That little minx! Siding with me over her daughter’s choice. I had never loved Mrs. Delafield more. My grin fell when Elizabeth stepped out.
The younger sister who competed with Arabella in despising me.
I gave her a pleasant smile, my teeth gritting behind it as I prepared for an attack.
Elizabeth studied me for a moment, undecided about something. Then with a quick smile of her own, she said, “Good morning,” and walked away.
Odd. No glare? No verbal scorn?
I did not have the mental capacity at the moment to analyze her behavior. I had to save that for her older sister. Several moments passed without another person exiting the dining room. Was Arabella planning on eating all morning?
My fingers went back to their strumming when the door opened a third time. Mr. Clodwick exited with Arabella. I straightened, my pulse racing. She was supposed to come out alone. Would I get another opportunity to give her my apology? I wanted to deliver it now and fix things between us.
Just as she passed me, I slid the letter from my pocket and reached behind her to tuck it in the space between her arm and her body, thinking she would feel it, reach back, and grab it.
Instead, it fell to the floor, and the small sound caused them to stop.
Arabella glanced at me, and I opened my mouth to explain but wasn’t exactly sure why I had thought sticking a note there of all places was better than simply handing it to her. I felt like an utter idiot.
Mr. Clodwick reached down and picked up my note before I could conjure up a single word. “For you, Miss Delafield.”
Arabella turned and faced Mr. Clodwick. “Oh? Thank you.” She accepted the note, read her name across the top, and shot me a glance. It wasn’t one of gratitude, but a dark glower because I was hovering. I jerked back a step and raised my arms in innocence.
Arabella slipped her arm through Mr. Clodwick’s before bestowing a sweet smile at him and turning away from me. “I shall read it in my room straightaway.”
I shook my head, trying to restrain my frustration. At least she would know that I was sorry, even if yet another delivery from me had not gone well. And maybe,maybeshe would consider forgiving me.
Chapter 12
Arabella
Mr. Clodwick led me to the bottom of the stairs. “Your father wanted to meet with me this morning. Please excuse me while I wait for him in his study.”
I released his arm, hoping Papa would behave. “I wish you success then. Should we take a walk afterward?”
Mr. Clodwick hesitated. “The sun gives me a rash.”
“Oh . . .”
His emotionless eyes bored into mine. “I have some correspondence to take care of this morning, but I will be done by luncheon.”
I smiled at him because it seemed one of us should at least smile. “Then I shall see you later.”
He dipped his head and slipped away from me.
I held the letter he had given me in my hands, wondering what it could possibly say that he couldn’t tell me himself just now.
I squeezed it tightly and rushed up the stairs. Once ensconced in my room, I used my penknife to break the seal and read Clodwick’s words. My eyes widened. His sweet words surprised me. Did he really think me lovely? I grinned. Mr. Clodwick might not be as handsome as Rowan Ashworth, but he had much better manners.
It was just the reassurance I needed, especially after last night’s catastrophe with Rowan. I held it to my chest and took a deep breath. Everything was going to work out in good time.
The next two days, I avoided any opportunity for a personal conversation with Rowan and devoted myself completely to Mr. Clodwick. I showed him our one piece of art that had any value to it—a Chinese vase in the library. I couldn’t be certain, but I think I had impressed him. With Rowan silently brooding behind a book or spending his time arguing literature with Mr. Mason or Papa, my life was becoming almost tolerable. It had given Mama time to pepper Mr. Clodwick with questions and get to know him better, and me time to become more comfortable in his company.
His lack of expression and inflection of tone did not irritate me as much as it had, and I did not shiver at all the last time he looked at an empty chair as if someone were sitting there. He had other oddities too, I was learning. He was the lord of naps. I had never met a man of his age who required so much rest. Not that I would ever complain. It meant even more time in the future to write the dozens of books in my head. Truly, the benefits outweighed whatever cost I would have to pay.
On the fourth morning at home, I woke up with thoughts of Harriet.
In all honesty, my first thought had been Rowan’s face—all grown up and much more handsome than he deserved to be—sitting on the bench beside me in Quillsbury, looking at me over Shakespeare’s quarto in his hand.