Chapter 13: shadows of the heart

A month had passed, and Prince Adrian's intentions toward Emma had become undeniably clear. His visits were frequent and deliberate, his demeanor one of a man with a purpose. Each time he arrived at the Hastings mansion, he came bearing gifts—a bouquet of exotic flowers from the royal gardens or a handwritten poem crafted just for her. His words were charming, his attentions unwavering, and his every action carried the subtle but unmistakable weight of courtship.

The ton, ever eager for gossip, hummed with speculation. Whispers of Emma becoming a future princess rippled through society, elevating her already illustrious position as the Diamond of the Season. Eleanor, too, was swept up in the excitement, her pride unmistakable. Yet beneath her joy lay a mother's intuition, and she couldn't shake the fleeting moments when she caught Emma's gaze drifting into the distance, her smile faltering ever so slightly.

Emma, always poised and gracious, entertained Adrian's company with the decorum expected of her. She listened to his stories, laughed at his jokes, and thanked him for his thoughtful gestures. But her mind and heart betrayed her. Despite Adrian's charm, her thoughts wandered to another—someone who, unlike the prince, seemed to have retreated from her life entirely.

Harrison had become a ghost of the man she once knew. His visits to the Hastings estate, once so frequent and welcome, had dwindled to almost nothing. When they crossed paths at social gatherings, there was a cold politeness between them, a distance that Emma couldn't fathom but felt deeply. Clara's omnipresent shadow loomed over them, her every glance at Harrison a quiet yet pointed declaration of possession.

Days turned into weeks, and Emma found herself caught in a relentless tide of soirées and suitors, each one vying for her attention. Yet it was the nights that weighed on her most, when the world fell quiet and she was left alone with her thoughts. She admired Adrian's kindness, respected his intellect, and even appreciated his efforts to win her favor. But her heart betrayed her, refusing to let go of the quiet strength and unspoken connection she had once felt with Harrison.

One crisp autumn evening, Emma wandered through the gardens, the air carrying the faintest chill as summer gave way to fall. The leaves rustled softly in the breeze, their colors shifting to warm tones of gold and amber. Her mind, as it often did, strayed to Harrison. What had changed between them? Did he care for her at all, or had she imagined it all—the lingering glances, the fleeting touches, the warmth in his voice when he spoke her name?

The crunch of carriage wheels on the gravel path pulled her from her reverie. Turning, she saw Prince Adrian descending from his carriage, his polished boots clicking against the ground. He greeted her with his usual confidence, his smile as radiant as ever. Emma returned his greeting, masking her inner turmoil with the practiced ease of a woman raised to navigate high society.

Adrian requested a private audience with the Duke. In the study, surrounded by shelves of ancient books and the faint aroma of aged leather, Adrian stood tall, his expression earnest.

"Your Grace," he began, his tone steady, "I have come to know Emma as an extraordinary woman—kind, intelligent, and deeply admirable. It is my hope to spend my life with her. I humbly ask for your permission to propose to her."

The Duke, ever composed, regarded Adrian carefully. He saw in the prince a man of integrity and genuine affection for his daughter. But he also saw the tension that lingered in Emma, the uncertainty she carried despite her outward composure.

"You have my blessings, Your Highness," the Duke said after a pause. "But Emma's happiness is my priority. The decision, ultimately, is hers."

Adrian nodded, his respect for the Duke evident. "I would expect nothing less, Your Grace."

That evening, the Duke called Emma into his study. His expression was gentle as he explained the prince's intentions.

"Adrian wishes to propose to you," he said, his voice calm but firm. "I have given him my blessings, but the choice is yours, Emma. No one will force your hand."

Emma sat in silence, her heart a cacophony of emotions. The prince's offer was everything society deemed perfect—a royal match, a future as a princess. Yet her heart rebelled, pulling her in a direction that seemed increasingly impossible.

Emma sat alone in her room, the flickering glow of a single candle casting long shadows across the walls. The Duke's words replayed endlessly in her mind: "Adrian wishes to propose to you. I have given him my blessings, but the choice is yours." The weight of the decision pressed heavily on her chest, and for all the elegance and clarity she displayed during the day, she was now a storm of emotions.

She had tried to suppress the urge to see Harrison, to let reason prevail, but her heart refused to be silenced. She needed to know if she had imagined his affections, if she was holding on to a hope that no longer existed. The uncertainty was unbearable, and tonight, she decided, she would find her answers.

The household had quieted, the echoes of the day's activities fading into the stillness of the night. Eleanor and Alfred had retired to their chambers hours ago, and Thomas was fast asleep, his snores faintly audible down the hall. Emma's heart raced as she listened to the ticking of the clock on her bedside table. Midnight. If she was going to do this, it had to be now.

Draping a dark shawl over her shoulders, she extinguished the candle and moved silently to her door. Every creak of the floorboards beneath her feet felt deafening, but she forced herself to remain calm. Slowly, she turned the doorknob, easing the door open just enough to slip through. She glanced both ways down the hall, her breath catching in her throat. The dim light of a wall sconce illuminated the corridor, but no one stirred.

Step by step, she made her way down the stairs, her slippers muffling the sound of her movements. At the bottom, the grand foyer stretched out before her, its opulent decor a silent witness to her secret mission. The main doors were too risky—one of the footmen might see her or hear the latch. Instead, she turned toward the servants' wing, where a side door led to the gardens.

The kitchen was dark and still, the faint scent of bread lingering in the air. Emma paused at the threshold, listening intently. The soft crackle of the dying hearth was the only sound. She moved quickly now, crossing the room to the side door. Her fingers fumbled with the latch, her pulse quickening as the door creaked open.

The cool night air hit her face as she stepped outside, the world beyond the estate quiet and cloaked in shadow. She pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders, shivering slightly as she navigated the garden paths. The Ashbourne estate wasn't far—just beyond the edge of the Hastings property. She had walked the path many times during the day, but at night, the landscape seemed foreign, the trees casting eerie silhouettes against the moonlit sky.

Her thoughts were a tangled mess as she reached the outskirts of the Ashbourne estate. What would she say to Harrison? What would she do if she found him with Clara? She shook her head, banishing the thought. She needed to know, no matter the outcome.

The Ashbourne manor loomed ahead, its windows glowing faintly with the warmth of candlelight. Emma approached cautiously, staying in the shadows as she circled the house. She knew Harrison's room well; it was on the second floor, overlooking the western gardens. Finding the path that led to the servants' entrance, she followed it to the side of the house. The window to his room was open slightly, the soft glow of a lamp spilling out into the night.

Her heart pounded as she approached, her steps faltering as she reached the edge of the light. She could see him now, standing near the hearth, his back turned to her. For a moment, she hesitated, her courage wavering. But just as she stepped forward, the door to his room opened, and Clara stepped inside.

Emma froze, her breath catching in her throat. Clara crossed the room with a confidence that spoke of familiarity, her pale dress glowing in the firelight. Harrison turned to face her, his expression one of mild surprise. Before he could react, Clara wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace.

Emma's world seemed to tilt. She couldn't hear their words, but she didn't need to. The image was enough. Her chest tightened, a sharp ache spreading through her as she turned away, her footsteps silent as she retreated into the shadows.

She had almost reached the edge of the garden when a voice stopped her. "Emma?"

She turned to see Beatrice, her friend's face pale in the moonlight. Emma's tears betrayed her, slipping silently down her cheeks.

"Emma, what's wrong?" Beatrice stepped closer, concern etched into her features.

Emma shook her head, forcing a wavering smile. "It's nothing," she whispered, her voice barely audible. But the pain in her heart was anything but nothing. The prince wanted to propose, but her heart belonged to a man who seemed to belong to another.

Beatrice stared at her, unconvinced. "It doesn't look like nothing." She reached for Emma's arm, her grip gentle yet firm. "You're crying, Emma. Please, tell me what happened."

Emma opened her mouth to speak but found that words failed her. How could she explain the tangled mess of her heart? The betrayal she felt, even though Harrison had never made her any promises? She shook her head again, more forcefully this time, and pulled her arm free. "It's late," she whispered. "I need to go."

"Emma, wait—"

But Emma was already walking away, her steps hurried as if she could escape the ache in her chest. She didn't stop until she reached the edge of the Hastings estate, the familiar sight of her home cloaked in the soft glow of moonlight. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

Sneaking back inside the house was easier than leaving had been; the servants' door swung shut behind her with barely a sound, and the kitchen remained empty. Her feet moved on autopilot, carrying her up the stairs and down the hall to her room. Once inside, she locked the door and leaned heavily against it, her shawl slipping from her shoulders to pool on the floor.

The events of the night played over and over in her mind. Clara's embrace, Harrison's silence, the way he hadn't even noticed her standing there. A sob escaped her lips, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, trying to stifle the sound. She crossed the room and sank onto her bed, the weight of her emotions finally breaking through.

She didn't know how long she sat there, her tears soaking into the fabric of her dress. Time seemed to blur, and the quiet of the house only amplified the storm within her. When her sobs finally subsided, she wiped her cheeks and stared blankly at the faint outlines of her room in the dark.

Was this her answer? She had wanted clarity, but all she felt was pain. Harrison had been her heart's compass for so long, yet tonight, she'd seen him with Clara, and it had felt like a door closing.

The prince's visits, his kindness, his clear affection—they all loomed larger now, pressing against the fragile walls of her resolve. He had asked for her father's blessing, had made his intentions clear in a way Harrison never had. Perhaps it was time to accept what was being offered to her: security, admiration, and a chance to step into a life most women could only dream of.

But as she lay back on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, Emma couldn't silence the small, stubborn voice inside her that whispered: It's not him. It's not the man you love.

The hours slipped by, and the first light of dawn crept through the window. Emma hadn't slept, her mind too restless, her heart too bruised. She had a choice to make, one that would shape her future forever. But how could she choose when her heart belonged to someone who didn't seem to want it?

For now, she could only close her eyes and hope that the clarity she so desperately needed would come with the rising sun.