'I am very pleased for Jack Stanton. Who would have thought it from what he was like when he worked for you? All tight-collared and ready-made clothes. So serious, and with that strong Geordie accent.'
Emma knew her words held more than an echo of her mother at her most snobbish in them.
Far too harsh and judge-mental. And Jack's voice only held the slightest echo of a Geordie burr.
'I seem to recall you thought he had fine eyes, or some such nonsense. Your dear mama remarked on it. Then he left abruptly.'
'Papa!' Emma put her hands to her head, dug into her hair, pulling it slightly. She had to remain calm and collected. 'How much punch did you actually drink today? No more of your tomfoolery. Tell me directly, what are you on about?'
Her father nodded. 'Then you will have no objection.'
'Objection to what?' The prickling at the back of her neck had returned with a vengeance.
Emma forced her head to keep still. Next she would start believing in ghosts. 'That you snuck out of the house like a schoolboy escaping from lessons? That you have had at least one glass too many of punch? That you will have a bad head in the morning?'
Her father rocked back on his heels, humming a little tune. What mischief had her father done?
'Your father has invited me to lodge with you both.' Jack Stanton stepped coolly into the room.
Emma stared at Jack in disbelief. She blinked, willing him to be a figment of her imagination.
But obstinately he remained, lounging with a lazy grace against the doorframe.
He carried his top hat, and had discarded his cane, but his gaze was as arrogant as ever, looking her up and down, taking in the crumpled nature of her blue gown, the disarray of her hair and finally resting on her ink-stained cheek. He, on the other hand, appeared as immaculate as earlier--the crease in his cream-coloured trousers precision-perfect, and the frock coat barely holding in the breadth of his shoulders.
He had said that he was returning to London but had slunk round to her father's club.
Underhanded and devious.
There was no need to wonder any more who had told her father about the accident. Dr Milburn and his pair of new chestnuts, indeed. The only good part was that Jack Stanton had discovered her father in his usual haunt. To think once she had thought him without guile, speaking his mind far too readily.
She forced a smile onto her face. She refused to be the one to renew hostilities.
'Why might you be staying in Newcastle, Mr Stanton? I thought you had other places to go.
Projects to complete. Europe and South America beckoned.'
Jack raised an eyebrow and came farther into the room. 'I wasn't aware that I had given you details of my future plans, Miss Harrison.'
'You led me to believe...'
A faint smile touched his lips. 'You merely assumed. Assumptions can lead to fatal errors. It is best to check the concrete details.'
'Jack has agreed to oversee the bridge in my absence.' Emma's father brought his hands together. 'It is a capital solution to the present problem. He has to stay here with us. I would not hear of it otherwise. He was the hero of the hour, after all, saving young Davy. It could have been much worse, and Mrs Newcomb has suffered much this past year.'
'Your father can be very persuasive.'
Emma watched his lips turn up in a slow, sardonic smile, daring her. She forced her lungs to fill with air and refused to give in to the temptation to scream. There was nothing persuasive about it. He had gone to her father's club with the sole intention of being invited here, with the intention of taking over the project. And he knew she knew it--wanted her to know it.
'I long to hear of the bridges he built in South America,' her father said. 'To think a prodigy of mine should have gone to so many exotic places.'
Emma pinched the bridge of her nose. Very neatly done--the carrot that Jack had dangled in front of her father. No doubt he had implied she had been responsible for Davy's misfortune.
'It means that you will not have to go through the drudgery of going to the site,' her father added.
'It is something I enjoy, Papa.' Emma hated the tightness of her voice.
'Your father agreed with my plan. I will undertake his duties while he recovers. The winter air is not good for a man of his age.' Jack's eyes glittered. 'The railway positively insists on it.'
Emma stuffed her fists into the folds of her skirt. She could see the walls beginning to close in on her again, back to the dreary round of calls and having to make unwanted objects for the drawing room. Exactly how many pincushions did one need? How many pieces of netting?
Worst of all, Jack Stanton would rapidly discover that it was not simply a chill her father suffered from. All she needed was for her father to have one of his bad days. On those days even Dr Milburn's tonic seemed to do no good, and he suffered with a wandering mind, and complaints about an aching stomach. It reminded Emma horribly of her mother's last days.
Then it would begin--the offers for Harrison and Lowe, the taking of control and stripping her father of all purpose in life.
She forced her head up, met Jack's dark gaze.
'For how long do you intend overseeing the project?'
'As your father has only suffered a slight chill, I anticipate my tenure will be short-lived.
Certainly I shall leave before the Christmas festivities.' Jack watched Emma's hand curl around the piece of paper. She looked less than pleased at the news. Good. He did not intend to have her ruin this project out of some misplaced desire to interfere, or to have something to amuse her otherwise dull days, when she did not have the appropriate training.
'There, you see, daughter. It is all settled. I am hoping to persuade Jack to be the guest of honour at Harrison and Lowe's Goose Feast on Christmas Eve.'
'I am sure you will be well by then, Papa.' Emma forced a smile on her face. She would need a miracle if Jack stayed that long. She noticed the paper she held in her hand had been scrunched tight. She hastily put it down.
Her father passed a hand over his eyes and swayed slightly on his feet. 'If you will both forgive me, I fear the good doctor was correct this time. I have overdone it a little. But the punch was excellent.'
Emma moved to help him, but he waved her away. Soon his unsteady clomp could be heard going down the corridor. Jack made no move to go, but stood looking at her with a deep intensity. Would he demand to know the true nature of her father's condition? Or would he also assume too much punch?
The chiming of the mantelpiece clock made her jump, and seemed to break the spell.
'Goose Feast?' Jack raised an eyebrow. 'Is this something I should know about?'
'Harrison and Lowe give their employees and families a feast at Christmas. We hold it on Christmas Eve, when the Goose Club raffle is drawn,' Emma answered, not bothering to hide the pleasure in her voice. It was a topic she could safely discuss. 'Mr Dickens's recent novel--A Christmas Carol--inspired my father.'
'I am sure the company will be happy to help.' Jack gave a short laugh. 'We are as keen to keep Christmas as any. Mr Dickens's novel has not only transformed your father's outlook but an entire nation's. We never celebrated Christmas much when I was growing up, but every year more and more seems to be done.'
'Were you a Mr Scrooge, Mr Stanton?'
'Hardly that. I keep Christmas as well as any man. I was merely making an observation. Tell me more about the feast you propose. Perhaps I might have a suggestion or two.'
'This is something that Harrison and Lowe does on its own.'
Emma pressed her lips together. She knew how it was done--a little here and a little there, then suddenly the offer was made and all were expected to fall in with the scheme. No, the Goose Feast stayed separate. Harrison and Lowe needed its independence. She knew how these large railway companies worked--impersonal, letting workers go at Christmas to save a few days' wages. Harrison and Lowe cared about its workers.
'I merely wanted to help.'
'The Goose Feast has nothing to do with the bridge project, Mr Stanton.'
'I understand.' Jack made a slight bow, but his eyes remained inscrutable. 'It is well I am overseeing the bridge-building as now you will be able to concentrate on the feast.'
'One could look at it in that light.' She waited for him to make his excuses and leave the room. There was no need for him to pretend a friendship or even a common cause.
He rubbed the back of his neck, started to say something and appeared to change his mind.
'Was there any particular reason that the book struck a chord with your father?' His voice carried less of a commanding note.
'My mother always loved Christmas.' Emma saw no reason to hide the truth. 'She died three years ago, and my father dedicates a toast to her memory each year at the feast. I like to think she would have enjoyed it.'
'I was sorry to hear of her death when your father told me earlier.'
'Why? It was a merciful release.'
Emma moved over towards the mantelpiece. She concentrated on arranging and rearranging the figurines. There was no need to explain any further. She had no wish to revisit the four years before her mother's death. When she had control of her emotions, she turned back. He was watching her with a speculative gaze.
'Having experienced one invalid it made me determined on my present course.'
'You are right. You have turned into an acid-tongued spinster.' His eyes crinkled at the corners. Emma was surprised how much more approachable he had suddenly become.
'I do try to find the positives in my situation. People are so apt to feel sorry for me.'
'And being able to speak your mind is one?'
'I have little time for polite, meaningless phrases.' Emma crossed her arms in front of her. 'It is a relief to be able to speak my mind.'
'You are correct--spinsterhood suits you.' He gave a short laugh. 'I had never noticed before, but you have quite a determined chin.'
Emma swallowed hard, strove to keep it light. 'Mr Stanton, do you delight in provoking me?'
'Provoking you?'
'You seem intent on revisiting our quarrel of this morning.'
'We both want the same thing, Miss Harrison.' He tilted his head to one side, sending a strand of hair flopping over his forehead. 'We were friends.'
'That was a very long time ago.' Emma lowered her eyes.
The silence between them grew. Emma tried to push away the memories of that other time when Jack had taken to calling at the house. She had enjoyed his laugh and his lively way of talking, of making her father's projects seem interesting rather than deadly dull, as she had previously thought.
'I can find other lodgings if my presence discomforts you.'
'I am not discomforted,' Emma said with a quick shake of her head. She was through with him and she had no regrets. Her mother had been right to advise her against him. 'My father appears quite intent on having you to stay. As he said--he does like to discuss civil engineering.'
'And you, Miss Harrison, what do you discuss? What are your preferred topics of conversation?' His voice was low, and designed to soothe. She wondered how many women had fallen for it. 'What do you want to discuss?'
'Something other than bows and ribbons.' She would go for the grand sweep out of the room--something to show him that she was immune to him and his aggravating ways.
'Miss Harrison?' His low voice called her back, held her.
Emma paused, her hand on the doorknob. 'Is there something I have forgotten? The servants will show you and your man where your rooms are.'
'I wanted to reassure you that the foundations will be laid properly.'
'They were always going to be.'
'With you supervising?'
'If necessary. It may surprise you, but I can read a survey. And directing men is no worse than directing servants.'
'Nothing surprises me about you,' he said softly.
Emma rapidly pulled the door shut, certain she heard laughter on the other side.
She shouldn't have run. She had yielded ground to Jack Stanton.
Emma paced about her bedroom, her nightdress swishing about her ankles. Normally she'd be asleep, but every time she shut her eyes she saw Jack's face, with his quizzically lifted eyebrow. She could not be attracted to the man. Her nerves were overwrought, that was all.
Why, when everything was going as she'd planned, did Jack Stanton have to appear?
And what would happen tomorrow when he went to the site? Would Mudge be loyal, or would he take the opportunity to ingratiate himself?
There had to be a way of keeping the state of her father's illness from him. Something.
A low moan broke her thoughts. Emma went still, heard it again. Her father in the grip of one of his nightmares. His stomach must have resumed its cramps. All too often these days he seemed to experience them, and the night sweats. It reminded her so much of her mother's last days.
She grabbed Dr Milburn's medicine and her candle, praying that Jack had not heard.
'Sleep well, Father.' Emma tightened the shawl about her shoulders and closed her father's door with a click. Her eyes ached with tiredness.
She was thankful she had heard her father's moans before he had woken the entire household up. She had given him a dose of his special tonic, despite his complaints about its metallic taste, and he had drifted off to sleep, leaving her free to return to her room.
Her candlestick threw out elongated shadows as her toes sunk into the thick oriental carpet that ran along the corridor.
'Miss Harrison, is something amiss? I heard someone cry out.'
Emma started and gave a small gasp, sending bits of molten wax flying onto the carpet. Jack Harrison stood in the doorway of his room, his hands gripping the doorframe. His white shirt billowed over his form-fitting trousers.
'Have I disturbed you?'
'No, not at all.' The candle lurched more dangerously to the right. Her fingers felt numb. She tried to think, tried to look somewhere other than at the dark hollow of his throat.