soon see, won't we?" said Elizabeth kindly and, three weeks later, see the girls did.

Chapter 12:

Mr Marton had been travelling home from town when he saw the carriage. Emblazoned with the Inklefield crest, it moved at a surprisingly fast pace. So fast, even, that Mr Marton had to struggle hard to get his own carriage home before the visitors.

At last, however, slightly out of breath and startling his daughters and wife immensely, he staggered into the sitting room and gasped "Quick! All of you! Mr. Fitzwield's bringing the whole haul of his lot over to Rolands and astonishingly fast they are moving, too, for they shall be here any minute!"

This sent Mrs Marton into an esteemed panic. "Quick!" she screamed, jumping up from her pouffe "Everybody to your dressing rooms and somebody alert the cook! Goodness me! Whatever could be their reasons for coming at such a time!" And she ushered everyone about, clucking like a chicken.

"But why are they coming?" Wondered Elizabeth as she dressed "And why the hurry?"

But, although she tried her hardest to hurry, by the time the guests had arrived, still Elizabeth had not finished with her hair.

Her sister, Anne, hammered at her door "Oh Lizzie!" She exclaimed "Do hurry! The guests are already here!" at which Elizabeth thought it best to merely abandon her hair loose and make haste as had been Anne's advice. It did not matter about her hair, she thought, although her mother winced at the sight of it, for Mr. Fitzwield and the rest of his usual party were more important.

She sat down in a chair,which, most unfortunately, was opposite Miss Lucinda and next to Mr. Emmerson but, as it were the only unoccupied one left, Elizabeth would have to make do.

Trying, most feverishly, to ignore Miss Fitzwield's sharp-tongued comments about her unladylike hair - to which Mr. Emmerson seemed most superior, only muttering the occasional "Quite" or "Ah! Of course, dear lady" whenever it was necessary, seeming far too preoccupied himself to care much for the talk - Elizabeth made to focus on the conversation being held between the rest of her family and Mr. Fitzwield. She noticed vaguely that there was a lot of brandishing of hands on Fitzwield's part and often he lent forwards in his chair, or beamed around at Janet, but Elizabeth was far too distracted by the goings on between Miss Fitzwield, Mr. Emmerson and herself to really have a chance to focus on the business; as Lucinda ranted, and Elizabeth inwardly sighed, she couldn't help but become sidetracked by the way Mr. Emmerson kept glancing queerly at her loose hair every time he thought that she was not looking. It was also rather strange, especially for him, was that it was her hair which was attracting all the attention. Indeed, it was loose and she was the only one in the room whom had worn it so, but Janet's hair looked far better than her own, and even Kitty had made an effort with hers today. At last, however, Elizabeth grew so impatient with Mr. Emmerson that she loudly demanded him to tell her exactly what he meant by such irritating antics. He blushed guiltily when she exposed him, and the rest of the company fell silent.

"Nothing." He said "I merely forgot myself for a moment, that is all." And with that, he went quiet, staring, now, only at his hands.

With this matter now safely out of the way, everyone else immediately began to speak again and Mr. Fitzwield, whom had smiled softly to himself upon Elizabeth's outburst, resumed his intricate speech. Elizabeth, meanwhile, focused on Janet, and found that no one, if they tried, could ever exaggerate her stark happiness at this moment. Such was the glow on her cheeks, that she seemed like a beautiful, flickering ember, outlined against the night sky, and Elizabeth cursed herself, and Mr. Emmerson for having caused her not to pay attention to the conversation earlier. She glanced several times, at her parents and sisters, all of whom were agog with intense amazement and delight, although not even Mrs Marton's excitement was equal to that of Janet's.

At last, though, Mr. Fitzwield made his leave, taking his sister and Mr. Emmerson with him. The guests departed and, no sooner were they out of the front door, then Kitty and Anne at once began to leap about in ecstasy.

"You see?" laughed Kitty, throwing her arms around Janet "You see, sister? We all told you how he loved you and now here's the proof!"

"Mrs Fitzwield!" cried their mother, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her lace handkerchief "Oh, Janet, I am the luckiest mother alive!"

Mr Marton shook Janet's hand very hard "Good old girl! I am so proud of you. So, so proud..."

And as comprehension dawned upon Elizabeth's face, then she, too, could have danced with joy. Instead, she composed herself and embraced her elder sister tenderly. "You see." she said, echoing Kitty "You see Janet?"

Chapter 13:

For days, even one word spoken of Mr. Fitzwield's engagement to her eldest daughter was enough to send Mrs Marton into an excitable frenzy. "A daughter married at last!" she kept exclaiming "Janet, darling, I am over the moon!"

Elizabeth's regard for her mother over the next few weeks dropped rather rapidly because of this, so much, in fact, that it soon became embarrassing even to be in the same room as Mrs Marton, especially when there was another person in the room with her. This was brought on by the fact that, every time her mother saw Mr. Fitzwield, Mrs Marton would become so forwards and unnecessarily civil towards him that it was exceedingly painful to watch.

The day of the wedding came at last, and an awfully large sum of money had been contributed to send Mr. Fitzwield and his bride off in style; even Mr. Emmerson had paid for the cake and the carriages! However, Elizabeth, Kitty, Mr Marton and Anne were, upon hearing of the kind deed done by Mr. Emmerson, not especially happy as it meant that Mrs Marton would be embarrassing to him, now, as well. This Mrs Marton did, but none of them, it turned out, needed to have worried. Mr. Emmerson, to his credit, took the over-the-top word of thanks from Mrs Marton very well indeed, nodding modestly and letting her fuss over him very courteously and sensibly. So well, was this done, in fact, that even Mr Marton felt very much in his debt and he thanked Mr. Emmerson himself in a much quieter way than his wife had done.

The poor young man took this sincere gratitude awkwardly, so Elizabeth could tell, acting indifferent to everyone, but turning away to hide the smile at frequent intervals. Elizabeth began to think that, after several months of knowing the man, she might be starting to finally make out his character. Certainly, at least, some of the pieces were beginning to make sense so that the giant enigma, that the whole of him was, did not seem so very impossible any more.

Two days after the wedding, in which time the happy couple moved together into Inklefield house, and Elizabeth found out how she missed her elder sister most dreadfully, a ball was thrown again at Inklefields as a means of honoring the recent marriage. Rumor had it that the Emmersons were to come again, this time hopefully staying for longer, and that even the drunk vicar whom Elizabeth had miserably encountered at the last ball was to be invited. At the last titbit, Elizabeth had felt rather worried: Who knew what that disgusting man would try to do to her this time? However, when Mr Fitzwield and Janet reassured her that no harm would be allowed to come to any of their guests, least of all her, Elizabeth relaxed, but only slightly, and she would not admit to anyone how truly frightened of the vicar she was.

Mrs Emmerson and her two daughters arrived a day before the date of the actual ball and, upon their arrival, the entire Marton family was sent for to come welcome them. The guests, however, seemed only intent on eager congratulations to Mr Fitzwield and his lovely new wife and even Ophelia said how lovely it was to see the pair so happy.

Once congratulations had been said, Mrs Emmerson and her youngest child began to apologise for their last visit. Whilst Mrs Emmerson's speech to her son was heartfelt and possibly over-complicated, Georgia's idea of an apology was much more straight forwards and to-the-point. Throwing her arms around her elder brother, she actually began to cry with the weight of so much emotion on her shoulders and she buried her face in his shoulder whilst he drew his handkerchief for her and patted her on the back. Elizabeth felt quite moved by the spectacle. Until now, she hadn't quite realized exactly how deep the siblings' affection for one another ran. She had had some idea of it, yes, but she now knew that it was superior, equal, at least, to the connections between herself and Janet.

On the day of the ball, the Martons passed Janet, Miss Fitzwield and her brother as the family welcomed guests inside their house. Mr. Emmerson, Elizabeth supposed, had already gone inside the ballroom and was probably showing his family to the refreshments table or something similar. And, indeed, this proved the case for Elizabeth met with three of them (Ophelia was off dancing) standing about at the edge of the dancefloor. Elizabeth joined them and the four of them stood there. Georgia, whom had been whispering intently into her brother's ear, looked up, smiling mischievously. He looked horrified for a second, but then smiled and reluctantly nodded.

As Elizabeth walked away, with the motive to find one of her sisters, Mr. Emmerson, blushing furiously and catching her arm, glanced over his shoulder to check if anyone was watching, and aked Elizabeth to dance.

Chapter 14:

Upon hearing this incredible request, Elizabeth became so overcome with shock that she could not refuse him and, as Mr. Emmerson lead her to the dance floor and stood there, her hand in his, many of the other dancers and spectators seemed to feel the same. Could it possibly be true? Could Mr. Emmerson really be dancing with the woman he called "Too plain to dance with"?

"So," said Elizabeth to her partner once she had recovered and the dance had begun. "let us talk."

"As you wish." he replied civilly as they turned in a circle. "But you can think of a subject first."

"I don't think so, sir." Elizabeth told him. "I have done much of the subject asking already since we first met. It is your turn now."

"Very well, then." said he. "How, then, do you feel towards your sister's marriage to Mr Fitzwield?"

"Nay!" Cried Elizabeth "How that topic has been exhausted already! But, if it really is the best you can do, then I shall answer despite that: I am very pleased with Janet's marriage, for she has been made so very happy by her dear husband, and I feel as though if I should find such a match as her, then I should be the luckiest girl alive!"

"Quite some feelings, then." Remarked Mr. Emmerson "And do you believe in the possibility of finding such a man?"

Elizabeth had to think a little about that one. "Possibly." she replied. "But, so far, I have not met any one man whom could ever have a hope of ever alighting such feelings inside of me."

Mr. Emmerson's eyes rested on hers for a moment of two. "Ah." he said, simply, and then a silence fell between them.

"Look at us!" Exclaimed Elizabeth after many a minute had passed between them, untouched by sound. "We are possibly the only pair in the room who can have nothing to say for themselves which could last beyond a few lines!"

"Do you wish for us to speak more?" Mr. Emmerson asked politely.

"At least a little, for it would not do to spend so long together without much conversation."

"No." Agreed Mr. Emmerson. "It would not... Have you anything more to say?"

But Elizabeth merely looked at him and he at once took the hint. "Do you like living so near a town?"

His partner blinked "Why, I should not know many a better place, for my parents do not like to travel."

Mr. Emmerson seemed remarkably surprised at recieving such an answer, but he hid it remarkably well "You mean you have never seen the country?"

"Not much of it." Elizabeth replied. "I have seen it a little... But not nearly was it like the place, described by you, in which you live."

"Goodness!" exclaimed Mr. Emmerson, this time not concealing his emotions nearly as well. "There is no finer place in the world than the country. You must come visit it sometime."

"I should like that very much." replied Elizabeth graciously as the dance ended.

"Do you much like to dance, Miss Marton?" her partner asked suddenly.

"Very much. And yourself?" replied Elizabeth.

Mr. Emmerson's next line, was most surprising. "Indeed." he said. "May I ask for your hand a second time?"

Elizabeth stared at him in wonder as of his strange behaviour, but could not find any reason to refuse. "Of course." she said, and they danced a second dance, this time in silence.

Elizabeth, meanwhile, as they spun about the floor, was using the time and the silence to reflect upon this so uncharacteristic change in behaviour, whilst he could think of nothing but the way she had replied that not one man had ever caught her fancy. It pained Mr. Emmerson greatly to think of it, but at least it had been more or less expected. What else could possibly have happened? he told himself fiercely, although the blow still hurt; as much as he hated to admit it, he was thinking about the way her eyes had locked on his more than he ever ought.

After the dances (Mr. Emmerson had resisted the temptation to ask her a second time), Elizabeth slipped away, once more in search of her sisters, having been deteriorated from doing so before. Mr. Emmerson, however, confused and feeling rather starstruck, moved to the edge of the far side of the ballroom, where he hoped not to be disturbed by anyone.

Elizabeth, likewise, moved to the side but, not having gone very far, heard someone shout her name. When she then ignored it, they shouted again. Fear swept over her body and she turned around. As she saw whom it was, she realized that turning was the silliest thing she could possibly have done. For it was the vicar.

Trapped against the wall like a rabbit entangled in a snare, Elizabeth tried hard not to act afraid, but he was advancing on her and, as he snatched her by the shoulders, she had to fight the urge not to scream. "What do you want?" she squeaked.

"Want?" the vicar laughed, sending a putrid stench of wine fumes up her nostrils; She gagged slightly. "I'll tell you what I want!-"

But he got no further, for a policeman had, with a sickening crunch, slammed the vicar against the wall. Elizabeth, dazed and terrified, swayed on the spot as the vicar made frantic attempts to break free and lunge at her, but he was handcuffed firmly there and then and lead from the scene. Miss Marton's knees gave way.

It was therefore fortunate, perhaps, that Mr. Emmerson moved forwards when the policeman left, for he was all that stopped Elizabeth from hitting the floor. Instead, she fell upon Mr. Emmerson, whom had, upon meeting the blue-uniformed police officer at the last ball, called the man into action when he saw how Elizabeth was being mistreated.

He now eased her down so that she was sitting on the floor, then crouched beside her. "Are you...?" he asked softly, then stopped as he realized Elizabeth was crying. Mr. Emmerson then lent her his handkerchief and she dabbed at her eyes.

"I am very sorry." Elizabeth at last choked out.

"It is perfectly fine. There is no need to apologise. I should have made Edmund stop the vicar from attending the party, knowing that he was a danger to you." said Mr. Emmerson. "Do you think you can stand?"

Elizabeth nodded, but stood up rather shakily, so shakily, in fact, that her legs could simply not support her and, to her (and his) immense embarrassment, she fell onto Mr. Emmerson again. This time, however, he merely held her there, sensing thar Elizabeth needed comfort rather than fainting remedies. This was not the sole reason, however, for Mr. Emmerson guiltily found that he was enjoying her closeness more than a person whom hated the person at hand should.

For a while, Elizabeth just let him hold her and trembled, until, that is, the surrounding whispers started to reach her ears and she, against her will, forced her legs to take her body's proper weight, allowing Mr. Emmerson to lead her out of the ballroom.

"I am not certain that we have a spare bedroom here whilst my family are staying at Inklefields." said Mr. Emmerson as he helped Elizabeth up the stairs. "But I am sure that Georgia would not mind you borrowing her room - at least not until the ball is over."

"Thank you." said Elizabeth - grateful, truly, but her voice was too weak to carry any real emotion. But it need not have mattered, for it turned out that Georgia Emmerson's door was locked.

"Ah." said Mr. Emmerson when the doorknob would not budge. "I suppose we could try my mother's quarters... I feel as though Ophelia, attached as she is to you, might object slightly if we were to intrude on her privacy."

Elizabeth managed a small smile but, to her companion's dismay, when they tried it, Mrs Emmerson's doorknob would not budge either.

"Drat." muttered Mr. Emmerson. "Everyone must have locked their doors before they came down for the evening. There is no point in trying another. Naturally I only have access to my own room keys... I would take you there, but, at this time of day, whilst everyone else is downstairs, I fear it would be considered inappropriate."

Elizabeth blushed. "It does not matter." she said calmly "You need not trouble yourself with the burden of finding me a place to rest. I am sure that I shall be perfectly fine." but the walls swung and span as she spoke and it became clear that she was far too weak to go back to the crowded ballroom.

"The housekeeper, then, may have a solution." and Mr. Emmerson pulled firmly on the bell in the hall. They waited... And waited... But their time was spent in vain for no housekeeper appeared.

"It is possible, of course, that Fitzwield - as well-intentioning as he may be - has stupidly given her the evening off." said Mr. Emmerson, a hint of annoyance in his tone. Elizabeth, rather unfairly, blamed herself for its being there.

For a while, Mr. Emmerson paced up and down in a state of agitation, trying to think of a plausible solution. When, at last, he could come up with nothing better, he stopped pacing, went back over to Elizabeth and told her what must be done. "I do not care what the rumors may turn out to be." he said. "Nor what Lucinda Fitzwield may think. I cannot possibly leave you out in this corridor, Elizabeth, any longer and, as there is no suitable alternative - I cannot leave you by yourself whilst I fetch one of the others - then, for the time being, you must rest in my own room" Then, he paused for breath and, looking Elizabeth full in the eye, said "I beg your pardon, Miss Marton... But I hope you have little objection."

Elizabeth did not, although she did flush a little when she thought of the rumors that were surely to spread when people realized that she and Mr. Emmerson were absent from the ballroom.

Chapter 15:

The guest room which Mr. Emmerson inhabited was of fairly large size, although Elizabeth could tell, from the look upon Mr. Emmerson's features as they went inside, that it was not much to his taste. There was, however, a rather handsome four poster bed in the center of one wall, in a pretty shade of lime green. There were also not one but two adjoining rooms leading off from the main bedroom: one into a large bathroom and the other into a little sitting room, mostly filled with shelves crammed with ornaments (at these Mr. Emmerson pulled a face) and several potted plants. There was, however, a large faded blue couch in the center of the room and it was onto this which Elizabeth was now placed, very gently, by Mr. Emmerson. The said man then fetched her a glass of water, spiced with lime, from a jug on the table next to it, which Elizabeth took a couple of sips from before she was reminded of the vicar and the punch table and her hands began to shake so much that she could not hold the glass any longer. Kindly, Mr. Emmerson helped her, first to calm down and then to finish the water, which, once finished, was placed back on the table.

"Do you wish now to rest?" asked Mr. Emmerson of Elizabeth. "Or may I be of some other service?"

Elizabeth smiled. "Do you have any books I could read?" she asked. "For I love to read ever so much and, downstairs, Mr. Fitzwield never has many books."

Slightly taken by surprise, Mr. Emmerson assured Elizabeth that he did, that he, too, was a great reader and that half his luggage, which he had brought with him from Pickely, was boxes of books that he could not bear to part with. He then fetched an entire trunkful for her to choose from. "And," he hesitated. "If my lady does not find a book to fulfill her needs and desires in there, then I have another three boxes filled with more by my bed." he told her generously and Elizabeth laughed prettily and assured him that she was perfectly comfortable with the luxurious amount that she had been given. Then, whilst Mr. Emmerson went to stand back in the corridor and wait for the others, Elizabeth carefully selected a book to read and devoured it, very happily, in silence.

Meanwhilst, down in the ballroom, there was utter uproar. The others had, of course, by now, noticed the obvious absence of Mr. Emmerson and Elizabeth, and had been told what had happened by other members of the party in a wide variation of different stories.

Someone, indeed the first person the Martons, Mr Fitzwield and two of the Emmersons had asked, said that Mr. Emmerson was proposing to Elizabeth upstairs, whilst yet another person said that Mr. Emmerson was drunkenly seducing Elizabeth in some private corner. Then another man, this time dressed in a rather flamboyant bow-tie, stated that he had seen Elizabeth running from the ballroom after being abused, verbally, most severely, by Mr. Emmerson. The man's wife, however, swore blind that both had been taken ill, whilst his sister and brother-in-law, were keen on the proposal idea.

But soon the true reason for Mr. Emmerson and Elizabeth's absence was made clear and, upon hearing what the drunk vicar had done, Mr and Mrs Marton, Elizabeth's three sisters, Mr Fitzwield, Georgia and Mrs Emmerson all rushed upstairs where they soon found Mr. Emmerson waiting for them in the corridor. As soon as he saw them, though, he instantly began to protest at being innocent to any scandal ("I know it seems improper, but I had nowhere else to take her and-") but no one seemed to care for anything else but Elizabeth's welfare and would not rest until they had been allowed into the bedroom to see her. This, Mr. Emmerson let them do, but, before he could follow his mother, the last person to go in, over the threshold, his friend, Mr Fitzwield, pulled him back.

"Well I never, Fitzwilliam." said Mr Fitzwield softly, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. Mr. Emmerson said nothing. "It seems I was mistaken as, sometime this morning, I began to doubt that you could ever have a care for Miss Marton after all."

Still, Mr. Emmerson made no response; his eyes were locked on the closed door, through which, nearly everyone was gathered.

Edmund Fitzwield, meanwhilst, decided not to press his friend any further and, together, the two men entered the room of Miss Elizabeth's sickbed, Mr Fitzwield bearing the happy news that Elizabeth could share a room with Janet until she was fit to return home, hopefully the next morning. And so, at Inklefields Elizabeth stayed on, until the next morning, when she joyfully returned to Rolands fit as a fiddle. At Inklefields itself, however, after Elizabeth's departure, things were not quite so merry...

"Dear Mr. Emmerson," said Miss Fitzwield loudly, getting up from the sofa in the parlour and walking over to the window to join Mr. Emmerson, whom was staring out of it. "You know, Miss Marton did not look at all peaky last night... Makes me wonder to myself whether or not she was indeed faking it.... You know, to get your attention."

Still facing the window, Mr. Emmerson snorted impatiently. "I think not. Besides, I should delightedly welcome any attention Elizabeth gave me."

Miss Fitzwield smiled slyly, glancing over her shoulder at Miss Ophelia, whom was the only other person inside the room. "May I ask why, Mr. Emmerson?"

Slowly and reluctantly, he turned to face the two ladies "I think she is a rather remarkable young woman." he said quietly

Lucinda giggled "Pray. Tell me: What has brought on these strange reflections?"

"Merely the fact that she is everything a lady ought to be."

Behind Miss Fitzwield, Ophelia Emmerson's eyes flashed. "Really, brother? And please elaborate..."

Mr. Emmerson looked at her and their eyes locked upon each other for a minute. Lucinda looked nervously between the two of them, sensing great tension. Mr. Emmerson said nothing.

"Ophelia. Please leave me for a minute." snapped Miss Fitzwield suddenly. Ophelia jumped and, moodily, but realizing that her brother would not elaborate on his feelings for Elizabeth whilst she was in the room, obeyed.

"Now, Fitzwilliam." said Miss Fitzwield once the two of them were alone. "Let me ask you what dear Miss Emmerson just asked of you: Please elaborate on your feelings for Elizabeth."

Mr. Emmerson turned back to the window again. "Why do you not just ask me whether I indeed love Elizabeth? That is the question you wish for an answer to, is it not?"

Miss Fitzwield looked at him expectantly. "Well," She said impatiently after a few moments pause "Do you love her?"

Mr. Emmerson looked around, straight into Lucinda's narrowed eyes and gave her a straight answer. "Yes." He said. "I do."

Miss Fitzwield stared at him, speechlessly for a minute, but not because she was surprised by the answer that had been given; In truth, she hadn't really expected Fitzwilliam to say something other than "no". It would have been more to his character's liking if he had lied about loving Elizabeth instead.

"Now are you satisfied?" Asked Mr. Emmerson rather irritably. Lucinda silently left and he stared at the small of her back until she was well out of sight. Then he leant on the windowsill and sighed heavily. What had he been thinking?

*

Two-and-a-half weeks after this little scene, the Emmersons returned, once more earlier than planned, home to Pickely. Mrs Emmerson had caught a most terrible fever and, despite everyone else's wishes for her delicate health, she decided to take both herself and her two daughters home with her, for fear of passing the illness onto the Fitzwields, the Martons, of Mr. Emmerson.

It was yet a month after their departure, after, many a week of fretting and fussing, that they received some terrible information: Mrs Emmerson had passed away.

Distressing and in letter form, written by Georgia and hardly legible due to water smudges, the news arrived, in a heavily sealed envelope, to Mr. Emmerson. Upon breaking the seal and unfolding the letter, his face went quite white and he read the letter aloud to them in a shaking voice. When he was done, Elizabeth felt she might cry: What an awful, awful thing! Of course, everyone instantly plagued Mr. Emmerson for Pickely's address, so that they might sent their own thoughts of sorrow to his sisters. Mr. Emmerson obayed, but seemed too distracted by grief to say much, or even write - although he at least made an attempt - a letter of his own. Even Mr Fitzwield, although he tried very hard, failed to lighten his friend's silent misery and, three days later, merely let Mr. Emmerson visit his sisters.

For yet another four weeks, even though they all wrote to the Peak district several times, they received not one note, not even of one line, telling any of them how the remaining three Emmersons were bearing.

At last, however, Mr Fitzwield received a letter. It was a very long letter, Elizabeth noticed, and far too long to truly be the length it seemed when the recipient of it read it aloud.

"My dear friend,"

Mr Fitzwield read.

"It gives me immense pain to speak of my mother still and, therefore, I will not do myself harm by opening out on that subject. Instead, I shall tell you that my sisters are faring well, although they, too, are grieving. Ophelia has, as you already ought to know, my friend, inherited a little of the family fortune, although naturally not as much as myself. What you do not know, however , is that, upon her deathbed, my mother decided that, due to her immense fiery thirst for feminism - a trait, I will admit, I also possess - she could not bear to leave anything at all to her eldest daughter and so she rearranged her will and the family contract, changing it so that Ophelia not only has been left money, but the control over any family marriages that take place from now onwards.

For now, however, I bid everyone at Inklefields, and, of course, at Rolands, my best wishes, and announce that I shall be returning to you within just two more weeks.

Yours faithfully,

Etc. "

Mr Fitzwield finished the letter, which he had read with a great many suspicious pauses, often skimming ahead and sighing frequently, and looked up at them all.

It seemed he had been so irritatingly curious in his behaviour in reading the letter, that Anne Marton demanded to know the truth. "If you are not going to do us the courtesy of reading it properly, then why read it at all?" she cried, and Lucinda and Kitty nodded in agreement.

Mr Fitzwield blinked in alarm, apparently realizing that he had been too careless with his emotions and, true to his nature, instantly jumped to his absent friend's defence, hoping, at least, to preserve some of his privacy.

"I am very sorry." he said, civilly, "I was not thinking at all of the letter, merely of the hardships that the poor Emmersons are facing at this present time and I must have got a little distracted by my thoughts on the matter as I read."

Anne did not look as though she was entirely satisfied by this explanation, but took it without further comment. Elizabeth, however, was determined to believe that Fitzwield had been lying to them and she decided, at once, to find out the truth as soon as she got home. Seizing a bit of note paper, Elizabeth carried out her plan like this:

"Dear Mr. Emmerson,

May I ask whatever you could have meant, in your letter to Edmund Fitzwield, by making your writing so large as so it should fill three-and-a-half pages? The content only seemed to fill one when Mr Fitzwield read it out.

Yours very sincerely,

E. Marton."

It was a short note, rather cheeky, in fact, but Elizabeth sealed it with glee and then went to post it. She wasn't entirely faithful that her letter and scheme would get her what she wanted, but it was at least worth a try.

And worth a try the letter was! Barely a day-and-a-half later, an intriguingly thick envelope arrived for Elizabeth in the post and, upon opening it, she received her answer. Hardly daring to breathe for fear of disappointment, Elizabeth read it through.

Chapter 16:

“Elizabeth Marton-

First of all, I cannot pretend that I was not most dreadfully shocked upon receiving your sly and cunning note; I felt, in fact, queasy for a whole two hours and, for that accomplishment, I congratulate you.

Secondly, you deserve the truth. And please do not read this letter aloud to anybody, for only you could make me speak so readily on the subject on which I am to speak.

In Fitzwield’s performance of my letter, he most probably said something along the lines of Ophelia has not only been left money, but the control over any family marriage that takes place from now onwards. I am certain you are at least vaguely familiar with it; I know my friend well enough to be able to suppose that he would not consider anything of that, or similar, wording to be confidential information, nor the slightest bit meaningful.

I must say to you now, Elizabeth, that it is, in fact, a very meaningful sentence indeed, and it would not surprise me if, later, you said that you had all along found it so. For me, at the moment, marriage is a great thing, especially where you are concerned.

But I beg you to stay reading, for I am not planning on pouring out my sentiments to you, no matter how much - I shall confess - I wish to do so. Instead, I would like to tell you, in as full detail as I can, who I am, a subject which you, at present, have little awareness of.

I was born, Elizabeth, in 1795, three-and-twenty years ago, on the last day of November. My mother, although,do not mistake me, she was delighted at her having bore a child, would probably, and secretly, rather have had a daughter; it would have matched her love and want of sexual equality a little. My father, on the other hand, a person of whom I dread to speak, adored the idea of being in possession of a son - emphasis on the possession, for it was not for the correct reasons. I will tell you now, Elizabeth, as indifferently as I can, that he instead wanted someone whom had the power to knock down my mother’s somewhat unusual views and lord over the house when he was not there, just as was his way of things. I need scarcely say, however, that I failed in his ideals for me most miserably. To him, it seemed, I spent far too much time with my mother, or with my head in a book. Seemingly I had inherited all of her personality, and none of his, but I am ashamed to say, Miss Marton, that that is not true. I did, as a matter of fact, inherit some small part of his personality, a thing which, yes, was also a piece of my late mother, but which showed up worse in my father: Pride. Pride, haughtiness, arrogance, whichever way you have of looking at it. Part of it, indeed, was down to shyness, but the rest… No. I shall not stir things up by going there.

Either way, I was never much like my father throughout my youth, never much of a manly boy. I detested all forms of gamboling (Perhaps you noticed my distaste whenever the men at Inklefields sat down to wicket) - although later, I did begin to tolerate simple cards - and I did not agree with any of his so-called ‘moral philosophies’. One day, I told my father so. I somehow found the courage (I flatter myself) to stand up to him. It was shortly after Georgia’s birth, I can recall, for I was seven at the time, and I shall never forget that day for as long as I live.

My father went quite mental, you see. He was drunk again, he always was; there was hardly one time when he was sober. He raged and stormed and slapped my mother so many times she actually found cause to faint. He knocked over Georgia’s cot, flung Ophelia, whom was only four, across the floor, then towered over me and began abusing me such as he had never done before. Our dear nurse was crying, I remember, pleading with him to stop. My father hurt her, too, then turned and stormed out of the house. I never saw him again and never wanted to, either.

Ophelia, however, was a different matter. She did something dreadful when she was nine. Father, it turned out, had been in contact with her all this time, trying to figure me out through her information. I had trusted Ophelia, trusted her even more than I had Georgia, whom was far too young to be trusted with anything. And so, Ophelia, it turned out, betrayed me. She told my father everything about me, my weaknesses, my fears, whom I loved and, even to this day, I have cause to believe that she still contacts him, despite all the harm and pain he dealt her as a child, despite my brotherly attempts to stop her.

And so, I learnt not to trust. I learnt how to bury my pain, my fear, underneath layers of pride and indifference. If I ever let even one emotion slip, Ophelia would go rushing to find a pen and ink. She tells our father everything, looking for ways to hurt me. That is what they want, him and her: to break me. To render me so helpless, so feeble so they can take my power, my fortune and use my influence to terrorise and control the towns, villages and families surrounding Pickely house. I am greatly afraid, though, that they have, after all these years, finally found my weakest spot.

And what, you may well wonder, is that? It is you, Elizabeth. It is you, and Ophelia, as of my own careless mistakes and my own wagging tongue, knows it. She will do everything and anything to insure that you are kept from me, and if I ever let one word out to he, to anybody, the true depth of my ardent affection for you, I fear my father will find out, come after us all and release his wrath upon you with the purpose of destroying me.

My letter to Fitzwield, however, did not say any of this, and so I beg you to remain silent on this befuddling affair for now; I shall fill in the blanks for my friend as soon as I can and see fit. It is also here where I shall interrupt myself. I worry I will only embarrass myself by confiding too much detail of my own sentiments and will tus disgust you.

For now, however, I bid you adieu and enclose a copy (It is one not particularly useful habit of mine always to keep a spare) of the letter which your enquiries were mostly based upon inside the envelope.

Yours, most apologetically,

Fitzwilliam Emmerson.

My dear friend,

It gives me immense pain, still, to speak of my late mother, naturally, for she was a very great lady, so great, in fact, that it is a wonder that my father did not appreciate he better beyond her riches. You, Edmund, do not know the full story of my past and, in a letter where more needs to be said, I shall not give it to you. Instead, I shall tell you that my sisters are faring well, although they, too, are grieving.

But that is not the purpose for which this letter was written - although I am sure that my assurance of my sisters’ good welfare will give both you and your companions back home great relief. I am worried, my friend, and in great need of a confidant. You know, I am sure, for you are too clever a man not to, how I have, with an increasing level of difficulty, avoided your questions and been so very protective of my privacy over the years of our deep acquaintance, but now I find myself rendered with the inability to keep neither my dignity and head happy, nor my fear quiet for one moment longer.

But what is it, you may well wonder, that I am to speak to you of? Tis my own heart, for it has possibly begun to disintegrate.

Upon her deathbed, my mother decided that, due to her immense fiery thirst for feminism - a trait that, I will admit, I also possess - she could not bear to leave nothing at all to her eldest daughter, and so she rearranged heer will and the family contract so that Ophelia, not only has been left money, but the control over any family marriage that takes place from now onwards.

It is this that I am so worried about, Edmund, for you alone know what this decision means, and now even any hope of matrimony has been crushed under my sister’s boot. If it were Georgia whom had been left in control of such a thing, then matters could possibly be different, for she, at least, likes Elizabeth and would be content with me marrying for love. But, alas! It is Ophelia whom has been left in power and now - Oh, Edmund! How I despair!

I shall soon be sending more information - of similar content - to you, but for now, I await your reply with agitation, bid everyone at Rolands my best wishes and announce that I shall be returning to you all within just two more weeks.

P.S - I beg you, Edmund, to, if you are indeed plagued to read my letter of confidence aloud, not read out all of it.

Yours,

Etc.

Chapter 17:

As Elizabeth finished reading, a tear splashed onto the page, then another and another. What a letter! How awful it must have been to grow up with a father and sister like that! And, to think Mr. Emmerson loved her! Actually loved her so much that losing her would be the thing that, on top of everything else would destroy him for good. Elizabeth did not know quite what to think, and a thousand emotions sped through her mind. Drying her eyes and blotting the water on the paper wherever she could, she sat and reflected on her own feelings.

Hate, she at last decided, was out of the question, for, now Elizabeth knew his motives, Mr. Emmerson was now no more despicable than Edmund Fitzwield, but whether or not she actually loved him - even at all - was a question that she had neither the will, nor the ability to answer. But what if she did love him? Or did not? Whatever was she to say to the poor man? And then it was this which Elizabeth fretted over for another half-hour. No answer, however, could come to her, no matter how hard she sat and pondered. By almost tea time, when she had still not found her true emotions, she gave up her quest, and the agitation soon turned to jealousy. To be so sure of her feelings! Whatever should she give to feel and think about the world the way her sisters did - Janet undoubtedly. Janet Fitzwield’s love for Mr Fitzwield, was so powerful and evident that there was not one single thought of doubt to be had by anybody, and being doubtless was what Elizabeth, at this very moment in time, desired most of all. But it was not until Kitty Marton was sent to call Elizabeth down to tea, and Elizabeth left the solitude and privacy of her bedroom, that she finally realized what it was that she truly envied about the Fitzwield’s relationship: It was love. It was love that Elizabeth truly wanted. Someone to talk to and be with. A confidant. A lover. She wanted to be as happy in marriage as Janet and Edmund Fitzwield was and, as this strange realization washed over her, Elizabeth discovered that she was no longer hungry food-wise, but hungry for letter writing. Much to the bewilderment of the rest of her family, Elizabeth rushed from the parlor and retired once more, heart skipping and banging in her chest like a hand creating a musical pulse on a tabletop, to her room, where she at once, without even knowing what she was going to say, scrabbled about in her desk for a pen and paper.

“Mr. Emmerson-

Following the course of your last letter,-” she wrote. Then she stopped and searched in her mind for something decent to write.

“ -which, I have to say, was satisfyingly long and detailed, I have, after a long while of deep thinking, finally come within reach of an answer. I am writing now to tell you how miserable I was to hear tales of your woeful youth although I, at least, now know more about your character than I did before, and that has influenced upon me a tendency to prefer you better as a person. However, what I really ought to be pronouncing an answer to, is this question: Do I love you the way you do me? Well, for the present time I am not wholly certain and, although I can say that, in the future my newly-sown affection for you may grow to stand on its proper two feet, for now, accompanied by my sorrow at the thought of causing you grief, I must say that I do not quite feel the same way for you in return. But I pray you will not despise me for it, Mr. Emmerson, and that you shall pay me the compliment of hearing me out. I have no intention of harming anybody, least of all you, and it is as of this why I am to say what I am going to say to you now. If we eloped, at the much trembl

aJge we are at now, it would only allow your love for me to grow and my love, or affection, of you to sink merely into indifference. I say this not because I am unkind, or selfish, but because I care about your own heart and I do not wish for you to be ever tied down to a woman whom does not love you. The burden of that would, I fear, break you even more to than losing me would.

Also, I must add that, as of the part of your letter in which you stated that you ought not let your emotions slip, I agree you ought keep it up.

Yours sincerely and with many kind regards as to your health,

Elizabeth Marton. "

Putting back down the pen, Elizabeth ran speedily to the post office to post her newly-written letter, then returned and eagerly awaited a reply.

But, alas, four whole days went by and not one note from the Peak district came. Then another two went, with similar results. Elizabeth began to feel, after Mr. Emmerson's speedy reply to the first letter, as though she had put her correspondent off her somehow, but then she cursed herself for being so fickle. Why should you care? She told herself fiercely after the eighth day had passed and still no reply to her letter had come. But, although she pretended to her heart otherwise, Elizabeth really did care for Mr. Emmerson and, a day later, her upset at not having heard from the gentleman in over a week turned into a terrible fear that something had happened to him. Wild images began to flash through her mind, each a vivid fantasy of something petrifying and, many a time, Miss Marton would awake, screaming, from nightmares in which a giant monster of a man, holding a very picturesque knife slashed his way across half of England to mutilate her, Mr. Emmerson and everyone else Elizabeth had ever loved or cared for.

Her mother, father, Kitty and Anne tried, meanwhilst, as they heard Elizabeth's agonizing cries, to comfort her, but anything they did had very little impact and Elizabeth spent the last few days until Mr. Emmerson's return alone in her room.

When, at last, came about the time of Fitzwilliam Emmerson's arrival, the Martons were situated in their own house and Elizabeth was, still, up in her bedroom. Absentmindedly, she stared at the coverlet she was supposed to be embroidering, agitatedly fidgeting with the thread. Her mind and sensibility seemed lost and she awaited Mr. Emmerson's return undoubtedly restless. As the carriage drew up to the front door, however, wheels crunching on the gravel of the driveway, Elizabeth finally managed to revive herself. Darting from the window seat, she hurtled excitedly from her room and down the stairs, not even noticing the many bewildered looks her family threw her way. By the time Elizabeth reached the front doors, however, a second carriage, this one bearing Mr Fitzwield and his wife and sister inside, had drawn up outside the house, but neither Elizabeth, nor Mr. Emmerson had any regard at all for this once they had laid eyes on each other and nor, apparently, did they have any regard for is behavior; upon seeing Mr. Emmerson, Elizabeth threw her arms around him and, not caring that everyone was watching, Mr. Emmerson kissed her.

Chapter 18:

"The most scandalous thing I have ever beheld in all my life!" Exclaimed Lucinda Fitzwield, shaking her head firmly. It was almost lunchtime and everyone - with the exception of Elizabeth and Mr. Emmerson whom had both been barricaded in separate rooms of the house as a consequence of their behavior - was gathered in the parlour, sipping tea. Kitty Marton helped herself to a cake. "On the country! I thought it was rather sweet." She said, for she was a girl whom had a taste for romance, particularly - as well as unfortunately - romance of the more intense kind. But no one else, apart from Mr Fitzwield, whom, as was always the case when something of this sort happened, was looking rather irritatingly smug, seemed to agree with her.

Mrs Marton, whom had already been looking strongly mortified, looked even more so upon hearing the words of her youngest daughter. "Sweet?" she gasped. "How can it be so, for our entire family has now been thrown into shame. Whatever could Eliza have been thinking? Her purity, dignity and opportunity have all been vanquished by her kissing the lips of an unmarried man! If Lizzie does not marry Mr. Emmerson now, then we shall all be portrayed in disgrace!"

Mr Fitzwield spoke up. "But what if Elizabeth wanted to marry Fitzwilliam, anyway?" He said, quietly. "Surely, then, none of this should make any difference?"

Mrs Marton laughed hysterically. "Want to marry? Want? My dear sir, how can you possibly be so naïve as to think Elizabeth should ever want to marry that awful man?"

"But," continued Mr Fitzwield patiently. "I was under the impression that kissing was a sign of affection, not, as you suggest, of hatred."

Nobody had any answer to that.

Mr Marton looked at his quivering wife. "Perhaps I ought sit in the library with Mr. Emmerson. Send Elizabeth up to me, someone, and I shall take it upon myself to talk to them both separately and in confidence." With that, Mr. Marton arose from his chair and quitted the room and a maid was sent for to fetch Elizabeth from her own bedroom.

Whilst all this had been taking place, however, Elizabeth had been sat at the chair beside her bed, feeling rather confused, but inexplicably happy at the same time. When the maid tapped nervously at her door, however, she stood, abandoned her bedroom and headed for the library. On her way, she passed Mr. Emmerson, whom had been heading in the opposite direction to her and whom caught her wrist as she passed. A tingle was sent down Elizabeth's spine which, as he whispered "it's bad news with your father. Be civil, do not relate the contents of my letter to him and do not be afraid to elaborate on the truth." turned to a shiver of dread. She nodded, however and, face set, continued on her way to the library.

She knocked politely when she reached the door of her destination, too which Mr Marton replied "come in!" His voice, Elizabeth was relieved to hear, did not sound, in the slightest, a bit cold and she entered the library feeling a little more reassured. Mr Marton was facing the wide window that overlooked the front garden when his daughter walked in. As soon as Elizabeth entered the room, however, he ceased his staring and turned to face her, before resuming his previous seat at the desk and offering Elizabeth a seat opposite him.

Elizabeth took it wordlessly, her worry having now, in the presence of her business-meaning father, returned to her chest. Once she was well-seated, her father leant forwards in his humble chair, steepled his fingers together in front of him on the table and addressed his second daughter like this:

"Elizabeth Marton. You were born and raised up well under this luxurious roof of mine. For almost two decades, it has also been here where you have, quite comfortably, lived out you days and it is also here where you seem to have now found the lover of your life."

Elizabeth said nothing.

Mr Marton continued. "Notice how I said 'lover', not 'love' in itself. Mr. Emmerson, Lizzie, whilst he is a man of both great wealth and, I dare say, intelligence, may only be described as the former. How could he be anything but? Naturally, without knowing the man as well as, I will admit, I should - he is too rude to get to know and far too reserved - I cannot possibly prove it. However I will ask you to hear me out: There are many a man, Elizabeth, as I am sure you are aware of, from your brief acquaintance with the vicar, whom are more than capable of luring a woman into the suggestence and false security of their embrace, their arms and handsome features compensating for their lack of ability to truly love. Many of these men, I am afraid to say, Lizzie, roam our lands perfectly freely and under no suspicion whatsoever. Naturally - as your father - I am duty-bound to protect you, and your sisters, from such sinful people, through a good, worthy education so that you never have cause to face the evils surrounding us. What I do not wish to do, however, is remove your freedom and nor do I wish to snatch from you the feelings and experiences of joy that making your own matrimonial decisions can bring. But as much as I am inclined to let you romp about and be merry, it would not be at am morally right of me to let you elope with Mr. Emmerson - Mr. Emmerson of all people! No, Lizzie. As much as you seem to be - Ahem! - physically attracted to the man, I cannot help but be suspicious of his behavior towards you. Do you not remember the unkind words he gave you upon your first meeting? How he treated you with minimal -or indeed no- respect? And yet, after all this, after everything negative he ever said to you, the man is in love? Dearest Elizabeth, can you not see what he is trying to do? The man wants money! Power, land and money! That is all, Lizzie, with maybe some scandalous pleasures along the way. And then, when you have walked right into his little trap and willingly presented him with a nice legimate heir, he will abandon you on the streets with no money, no food, no family and not a single other man willing to take you in! You shall end up a disgrace, my dear daughter, a disgrace. Is that what you want? Is it?" And Mr Marton stared, long and hard at his daughter.

But Elizabeth shook her head. "Father. It does not matter wherpther I marry Mr. Emmerson or not. Even if he was the sort of man whom would do such a thing - although I can assure you, he is perfectly amiable - I would be a disgrace without marrying him. After my own act of stupidity! And you must not call him such names! I know too well that Mr. Emmerson would never do a thing like that! Least of all to me!"

Mr Marton only sighed. "Lizzie, do not be so stupid. No, I cannot let you marry Mr. Emmerson after the way he has treated you. Do you even have any proof that he is truly a good person?"

Elizabeth, at these words, was strongly tempted to reveal to her father the entire contents of Mr. Emmerson's letter byput, remembering what he had said to her in the corridor, she kept quiet on that subject and instead, feeling rather angry, said "My word is the proof!... Or is that not good enough for you? Mr. Emmerson is a perfectly civil gentleman and he is also the man I love!"

But her father was not to be swayed. Adamantly, despite his daughter's protests, he continued to reply that she was speaking nonsense and demanded that, for her own good, Elizabeth was to be banned from coming into contact with Mr. Emmerson ever again. Upon hearing this, Elizabeth, despairing, began to weep, but her father only insisted harder and would not relent, apart from when he grudgingly allowed Elizabeth five minutes in which she and Mr. Emmerson could say goodbye, supervised, Mr Marton said, by Edmund Fitzwield whom was, at this moment, having a word with his friend downstairs. Mr Marton then rang for a maid to fetch Misters Emmerson and Fitzwield, stating, as he rose to fetch himself a drink, that he would be five minutes maximum. It was then that the maid arrived alongside the two gentlemen - Mr. Emmerson, whom was quite pink from embarrassment and staring intently at the floor, and Mr Fitzwield, whom, for the first time since Elizabeth had known him, looked rather serious.

At the sight of poor Elizabeth, however, whom was, in fact, not looking her best due to the extensive amount she had been crying, Mr Fitzwield smiled gently and gallantly told the hiccuping Elizabeth that he would allow her and Mr. Emmerson some privacy by waiting outside the door. He then backed from the room, jokily warning them against any further scandalous behavior, a thing which at least cheered Elizabeth up a little and forced Mr. Emmerson's blush to recede.

Mr. Emmerson's eyes then found Elizabeth's and, for a long time, they stared at each other in complete silence. Elizabeth found herself wishing she had something to say, but could think of nothing.

Mr. Emmerson, however, surprised her immensely by clearing his throat. "I am most awfully sorry," said he "for everything I have ever bestowed of burdened upon you. It is why I did not write to you again, you see. I feared, once more, your indifference and irritation at my pestering of you

"Well then you feared wrongly!" cried Elizabeth, wiping fiercely away at her tears. She then proceeded to lower her voice slightly. "Instead, I grew to pine for you, to love you despite all the resent and hatred I indeed felt for you in the beginning. The heart is a many-layered, complex thing of much beauty. And, yet, there is always insolence and negativity there, too. Ignore the latter two we must, however, and work tirelessly on to listen to the organ, learn from the organ and, most importantly, understand the organ."

Mr. Emmerson smiled. "Yet more proof that the female sex is just as wise and well-read as the male one. Well said, dear lady, well said... I hope that-"

There was a sudden knock at the library door. Mr Fitzwield's voice floated through the wood. "May I cruelly remind you of your meagre time's finale? I can hear your father, Miss Marton, coming up the stairs and I shall need to be back in the room with you before he gets here."

Mr. Emmerson turned quickly back to Elizabeth, speaking in slow, urgent voice. "I hope that I shall soon find a means of communicating with you, despite what your father and mother may say. Look out for an admirer called John Faxton. He seems very taken with you and you ought to expect letters from him soon - much to my envy, of course!" He smiled again and Mr Fitzwield came back into the room. Mr Marton, to Elizabeth's dismay, came back to, very shortly after.

"I hope they behaved, Fitzwield." He loudly said.

"If course, sir." replied his son-in-law, but he winked at Mr. Emmerson and Elizabeth when Mr Marton was not looking.

Elizabeth had to suppress a giggle and she forced a look of sobriety onto her face, making sure to keep dabbing her cheeks with her lace handkerchief.

Chapter 19:

Mr. Emmerson was told to leave after that, and Elizabeth really did begin to cry a little then. Her father ignored it, which just gave her cause to sob harder. Mr Fitzwield whom was stood by the fireplace, sadly shaking his head, came and tried to comfort her, but his attempts were in vain, for his presence just made it, on top of everything, rather a lot worse.

Mr Fitzwield, Janet and Lucinda went home soon after Mr. Emmerson's melancholy departure and Elizabeth retired back to her bedroom, where she leant against her door and wept four a half-hour. Then, exhausted at last, she went to bed and fell into sleep - a restless one, certainly, but it was better than nothing. She did, however, toss and turn for most of the night, her damp pillow making for a most uncomfortable one, unable, truly, to find relief in resting, but neither, apparently, in waking, for Elizabeth Marton spent spent the next few weeks trapped in a world halfway through dreams and reality. Dreams, that is, that were more like nightmares and reality that was much the same. No one, not even Janet, dearest Janet, came to visit her. She also heard nothing from this so-called "John Faxton" although when she reminded herself of this hope it did give her mood an opportunity to lift a little, if only slightly. Finally, however, as Elizabeth slept one morning - a habit she had recently acquired and now spent a lot of time doing - there came a soft tap at her bedroom window. Then, a second later, a rustling of paper and then of leaves occurred and, at this, Elizabeth sat up and stared in wonder in the direction of her curtained window. It was a few moments, even, after that before Elizabeth could rouse herself to approach the window, lift aside the heavily embroidered curtain and take in the sight that awaited her there: A small, slightly bent, heavily sealed envelope. It was not named. Fingers trembling, Elizabeth picked it up and, after carefully breaking the seal, she allowed herself to look inside. Just as she had expected, a letter came out, and it was a letter of two pages.

"Dearest Elizabeth,"

She read.

"I am supremely sorry that I did not write sooner, or even once, to reassure you or attempt to comfort you over the last few weeks. If I were to ungraciously excuse my nerve-enticing behaviour, then I should tell you this: I feared interception. I merely supposed that any mail you received would be monitored and it is as of that one suspicion of mine that this letter was also delivered by the means and confidence of the stable boy - whom is, by the way, exceptionally good at climbing ivy plants. Next time, I hope, I will indeed use the postman, as well as my pen name (J.J. Faxton) and the letter ought be delivered within a much shorter time period.

For now, however, I wish merely to bid you good day and to tell you that I am in good health - although I am still exceptionally gloomy.

Much love and regard,

~F.E."

Elizabeth finished reading, her spirits vastly lifted and, picking up her pen, she scribbled her answer.

"Dear Fitzwilliam,

I imagine Mr Fitzwield has been the one whom has been providing you with comfort over the past few weeks. He is a very amiable man and a very good friend. Jnet is exceedingly lucky to have him and, speaking of Janet, could you perhaps ask her to write? I am missing her - as well as your - company so much.

I am in fair spirits No, indeed I am not in a fair mood; I am very miserable and shall not lie to you about it. Do you remember, though, that ball at which Mr Fitzwield made us play the piano together? Oh, how I feel even he knew of our love before we did... And so obvious it seems now, too! You knew the song I played, as well! By the lord I have never met any person outside of my family circle whom knew that song as well as I! How do you know of it?

Yours, with much love and affection,

Elizabeth."

Then, still smiling as she slid the letter into an envelope and sealed it carefully, Elizabeth took up the note and her parasol and headed, not for the post-office, but for the dairy in the grounds of her own house.

Hannah, a young girl of about Kitty Marton's age, had worked and lived at Roland house all her life, her mother being the cook. She was a gentle, rosy-cheeked little creature, with blonde hair shoved up under a cap and, as a result of the fact that she was trusted by everyone, what with her reputation of being an extremely good servant, Elizabeth knew that it was Hannah whom she ought turn to.

And so, off went Elizabeth in search of the dairy maid, soon finding her speaking to the butler about silverware just behind the stables. Upon seeing Miss Marton, the pair hastilly bowed and curtsied and, when Elizabeth made it plain to the butler that she required a private word with Hannah, he left courteously, with a nod of his head, leaving the two girls in peace.

"Hannah." said Elizabeth in her most authoritative manner as soon as they were alone. "I have come to ask you a favour."

Hannah blinked, vaguely surprised "Indeed, Miss. What is it you require?"

"Deliver this letter to Mr. Emmerson at Inklefields. And mind you keep quiet about it!" and Elizabeth put the envelope into the maid's hand.

"Of course, Miss..." Hannah curtsied. Then, unusually, but not at all rudely, she added. "But Miss Elizabeth! Why would you ask me?"

"Because you are the most trustworthy."

Hannah beamed "Oh, Miss" You are far too kind to me!" she cried, giving a little leap of excitement. Then, she at once stopped leaping and looked, suddenly serious at Elizabeth. "Pardon me for being so nosey and prying, Miss," she politely said, lowering her voice slightly. "but is it... A love letter?"

Elizabeth found her cheeks reddening. "That, it may be considered as." she said quietly, smiling shyly "Although it is not one of much sentimental feeling."

Hannah humbly bowed her head, feeling as though, this time, she had asked one question too many. However, it was not so and Elizabeth had yet another word to speak. Deciding she could trust the servant girl, Elizabeth pressed on. "My true feelings towards Fitzwilliam Emmerson, the recipient of this letter, are as follows: He is a perfectly civil gentleman and, whilst he may - or may not; it is not my part to say - have some minor faults, I honor him above any other man in my acquaintance and feel strongly the presence of every one of his superior qualities." Then Elizabeth found herself struck by another thought, this one, too, which was told to the dutiful dairy maid and which both young ladies giggled at and which made Elizabeth blush again. "That, and the fact that all Mr. Emmerson's features are in extremely fine proportion!"

Hannah, once she had, at last, smothered her girlish laughter, bobbed her young mistress yet another curtsey. "I shall deliver this letter immediately, Miss." she said, as Elizabeth dismissed her. And she walked away, ever the sweet gentle post-lady. Smiling to herself, Elizabeth turned and took a stroll about the garden, feeling, very much as though a little of the weight upon her shoulders had been finally lifted.

Chapter 20:

It was during her solitary stroll when came the beginnings of an idea. Elizabeth had been mid-way through strolling through the carefully-pruned rose garden - one of Mr Marton's particular favorite features of the house and also one in which he took great pride - when this thought struck her from quite out of the blue. Her father, Elizabeth knew, really did care for every single one of his four daughters and always had their best interests at heart. She would therefore try, Elizabeth hereafter decided, to coax her dear father into lifting his ban of Mr. Emmerson ever encountering her, Elizabeth, ever again. At present, she did not know exactly how, but Elizabeth felt, as surely as she had done recently about the dairy maid's trustworthiness, as though she ought be able to come up with something sooner or later. And so, as she walked, Elizabeth continued to scheme - that is, until she strayed straight into the path of a stranger.

"Oh!" exclaimed Elizabeth, as she stumbled and almost fell. However the stranger seemed to take little notice.He was a broad-shouldered, stern-looking man, with a thick crop of side-parted grey hair and a perfectly straight toothbrush moustache.

"I beg your pardon, lady." said the stranger awkwardly, when Elizabeth glared at him. He cleared his throat. "The name's Peft. Sergeant Peft and I am in great want of a Mr Edmund Fitzwield. May you know where he is?"

Elizabeth blinked at him a few times, rather stupidly, before she hastily remembered herself. Her mind was racing. A sergeant, in want of Mr Fitzwield? Why ever could that be?

Then she realized how the sergeant was looking at her with a sort of puzzlement and she snapped herself back to the present. "Edmund Fitzwield, you say? Why, sir, I am from the neighbouring house, Rolands, and I have a very strong acquaintance with those up at Inklefields."

Peft nodded slowly. "Inklefields, eh?" he asked. "And you are...?"

"Miss Elizabeth Marton, sir." said Elizabeth, then she opened her mouth to say something else, but was stopped by the bizarre sight of Peft silently quaking with mirth.

"What?" she cried, indignantly. "What on earth are you laughing at? I was just about to offer you some help, if you please!"

Sergeant Peft at once ceased laughing, but there was still an expression of amusement on his face which Elizabeth could not ignore and she at once made her inquiries.

"Oh, no, my dear lady!" Exclaimed Peft as soon as she allowed him to speak. "It is nothing... I merely..." Then he frowned to himself and stopped talking. "No. It is nothing particular."

But when Elizabeth insisted on knowing the reasons for him laughing at her, he did begin to talk again. "You are Elizabeth Marton?"

She nodded.

"Then you are the one whom has caused all this trouble!" smiled the sergeant, almost triumphantly.

Still, however, Miss Marton was perplexed. "But what ever is so funny about that?" she asked.

"Oh, Mr Fitzwield sent for me when he heard how upset his friend was over you. He's a good man, is Edmund...So. Lizzie Marton, that's you, is it?"

"Yes." said Elizabeth, still feeling rather offended. She still had no idea what this strange man was getting to.

"I have never." said Mr Peft at last "seen, or even heard 'Will Emmerson to be interested in the likes of a girl under your disposition...Or even any girl... And to be so madly in love... Well, I shall just say that that's uncharacteristic of him."

Elizabeth's curiosity was suddenly very much aroused. "What do you mean?" she asked. "Are you really saying that you have an acquaintance with Mr. Emmerson?"

Peft, at this, began to laugh again. "Acquaintance? Why, I have known the Emmersons for years - the Fitzwields, too. I was sorry to hear what happened to Mrs Emmerson. Very tragic, but... Never mind. The fact is, madam, that I have known Fitzwilliam Emmerson since the day he was born. My own elder brother, Sammy, is, in fact, to this day, his very butler up at Pickely house!"

This information very much surprised Elizabeth, and she stared at her companion with a new-found sense of regard and respect. The sergeant was strange, certainly, but he had a streak of formality and sensibility to him, too, which gave his character a splash of vibrancy,

"Anyway," said Peft suddenly, clapping his hands together so loudly that a couple of birds flew, twittering madly, out of a nearby oak tree. "To business! Lead the way, Miss Marton and, if you please, take us to Inklefield estate!"

Elizabeth instantly obeyed, although she still felt, to a certain extent, some form of apprehension for the man on the path beside her. However, she pushed these thoughts aside and the two of them set off in quest of Inklefields.

As they neared the house, however, Elizabeth's nerves began to seep in, for she was nervously anticipating what was to come: Only a few minutes until she saw Mr Emmerson again! And it had been almost a month since they had last met. Elizabeth's eyes prickled slightly, but her sentiments retreated as she spotted a blonde, cheerful-looking figure coming up the road towards them. Sergeant Peft had noticed the girl, too, and he cried out in sheer amazement, thus alerting the pinafore-wearing girl to their presence. As soon as she saw Elizabeth coming up the road to meet her, Hannah quickened her pace and, once she was within earshot, called out to her in clear surprise.

"Miss! Miss Elizabeth! Whatever are you doing here? Oh no! You have not come to scold me have you, Miss? I delivered the letter, Miss, honest I did!" and poor, confused Hannah despairingly began to weep, clearly under the impression that she had done something wrong and that Elizabeth and her companion had come all this way merely to scold her. Once they had assured her they hadn't, however, then the maid brightened a little and continued on her way home full to the brim of congratulations and compliments from her young mistress. Elizabeth and Sergeant Peft, meanwhile, proceeded up to Inklefields, the former in nervous spirits as of what was soon to come.