Rowan
Ihad not expected to ride through Writcombe, all the way to Elmhurst Hall, to find my future wife absent. I hadn’t been to Elmhurst since I was a child, but the beautiful yellow stone manor home—preceded by an expansive yard and towering elm trees on either side—was not what I had come for.
And just when I had my speech exactly as I wanted it.
Despite my misgivings, Mr. Delafield, thin and long with wispy blond hair, lovingly slapped me on the back. “The prodigal son returns! Welcome home!”
“Thank you, sir.” Mr. Delafield had long treated me as if I were the son he’d never had. I couldn’t help but smile at his warm, enthusiastic greeting, but I also had to bury a twinge of guilt for procrastinating this visit for so many years.
Mr. Delafield put his arm around my back and led me out of the wet and gloomy weather. Inside, the butler took my coat and hat while Mr. Delafield gave his regrets once more. “Our deepest apologies about Arabella’s absence. She is due back from visiting her sister on the morrow.”
“Tomorrow is soon enough,” I assured him, now grateful I had taken my time in arriving.
Mrs. Delafield greeted me with a watery smile as wide as I had ever seen it. “We are so glad you have finally come.” Her short arms wrapped tightly around me, squeezing me as if she’d never let go.
Something about her hug reminded me of my own mother. It had been a long time since anyone had embraced me this way.
When she pulled back, she wiped tears from her eyes. “We’ve had our best guest room prepared in your honor. You must stay for at least a month!”
That decision would not be difficult to make. Of course I was staying. I wasn’t leaving until the engagement was official, the banns read, and the ceremony was held at the crumbling, smallish box of a church in Writcombe. “You are too kind, Mrs. Delafield.”
“Arabella will be so impressed with how tall and handsome you’ve become.”
No amount of time or height would likely impress the Arabella I remembered, but steps on the stairs caught my attention and kept me from answering.
A young woman of at least seventeen, possibly eighteen, descended toward me. I guessed her to be the youngest Delafield sister. There was something in her smile that reminded me almost painfully of Miss Page. Even gone from her presence forever, I had to make a valiant effort to dismiss her lingering presence in my mind. With renewed focus, I studied the young Miss Delafield. Her auburn hair had darkened, and her features had matured. I was not sure I would have recognized her if we had passed on the streets. As she descended the stairs in her over-trimmed sage-green day gown, I was hard-pressed to recall her name.
Mrs. Delafield searched between us. “You remember my youngest daughter, Elizabeth, do you not?”
“Yes, Elizabeth.” That was it. How could I have forgotten? Twelve years had not seemed so long, but then again, I hadn’t stayed the same, had I?
“Elizabeth, you recall Mr. Rowan Ashworth.”
Elizabeth dipped into a shallow curtsy, her mouth turned down into a disapproving frown. “We wondered if you would show your face here again.”
My brow lurched.
“Elizabeth,” Mr. Delafield censured. “Mr. Ashworth is our guest.”
“An uninvited guest,” Elizabeth corrected, turning at the bottom of the stairs and saying over her shoulder as she walked, “I hope he does notcritiqueus too harshly.”
Mrs. Delafield gave an anxious laugh. “She says the silliest things from time to time. Please do not pay her any heed.”
I shifted uncomfortably. I spent the rest of the day doing my best to ignore her presence, but it proved difficult when Elizabeth glowered at me that evening over the dinner table. She clearly took after Arabella. On the way to bed, I was quite certain she saidgood luck tomorrowinstead ofsee you tomorrow, followed by a satisfied smirk.
Her overconfident manner left me worrying about my meeting with her sister. A man does not like to sleep in a strange bed with that sort of foreboding tone hovering over him. Did Elizabeth know something I did not? Or was it only the stark reminder of the rather vexing girl from my childhood that I was fated to marry?
The next morning, I woke with a renewed sense of courage. Despite Elizabeth’s attempts to shake me, I remained undeterred. I welcomed the expiration of my bachelorhood. After dressing in a cheerful yellow waistcoat, breeches, and dark-brown jacket, I strode confidently to the breakfast room and ate as if I were preparing for a peace talk with the enemy.
Mr. Delafield caught me as I finished and ushered me into his office. “I thought we might discuss a few particulars before the engagement is official.”
“By all means.” My solicitor had sent ahead the marriage settlement papers, and I was ready to sign my name in blood if it was required. I wanted everything in order before I spoke with Miss Delafield.
I had a faint memory of the blue-papered walls of Mr. Delafield’s office, but the walnut bookshelves behind his desk appeared to be a more recent addition. I took the seat opposite his desk when he motioned to it and perched on the edge in anticipation.
Mr. Delafield pulled out a folder of papers for me to view, including the details of Miss Delafield’s dowry. Everything seemed to be in order. I could not think of a single reason we could not be married straight away.
“In addition to what has been prepared, I have a formal request to make,” Mr. Delafield said.