aunt would have the apoplexie if she knew Emmaline intended to entertain a British officer. But with any luck Tante Voletta would never know.
“Will you come, Gabriel?” she breathed.
His expression remained solemn. “I will return at seven.” He bowed and quickly strode out of the shop, the English ladies following him with their eyes.
When the door closed behind him, both ladies turned to stare at Emmaline.
She forced herself to smile at them and behave as though nothing of great importance had happened.
“Good morning, mesdames.” She curtsied. “Please tell me if I may offer assistance.”
They nodded, still gaping, before they turned their backs and whispered to each other while they pretended to examine the lace caps on a nearby table.
Emmaline returned to folding the square of lace she’d held since Gabriel first spoke to her.
It was absurd to experience a frisson of excitement at merely speaking to a man. It certainly had not happened with any other. In fact, since her husband’s death she’d made it a point to avoid such attention.
She buried her face in the piece of lace and remembered that terrible night. The shouts and screams and roar of buildings afire sounded in her ears again. Her body trembled as once again she smelled the blood and smoke and the sweat of men.
She lifted her head from that dark place to the bright, clean white of the shop. She ought to have forgiven her husband for taking her and their son to Spain, but such generosity of spirit eluded her. Remy’s selfishness had led them into the trauma and horror that was Badajoz.
Emmaline shook her head. No, it was not Remy she could not forgive, but herself. She should have defied him. She should have refused when he insisted, I will not be separated from my son.
She should have taken his yelling, raging and threatening. She should have risked the back of his hand and defied him. If she had refused to accompany him, Remy might still be alive and Claude would have no reason to be consumed with hatred.
How would Claude feel about his mother inviting a British officer to sup with her? To even speak to Gabriel Deane would be a betrayal in Claude’s eyes. Claude’s hatred encompassed everything Anglais, and would even include the man who’d protected them and brought them to safety.
But neither her aunt nor Claude would know of her sharing dinner with Gabriel Deane, so she was determined not to worry over it.
She was merely paying him back for his kindness to them, Emmaline told herself. That was the reason she’d invited him to dinner.
The only reason.
The evening was fine, warm and clear as befitted late May. Gabe breathed in the fresh air and walked at a pace as rapid as when he’d followed Emmaline that morning. He was too excited, too full of an anticipation he had no right to feel.
He’d had his share of women, as a soldier might, short-lived trysts, pleasant, but meaning very little to him. For any of those women, he could not remember feeling this acute sense of expectancy.
He forced himself to slow down, to calm himself and become more reasonable. It was curiosity about how she’d fared since Badajoz that had led him to accept her invitation. The time they’d shared made him feel attached to her and to her son. He merely wanted to ensure that Emmaline was happy.
Gabriel groaned. He ought not think of her as Emmaline. It conveyed an intimacy he had no right to assume.
Except she had called him by his given name, he remembered. To hear her say Gabriel was like listening to music.
He increased his pace again.
As he approached the shop door, he halted, damping down his emotions one more time. When his head was as steady as his hand he turned the knob and opened the shop door.
Emmaline stood with a customer where the ribbons of lace hung on a line. She glanced over at him when he entered.
The customer was another English lady, like the two who had come to the shop that morning. This lady, very prosperously dressed, loudly haggled over the price of a piece of lace. The difference between Emmaline’s price and what the woman wanted to pay was a mere pittance.
Give her the full price, Gabe wanted to say to the customer. He suspected Emmaline needed the money more than the lady did.
“Très bien, madame,” Emmaline said with a resigned air. She accepted the lower price.
Gabe moved to a corner to wait while Emmaline wrapped the lace in paper and tied it with string. As the lady bustled out she gave him a quick assessing glance, pursing her lips at him.
Had that been a look of disapproval? She knew nothing of his reasons for being in the shop. Could a soldier not be in a woman’s shop without censure? This lady’s London notions had no place here.
Gabe stepped forwards.
Emmaline smiled, but averted her gaze. “I will be ready in a minute. I need to close up the shop.”
“Tell me what to do and I’ll assist you.” Better for him to be occupied than merely watching her every move.
“Close the shutters on the windows, if you please?” She straightened the items on the tables.
When Gabe secured the shutters, the light in the shop turned dim, lit only by a small lamp in the back of the store. The white lace, so bright in the morning sun, now took on soft shades of lavender and grey. He watched Emmaline glide from table to table, refolding the items, and felt as if they were in a dream.
She worked her way to the shop door, taking a key from her pocket and turning it in the lock. “C’est fait!” she said. “I am finished. Come with me.”
She led him to the back of the shop, picking up her cash box and tucking it under her arm. She lit a candle from the lamp before extinguishing it. “We go out the back door.”
Gabe took the cash box from her. “I will carry it for you.”
He followed her through the curtain to an area just as neat and orderly as the front of the shop.
Lifting the candle higher, she showed him a stairway. “Ma tante—my aunt—lives above the shop, but she is visiting. Some of the women who make the lace live in the country; my aunt visits them sometimes to buy the lace.”
Gabe hoped her aunt would not become caught in the army’s march into France. Any day now he expected the Allied Army to be given the order to march against Napoleon.
“Where is your son?” Gabe asked her. “Is he at school?” The boy could not be more than fifteen, if Gabe was recalling correctly, the proper age to still be away at school.
She bowed her head. “Non.”
Whenever he mentioned her son her expression turned bleak.
Behind the shop
