“It sounds like something strange enough to be in one of your books,” Elizabeth said.
I shook my head. “I think he tricked me.”
Tabitha patted my leg. “You don’t know that for certain, do you?”
“No, but it is awfully suspicious.” I covered my face with my hands. “This whole night has been so humiliating.”
Elizabeth produced a handkerchief from a drawer in her nightstand and handed it to me. “Are you embarrassed because you care for him? If so, why not consider marrying him after all? It would certainly simplify a lot.”
“It isn’t that at all. I cannot like him. He’s Rowan Ashworth.” I wiped my eyes dry with the soft linen. “Besides, what about Mr. Clodwick?” I asked with a sniffle.
Tabitha frowned at me when I had fully expected an encouraging smile. “About Mr. Clodwick . . . did you not think his obsession with ghosts a bit . . . odd?”
“Ghosts?” Elizabeth perked up. “You cannot be serious.”
I shook off their concern. “He is superstitious, that is all.” Everyone had their quirks of character. His was one I was certain I could live with.
Tabitha didn’t seem so easily convinced. “I asked John about it, and he said that Mr. Clodwick had quite a lot of family members die in the past decade, and to be suddenly alone in that old house must be a heavy burden for one’s mind.”
Elizabeth made a noise of disgust. “So you’re saying that Arabella is marrying someone who is a trifle cracked?”
“Elizabeth, where did you pick up such crude slang?” Tabitha shook her head.
I cast my gaze toward the ceiling. “Mr. Clodwick is strange but harmless, I assure you.”
“Yes,” Tabitha began, “but is he truly a better option than Mr. Ashworth? While you were in the study with Papa, John brought up Mr. Ashworth’s literary critiques. I know you do not agree with them, but Mr. Ashworth was quite humble about it. Indeed, he acted as if he were no expert and encouraged others to see literature in their own way.”
I guffawed. “Rowan Ashworth? Humble? I would sooner believe the man could sprout wings and fly.”
“He was,” Elizabeth chimed. “It quite surprised me. I did not remember him well outside of your description of him, but you must agree that he has improved with age.”
He couldn’t have changed. It wasn’t possible. Once a holy terror, always a holy terror. “He might have altered in appearance, but his bad-tempered and selfish core remains very much the same.”
“A shame, indeed,” Elizabeth noted. “I have been trying to hate him for your sake, but he is much more handsome than Mr. Clodwick. In my opinion, looks outweigh several slights of character.”
I tried not to picture Mr. Ashworth’s captivating eyes or his alluring smile and had to shake myself to disrupt the fanciful image. “His appearance is . . . pleasing, to be sure,”the understatement of the century, “but it could never make up for his grating personality.”
“Your loss,” Elizabeth muttered, standing and finding her way back to her desk. She picked up her pen and started writing on a piece of paper.
“How can you write a letter at a time like this?” I asked, my selfish misery catching me off guard.
Tabitha frowned. “I did not know you had anyone to correspond with.”
Elizabeth scoffed and hovered over the paper as if we might desire to read it. “You might think you know everything about me, but Arabella isn’t the only one full of surprises.”
My brow hitched upward. She could have all the surprises. I did not want them.
“Never mind her,” Tabitha said. “We will stand by your decision. If it is Mr. Clodwick you desire, you have our full support.”
Tabitha glared at Elizabeth until she set her pen down and sighed. “Yes, yes. We will support you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “The next two weeks will be trying enough as it is. I will need my sisters.”
Tabitha set her arm around Arabella’s shoulder. “Trust us. We will make certain you are not hurt.”
Her words gave me strength, and I set my head on her shoulder. My gaze settled on the small shelf above Elizabeth’s desk. She was not a great reader, but two of my books sat neatly on her shelf as if they were hermost prized possessions. They were unpublished, of course, but I had had them bound myself and gifted them to Elizabeth as Twelfth Night presents. I would never tell her, but my favorite books were the ones I had gifted Papa. One was a great pirate story, and the second was a story of sisters—inspired by Elizabeth and Tabitha—who banded together to save lives during the Revolutionary War. I did not discriminate between genres, provided the tale contained an adventure.
Still, I was grateful for sisters who championed my writing and would not abandon me now. Alas, my own biographical adventure was getting wildly out of hand. The story was already in motion, and I would have to see it through to the bitter end.