Ashworth,
I have not the time to respond properly to your last, but I could not let the week lapse without asking after your efforts at Writcombe. Has Miss Delafield consented, or are you still at odds? While I do not precisely envy your situation, this task would be easier if my parents had the foresight to arrange a wife as well. My sister has taken pity on me and offered to matchmake. Can you imagine?
After the miserable season I had, and all the wretched luck in the world, I am tempted to accept her offer. I must be mad. Matchmaking was not even a contingency in my plans. Though it must be noted that none of this effort would be required if not for Thomas and this ridiculous bet. Or does the blame lay with Charles Shepherd and his addled scheme to tour the continent six years ago? I suppose it is no matter now; the wager ensures that we are all for the parson's noose.
All things considering, I will make the best of it. I suppose the alternative is an eternity of loneliness. Especially if the rest of you are leg-shackled and I’m not. Dear heavens. That sounds abominably miserable. Please write so I may know my standing in this blasted wager.
Good luck to you, my devoted bibliophile.
Your fellow sufferer in this matrimonial campaign,
Ambrose
A lump of bitterness formed in my throat. An eternity of loneliness? What wretchedness was this? I tossed the letter back in my bag with disgust. I felt sorry for Ambrose and the troubles he’d faced, but with every mile of distance put between Arabella and myself, I was sorrier for myself. There was no way I could write a decent reply until I had a better hold on my emotions. I dug one of Mr. Delafield’s books out with vengeance now, crying for a distraction. If ever I had needed to escape into the words of a book, it was now.
Flipping open the first cover, I was startled to find it was written by hand. It was quite possible Mr. Delafield had penned it, and if so, his handwriting was decidedly feminine. Interesting. My gaze fell to the rather ordinary title:The Pirate’s Escape. It was not a religious text after all. Good. I was in no mood for a sermon.
I skimmed the first few pages but soon found myself reading every word. The main character—an Englishman of high birth—bored with Society life, attempted without success to join a pirate crew. Though he was weak and had a sickly pallor from lack of exercise and overindulgence, he was determined to succeed, and tried again and again to fulfill his lifelong dream of piracy. Each attempt was more ridiculous than the last.
The fast-paced tale kept me turning pages, and soon I was swept up in the story of how one unassuming man, without any experience at sea, unexpectedly saved the lives of an entire crew because of his book learning. He not only became a pirate but lived to captain his own ship. The narrative was both a diverting satire and a heart-rendering tale of the human experience. The story ended just before we arrived in London. I closed the book with excited reverence. It was fresh, exciting, and sure to sell more than one round of printing. I knew a half a dozen publishers who would eagerly empty their purses for a chance to sign this mystery author.
I spent the night at Lady Farthington’s, but in the morning, I no longer dreaded the idea of returning to Elmhurst. It was imperative I return the books and ask Mr. Delafield who had written them. While it was impossible to suppress the ache in my chest when I thought of Arabella, there was naught to do about it.
I couldn’t force her to love me.
But neither did I know how to release her from my heart.
On the ride home, I picked up the second book—The Liberty Sisters—set in the Revolutionary War. Written in a different style fromThe Pirate Escape, this tale felt real and raw. It was a story that would outlive its pages. Mr. Delafield was either a brilliant writer or was harboring one.
Waiting to discover the answer to that question was the only thing keeping me in that carriage the closer we came to Elmhurst. For not even the remarkable words in my bag could grip my heart the way Arabella could. And facing her again would be a feat braver than any fictional war hero or pirate. This time, I was not afraid of her, I was afraid of myself. It was a crippling fear not unlike being on a sinking ship in the middle of a storm. The first time I had arrived with confidence on my side, but this time, I was a fortress ripped bare of its walls. I could not see how to return unscathed.
Chapter 28
Arabella
After dinner, my sisters and I gathered in our quiet drawing room, settling on the sofa near each other while Papa and Mr. Mason whispered quietly by the fireplace. Mama brought out her sewing basket like usual, squinting over her embroidery under the dim glow of the candlestick beside her. The last few weeks this room had been filled with a near constant chatter of family and guests. Now, with the absence of Rowan, it felt like an empty tomb in comparison.
“Are you certain mailing this letter is a good idea?” Tabitha asked, bent over so both Elizabeth and I could hear her. “You are not engaged, and therefore, it is highly improper.”
“She has to,” Elizabeth argued. “I need Mr. Ashworth’s connections to find a husband.”
Tabitha guffawed. “What about my husband’s connections?”
“You mean Mr. Clodwick? No, thank you.”
I gave a half-hearted chuckle. “Please, no more quarreling. It is decided. I will read it with fresh eyes in the morning and send it on its way.”
“This isn’t one of your novels,” Tabitha cautioned. “We must prepare ourselves for an unhappy ending.”
“Thank you for your encouraging words. I will prepare myself to be perfectly miserable.” I groaned softly and rested my head back against the top of the sofa. I had leaned on Rowan’s words spoken the night before he’d left, and I wanted to believe he would give me another chance oncehe read my explanation. But as the color of the skies had dimmed into muted darkness, feelings of bleakness threatened to consume my hope.
“I think I’ll call it an early night. I’ll have a clear head in the morning.”
My sisters gave nods of sympathetic understanding.
I stood and bid my family goodnight.
Leaving the drawing room, I rounded the corner to the front vestibule, surprised to find the candles were not yet lit. The servants had not anticipated my desire to go to bed early. Not that it mattered. The dark did not bother me, for I knew the way by heart. I began my way up the stairs when the front door creaked open a few inches behind me. I jumped and instinctively grabbed the banister and braced myself against the far wall of the staircase.