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A Carriage Ride Home

By Sandra H. Esch

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London, England
Winter 1896

The dreaded day arrived.
Ollie glanced at his fiancée, took one last look at the barren countryside, and lightly flicked the reins. He steered the buggy off the main road, and through a towering gate. The horse’s hooves clopped a rhythmic cadence along a tree-lined path and eased to a halt.
Emily’s chatter ceased, her eyes grew wide with wonder, and then darkened like the billowing clouds greedily devouring the light.
“What troubles you, Em?” he said.
Although he already knew.
“This is your home?”
He grinned mischievously.
“You failed to mention you were wealthy.”
He rested a comforting hand on hers. “This is my father’s house.”
“But he’s an aristocrat,” she said. “If I’m doing my sums correctly, that would make you an aristocrat, too. Ollie, I feel completely out of—”
He cupped his hands on her fair cheeks. “You’re fine.”
“No. Your parents will throw me out when they learn I’m a pauper.”
Ollie looked up at the stately mansion with its formidable columns, cupolas, and multi-paned windows and his heart grew sad. “I fear the true paupers live here. My parents have been known to suffer poverty of the soul,” he said by way of explanation. “One day you’ll follow.”
“But surely you’ve told them about me … Ollie? Why aren’t you answering? You mean they don’t know—”
He looked hard into the eyes of his one true love. “You are our equal. Do not for one moment forget that.” He reached out a hand. “Come.”
“I can’t go in there.”
He turned and handed the reins to a waiting stable boy. “Henry, would you please attend to Betsy?”
“Be happy to, my lord.”
“My lord?” she repeated weakly. “Ollie …”
“My parents will be quite taken with you,” he said, wishing his desire into being. He glanced at the ever darkening sky. If by chance the gathering went poorly and snow fell, he’d have suitable cause to cut short this visit. He helped a reluctant Emily down and with a gentle hold at the elbow guided her up wide marble steps and through sweeping doors.
Though fire hissed and spat in the hearth, he was unable to shake a chill. With Emily at his side, he viewed his home differently. In contrast to her world, which so lifted him, he hadn’t before noticed the oppressing décor of muted colors. The paintings of landscapes and flowers, but none of people. The hard, cold sculpture of a horse with no rider. And though the great room smelled of roast duck, inhaling a breath in the large chamber suffocated him.
His distinguished-looking father lightly graying at the temples, and mother in her flowing gown, approached them. They wore expectant smiles.
“Father, Mother, I present to you Miss Emily de Haven.”
Emily curtsied awkwardly before extending a hand.
His father undoubtedly took note of her discomfort for his, “How delightful to meet you,” implied a question. “Your Emily is even lovelier than we had imagined.”
As she blushed, Ollie slipped a reassuring hand about her waist.
They made pleasantries while one servant attended to their wraps and another brought forward a silver platter. “Wassail, ma’am?”
Emily reached for a cup of the hot beverage, hand trembling. Before Ollie could help her, Wassail spilled over its sides and onto the Persian rug. “I’m terribly sorry.” Her horrified gaze riveted on the carpet. “How clumsy of me.”
“No need for concern,” Ollie said as a servant swabbed the liquid with a linen napkin. “I’ve spilled a few drinks myself. Look. The carpet remains unharmed.”
His father undoubtedly found the nervousness of youthful love entertaining for a half smile cut into his cheeks.
Meanwhile his mother lowered onto a settee near the hearth and patted it. “Tell us all about yourself, Emily, and how you and our Oliver met.”
“We met at the library,” Ollie said, answering for her.
His mother nodded approvingly. “I have always deemed the library at Oxford so utterly charming.”
“Not Oxford,” Emily said. “We met at the British Library.”
“The British …”
“I was struggling with a weighty stack of books.” She broke her first confident smile. “Your son noticed and insisted upon carrying them for me. I have never before met anyone quite so gallant.”
“We are most proud of our Oliver. He has grown into a true gentleman. He shall make an excellent barrister, don’t you think?”
Ollie’s father cleared his throat in a disapproving manner.
“And one day soon he will become a fine judge,” his mother continued, “but of that I am certain you were already aware. So tell us, what course of study are you taking at university?”
Emily looked at Ollie as if pleading for help. “I do not attend university.”
“You … do not?”
“No, Lady Harrington. Ollie … uh, Oliver must have neglected to tell you. I’m a—”
“Do you find this coat familiar?” Ollie pivoted and thumbed open his jacket at the pockets.
“No, I don’t believe I do.”
“You presented this to me on my eighteenth birthday, remember? It pleased me so greatly, I fear I’ve worn it until the fabric broke through at the elbow. Yet I still refused to part with it. Em masterfully stitched on patches. Looks as if it were a new garment.”
His mother examined the coat sleeve closely. “Yes, it does at that.” She looked at Emily with an admiring smile. “So you sew then. My, it nearly looks professional. What a wonderful hobby.”
“No, mother. She’s a—”
“Dinner is served,” a servant said.
Ollie welcomed the interruption. Perhaps it was best to divulge Emily’s family situation slowly.
They gathered together in the formal dining room. In the afternoon’s dim light, Emily appeared swallowed up in a large Victorian chair. Her striking eyes and flawless complexion glowed in flickering candlelight. At the mere sight of her in the elegant setting, Ollie touched heaven.
As they dined, he shared some of the warmer tales of his youth. But when his mother turned to Emily and said, “Do tell us about your childhood,” he choked down a forkful of Yorkshire pudding and chased it with a generous gulp of water. His parents needed to learn about their future daughter-in-law, but Ollie feared their questions coming too quickly and reaching too deep.
“What are some of your favorite memories?” Lady Harrington spoke innocently as if she hadn’t noticed Emily fidgeting. “And tell us about your father. How does he make his living?”
Ollie girded Emily with his eyes as she lowered her fork, placing it just so next to her plate, then lifted her chin. “He’s incapacitated, unable to work.”
Branches of a nearby tree scraped loudly against the windowpanes, attracting his father’s attention. “I wonder if a snowstorm might be threatening.”
Ollie’s mother said, “Yes, it does appear a bit bothersome, but at the moment I’m more concerned about this young lady’s father. Emily, I’m so sorry to hear he’s had difficulties with his health. I hope his condition is improving with time.”
She shook her head. “He had an accident on the job some years back. Crushed his hip. He’ll never walk again.”
“How very dreadful,” his father said. “What was his profession?”
As Emily reached for a napkin the way a young girl reaches for the comfort of a doll and smoothed imaginary creases. Ollie held his breath. He had been wrong not to prepare her for an inquisition.
“He was a—”
His mother appeared to neither see nor comprehend the impact of the question. “Yes,” she said. “Go on.”
“Mother,” he cautioned.
Though Emily’s cheeks flushed pink, she announced, “My father was a street seller.”
As his father sat mute, his mother’s “I see” eased out warm and proper, but further words seemed nowhere to be found.
Ollie placed a hand on Emily’s. “I’m most proud of your father. He’s a delightful man worthy of our respect. Look how well he raised you.” Ollie then turned to his parents. “She is wonderfully unspoiled, is she not?”
“Yes, wonderfully,” his mother said, her tone unconvincing. “And what about you, Emily? If you do not attend university, are you otherwise employed?”
She nodded. “I’m a seamstress.”
“A seam …”
Ollie wasn’t certain whether Emily drew strength from her professional skills, but something happened. Appearing at one with herself, she no longer struggled to gain approval. With a quick glance at him, she announced, “I take great pride in my work.”
The unknown revealed, Ollie’s shoulders slackened for his parents had seen her beauty and warmth before learning of her lack of social standing, and she had responded graciously. “I wouldn’t be surprised to one day find her sewing for the Queen,” he said then redirected his attention toward the window, relieved by the howling wind and whirling snow. “I fear we will have to cut short this afternoon’s visit. As soon as there’s a break in the weather, I’d best see Em home.”
Ollie placed a stack of bricks on the hearth. Shortly thereafter he called for the stable master. “Would you kindly wrap the hot bricks and place them in the buggy?” He then looked squarely at his father. “I wish my fiancée’s feet to remain warm during our journey to London.”
Lord Harrington’s Adam’s apple visibly plunged beneath his collar. “Fiancée?”

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