Emm (Emma)

It’s the Summer of 1926. A wedding is being planned in great detail.

Emm

The morning post arrived shortly after break -fast and I went to my study to gain some peace from the bustling servants and sat down to plough through it.

A letter with particularly neat handwriting took my attention, Emm, my son Tom’s fiancee had written, how peculiar, usually she would telephone.

I eagerly slit open the envelope with my silver letter opener and began to read, “Dear Bunty,” she always called me Bunty, Lord Buntingthorpe being a bit of a mouthful, “I am frightfully sorry to say that I have resolved not (underlined) to marry Tom at St Agnes on the 3rd of September 1926 as planned. I much regret the lateness of my change of heart and I do hope we may remain on cordial terms as I much appreciate your help and kindness over the past months.”

It hit me like a cricket bat. She was like a daughter to me already,and now she had jilted Tom. Good lord. For myself it was a huge blow, I relied on the girl, from the time my wife Patricia sadly passed away some ten years since I had been lost to female companionship, no one came close to Patty, she was my soul mate, until Emm, the daughter I never had.

I threw down the correspondence and shouted for Carstairs, my Butler, “Have my car brought round I have to go to London,” I shouted.

“I am afraid it is Brabbingers day off my Lord,” Carstairs explained.

“Well bring it round,” I insisted.

“I am afraid I don’t drive sir,” he replied with a smirk. Damned insolence.

I started the car myself with some difficulty, it’s not easy to swing a 3 litre Bentley with the starting handle and the electric starter was useless when the engine was cold.

Soon I was hurtling up the old Bath Road scattering chickens and cyclists like the chaff from a Threshing machine.

I parked right outside 3 Arlington Mews, Earl Caffeys London residence, not in the Mews, in the street outside, right outside, and I strode briskly up the steps to the portico.

“May I help you sir?” The Earls Butler or footman or some such asked.

“No, I have business with Miss Emily,” I explained, “I trust she is home?”

“I shall enquire sir, would you care to wait here?” he asked.

“No I damned well wont, Emm, where the hell are you?” I shouted, “Emily!”

“Please keep your voice down,” he requested but I was in no mood to listen, “Emm!”

The Earl himself levered himself fromhis couch and came to greet me,“She’s upstairs, Buntingthorpe, “he explained, “Bad business old chap, don’t know what’s got into her,” , “Go on up, Third door on the right, perhaps you can talk some sense into her.”

He was a kindly chap, god knows how old he was, Emm was a bit of a post*********** as her mother was well over 40 when she appeared and he must have been nearly 60 even then.

When I burst in Emily was sittng at her dressing table, still wearing her nghtgown a vision of lovliness as the white silken gown shimmered in the late morning sunlight .