Chapter 3
Rowan
The town of Quillsbury and I were meant to become better acquainted.
At least that is how I comforted myself when the smithy in town delivered the sorry news about my carriage wheel.
After hours of waiting for news, I learned the damage was beyond repair.
A completely new wheel had to be built, which meant I had to stay for at least another day and a half.
My courage to face Arabella Delafield had better not fail by then.
I checked myself into the Wit’s End Inn, ordered dinner in my room, and ate down my frustrations with a rather surprisingly pleasant meal. Admittingly, I had had rather low expectations with the inn’s name.
“Hastings,” I said to my valet between bites.
“A slight detour in plans should not affect my ability to win the bet before my friends, do you think?” Only three of us remained unmarried, and the race was on.
Was I fooling myself to think having a promised arrangement meant I could beat them to the altar?
Hastings paused in pressing my jacket, smoothing back his already impeccable brown hair. “It is not likely, sir.”
Hastings was not a man of many words and had a serious temperament with a dry sense of humor.
With the wisdom of being ten years my senior, he had become a trusted advisor to me—and likely not by his own personal choice.
He had married a few years back, and I valued his insight on a subject I knew little about.
Besides, Hastings had befriended my friends’ valets, and based on the information he’d gleaned, his opinion about the gentlemen was often correct.
“Good,” I said, pushing the potatoes around on my plate. “Because I considered taking my horse and riding ahead to Writcombe, but as I am already ahead of schedule, I have decided a little extra time might allow Miss Delafield to adjust to the idea of our marriage.”
“The idea has merit, sir,” Hastings replied.
As did the idea of refining my practiced speech from the carriage.
I could write a dozen literary reviews for the most prestigious magazines and newspapers, but a proposal of marriage was far more delicate.
I had to be selective with my words. If I had not forgotten my feelings about Miss Delafield from twelve years ago, there was a strong chance that she had not either.
A stark image of her thirteen-year-old self flashed in my vision. She stood hovering over the fireplace as she casually tossed a book into the scorching flames and watched it burn. The twisted sort of smile about her mouth had haunted my dreams for years.
A shiver ran down my back just thinking about it.
Was I quite certain I wanted to marry a book murderer?
I blinked and shook my head. Of course I was.
I had a bet to win. I had the Third Folio to claim.
I had a duty to our parents. Specifically, I had the promise I had made to my mother, God rest her soul.
Sheer determination finally lulled me to sleep that night after a few recurring memories of Miss Delafield’s haunting smile over the fire.
It was so clear, it was as if I had seen it again that very day.
I slept well enough after that and was up early the next morning for a walk about town.
Quillsbury was quite lovely at this hour.
Proprietors tidied their storefronts of the otherwise empty cobblestone streets.
Lights flickered in shop windows, opening for another busy day.
If I had been at home, I would still have been asleep, having melted my candles into tallow stubs from reading into the early hours of the morning.
I had to admit, I rather liked the quiet, slow pace at this hour of the day.
A feminine figure entered the bakery just ahead of me, the familiarity causing me to pause. Was that Miss First Page?
I had no intention of writing a second page together since I was about to be married, but I had left the inn without breakfast, and a baked good would be just the thing.
Surely, a paragraph together wouldn’t be too much with an intriguing respecter of literature.
A strong waft of yeast and treacle greeted me the moment I pulled open the door.
Miss Page, with her tidy brown hair below her straw bonnet, and a woman I presumed to be her maid with red hair and a serviceable gray gown, stood at the counter conversing with a plump woman with white hair peeking out of her mobcap.
“A fresh batch of hot cross buns will be ready in a snap,” the baker assured me.
“Sounds delicious,” I said, coming up beside Miss Page. “I will have one of those as well.”
“Yes, sir.” The baker stepped away from the counter to see to our orders.
Miss Page turned to me, the flowers on her white day gown the same arresting shade of blue as her eyes—a shade that seemed both unnervingly familiar and so wholly unique at the same time.
“Mr. Prologue, we meet again.”
I felt compelled to explain. “My carriage wheel broke, and my departure was delayed. It appears I am a guest at the Wit’s End for at least another night.”
“How dreadful about your carriage.”
“Thank you. It is less dreadful when I have an excuse to bump into someone who appreciates Shakespeare as much as I do. I thought I was the only one wandering about town at this early hour. I am glad to be mistaken.”
Her shrug made the chestnut curls by her face dance. “I could not sleep.”
Only then did I notice the slight darkening under her eyes. “Surely not because of a certain man who had you jumping to the edge of your seat yesterday?” I raised a brow.
She bit her lip, dropping her gaze. “It feels silly sharing my thoughts with a stranger—”
“Uh, uh. A prologue, not a stranger.” The only people I shared confidence with were my close friends and occasionally Hastings.
And yet, I was asking a near stranger to do so with me.
Had I been taken in by those down-turned sapphire eyes?
In my defense, a man could write poems about their distinct almond shape, their bright luminescent hue, and the thick frame of lashes.
If only I could pin what they reminded me of.
Her small smile grew. “You’re right. Being a prologue changes everything. I should have no problem telling you then that the man I hope to propose to me has not yet realized my expectation for him. Because of extenuating circumstances, time is of the essence.”
This man was an idiot. Miss Page had plenty to recommend herself—she had beauty, was well-read without the shy traits of a wallflower, and had a first-rate personality. “Your dilemma sounds like a justifiable reason to lose sleep. What do you plan to do?”
“I plan to send him hot cross buns.” Her voice was so matter-of-fact that I almost laughed.
“How brilliant. That will surely win him over.”
She shook her head, amusement filling her gaze. “Mr. Clodwick is not just any man. He is quite particular about his breakfast. He only eats bread from this bakery and only if it is fresh.”
“That does sound unusual. And will he propose to you over a bun?”
She laughed, the sound rather musical. “This is no simple children’s story. No, my plan must be more extensive.” She tilted her head. “Might you offer any advice? What would you say brings a man to propose marriage?”
“What a question.” I cleared my throat, thinking of my bet—of my promise. As this topic was not my strong suit, it was difficult to offer any sound advice. “Have you considered a well-rehearsed speech?”
“I cannot begin to know what to say.”
“You need a catchy first line, just like at the beginning of a thrilling novel. Such as: I know this might come as a great shock, but I want to marry you.”
Miss Page’s maid leaned forward with a look of disapproval. I shifted uncomfortably. “Then you add your reasons: family duty, security, connections, etcetera.”
Miss Page snickered. “You cannot be serious. One cannot say such things in a proposal. It sounds so mercenary—so unfeeling.”
I squirmed once more. It was the formula I often employed when writing my reviews. “It does get the point across.”
“I suppose.”
I half-jokingly added, “I suppose if that doesn’t work, there’s always bribery.”
“Bribery?” she repeated.
If it had sounded poorly coming from my mouth, it sounded utterly ridiculous coming from hers. “It was a joke. A bad one, I can see. But I suppose there might be something to it. You are desperate, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes.”
“Then why not find out what this man really wants—aside from fresh bread—and perhaps you will have your answer.”
Her smile widened, and it did strange things to my middle. “I believe you are right. Thank you, Mr. Prologue, for imparting your wisdom on a mere First Page.”
I chuckled sheepishly. “Happy to assist.” I had helped her, but what on earth was I supposed to do for my own proposal?
The baker brought out our hot cross buns. Miss Page stepped to the counter and praised the baker’s service as well as complimented the display in the window.
The baker was all smiles and blushes as she handed over our goods. How remarkably kind Miss Page was to someone not of her station. I held the door open for her and her maid as they exited the bakery.
“Good day, Miss Page.” I dipped my head and barely resisted looking back as we parted ways.
Digging out a bun instead to distract me, I sampled it.
The warm bread melted in my mouth. No wonder Miss Page’s soon-to-be fiancé was so particular about it.
The next time I passed by Quillsbury, I might stop on purpose.
This town was full of delights: including one Miss Page.
Thoughts of her kindness, warm smile, and celestial blue eyes made my steps light as I made my way back to the inn.
For her sake, I hoped she received her proposal of marriage straightaway. She was a delightful woman and deserved all the happiness in the world.