"There's a letter here for you, Emma." Hannah tossed it onto the pile of linens Emma was folding. "From your sister, I think."

It was certainly Mary's handwriting, and Emma decided to read it as quickly as she could. Mary wasn't big on writing, so it wouldn't take long.

Emma-

I know there's no way Anne would ever have mentioned it to you, but she's very upset with you. You haven't hardly gone home on the weekends all summer, and she's completely gone mad over the whole thing. She thinks you hate Charles or something, because he's been coming down to help on the farm, and she knows you weren't thrilled with their courtship. She's been pestering me, as if I could do anything.

For the love, Emma, just go home every once in a while, would you?

Much love (and also frustration) 

Mary.

PS- can't believe I had to pay postage for this.

PPS- all is well here, thanks for asking. Nobody dead. 

"I thought your family didn't speak English at home?" asked Hannah from behind her.

Emma snatched up the letter. "We never learned to read and write Irish, just English."

"Thank goodness for that."

Emma ignored her.

*****

She sat at the table with the candle lit and the pen inked, thinking about what to say to Anne. 

Dear Anne,

I'm sorry I haven't been home. I didn't know it was bothering you so much, but if you got Mary on my case it must have hurt you. I really am sorry. It isn't that I hate Charles, or that I hate the farm, it's just that I've been so busy here--

She paused a moment. How much could she say? Where even to begin?

Mrs. Remigrant has been active on the social scene, and there's so much preparation, and the parties are almost always on Fridays and Saturdays; she needs me for them.

Yes, that was good. It wasn't a lie, it just sounded like she was a maid at her mistress's parties, helping to bake tarts and serve champagne.

I also have started to feel terribly ill on the trains, and it's so much hassle to ride them so often that it's better if I just send the money to you. There's more of it, too, when I don't need to pay so much train fare.

Give everyone my love. I'm well here and will ask a weekend to visit you soon. Tell Charles there's no ill will-- he always was so sensitive, I'd hate for him to think I didn't like him. (How are things going with that, by the way? Should I expect any announcements?)

Fondest wishes,

Emma.

It sounded so stiff and aristocratic, but she didn't feel like writing any more. She folded it up and resolved to send it in the morning.

*****

Emma was polishing silverware in the dining room when the doorbell rang. She put down the rag, but then she remembered that she wasn't allowed to answer the door anymore, in case one of Mrs. Remigrant's high- society friends came by and recognised her. She picked the rag up again and started on a salad fork.

"Oh, yes, I'll tell her," came Mrs. Remigrant's muffled voice from the foyer, just one wall away. "She's likely reading, I'll tell her you're here... Hannah, would you tell my niece that a Mr. McDonald is here to see her, once you've put those in the kitchen?"

Within moments Emma had put the silverware back in the case. She almost ran into the kitchen to the servant's staircase, but Hannah was in the middle of the doorway.

"You heard, then?"

"Yes, thanks. Will you help me change, please?"

Hannah nodded and put down her basket of towels. The two girls practically ran upstairs to Emma's room, pulling out her one day dress-- it was plain beige with red trim-- and Emma unbuttoned her maid's dress in record time. 

It was strange to be called on. She had seen Mr. McDonald at a few dances in the past year, she had danced with him many times and found him fascinating-- but it had taken a long time for him to call.

"This is the first time I've ever worn this," she said as she put her arms in the sleeves and immediately started on her hair as Hannah's fingers flew down the back buttons. "I'm glad she ordered it, though."

She pinned her braids up in a more refined style than a simple bun and turned to Hannah. "Do I look alright?" 

They were both panting. "Like a lady. I think they're in the parlor."

Emma controlled her breathing all the way down the stairs and when she reached the bottom, she was breathing normally again. She realised she'd forgotten to change her shoes, but her skirt was long.

"Ah, Emma," said Mrs. Remigrant, waving Emma in from her spot on the floral couch, "Mr. McDonald's come to pay a visit!" Her eyes twinkled almost maliciously with maniacal energy.

Mr. McDonald rose from his seat by the window. "How are you, Miss Remigrant?" he asked smoothly. He held out his hand as a bow. It was almost comical, how formal he was, like something out of an old novel.

"Very well, thank you. And yourself?" Emma crossed the room and took his hand.

He raised it to his lips. "Excellent, thank you." He straightened. "I was wondering if you would care to show me the garden? So long as your aunt sees fit." 

"Of course, of course," burst Mrs. Remigrant as she stood and went . "Let me grab my hat, the flowers are in their last few weeks of being lovely for the season, you could not have chosen a better time..."

"I'd love to," said Emma, a bit too late. It seemed her choice had been made. "I'll grab a hat and take you through the side gate. That way we'll avoid the kitchen."

Mrs. Remigrant had rushed back with some strange vigor and thrust a large feathered hat at Emma, her own already perched on her head.

"Thank you, Aunt." She put it on and gestured to the front door with a smile towards her visitor.

It was late in the season and most of the flowers were on the way out, but they were still bright enough, and there was a small fountain in the middle. Mrs. Remigrant sat on the bench by the door with a small book in her hand, ever the dutiful chaperone.

"It's been a long time since I've been down this road," began Mr. McDonald, as he and Emma slowly paced the stone path around the small garden. "I live much closer to the train station."

"I must have seen your home, then, when I arrived."

He cocked his head. "Perhaps, though it's still a block away. I've neglected the gardens, I suppose, they're already almost dead in this heat."

It was sweltering. "I'm surprised anything is survived this long. I've never known anywhere to get this hot."

He looked at her strangely. "Not even in New York?"

Emma noticed Mrs. Remigrant was staring at her. "I spent my summers in the country a bit more. It never seemed to get this hot, although I'll admit I never spent much time outside. And London was certainly never like this." How strange, she thought to herself, that I'm not only pretending all this, but that there is a real gentleman calling on me and we're only talking about the weather. She saw the old lady nod approvingly and continue pretending to read.

"I would have gladly suffered the heat if it meant the sun would shine in London," he laughed.

"So would I." 

He looked at the fountain as they came up to it. "There's a fountain in Rome that looks like this."

"I know," interrupted Mrs. Remigrant proudly. "My late husband was a great lover of Rome."

"I preferred Florence myself," said Mr. McDonald. "But Rome had beautiful fountains. Would you like to see Italy someday, Miss Remigrant?"

"Very much," Emma admitted. "It all seems terribly beautiful."

His eyes shone as he looked at her. She blushed a little, but perhaps it was just the heat? "It is very beautiful. In Florence there's an academy of art, and the students will use you as a model for a bust if you're willing to sit. There's a church there with the most amusing facade-- the whole exterior of the basilica is plain except for the front! And the cathedral belltower in the middle of the city..."

Emma decided then that she loved to hear him talk. Though his voice was thoroughly American, there was a rhythm to his words that felt far more Scottish-- from his mother, most likely. And the way he described Italy was breathtaking. She'd never wanted to go to Italy before now, had never even thought of it, but seeing Mr. McDonald become so excited about it made her want to go so badly it almost hurt.

Somehow she kept up the conversation, though she felt so distracted that she hardly remembered it. When he left her with his card-- and a "will I see you at the Byers' party next week?" to which Mrs. Remigrant answered "yes, of course"-- Emma breathed a sigh. Of relief or of longing, she didn't know.

"He's very wealthy," sang Mrs. Remigrant as they went inside the house. "You could certainly do worse!"

"I'm sure." Emma set her hat on the table in the foyer. "He's rather old, though, isn't he?"

The old lady harrumphed. "He is thirty-two years old, Emma, and he's never been married, so he may as well be twenty. I'm sure he'd take you to Italy for a year if you asked him to."

"Don't you think he's moving quickly? We only met once."

Mrs. Remigrant paused and looked at her. "I don't want to hear complaining," she said sternly. "In England it might be fast, but we are Americans. The rules don't often apply. Besides, he's being perfectly proper, and marrying quickly might do you good! Besides, why waste the chance?" She patted Emma's cheek. "Go and get changed back into your work clothes, dear. For now you are still a housemaid."

My knowledge of Victorian courting is definitely rusty and almost everything I can find is from England, which I'm sure was different than a frontier city in America. So I'm taking liberties, but who really cares? 

What are your opinions of Mr. McDonald? What should Emma do about him?

Since quarantine started all I've been able to think about was my trip to Italy last year. The world is definitely very different now than it was when I went! But I've been cooped up in my house for so long that I want to get as far away as possible and I cannot wait until all this is over 

Thanks for reading! More to come soon!