9. Chapter 8
Arabella
Ido not know what I expected upon announcing my engagement. Tears of joy? A small dose of shock? A line of embraces? I certainly did not expect to see the one man I thought I would never see again.
Nor the red hue of sheer anger on Papa’s face.
Papa. The one person I knew would be persuaded to accept Mr. Clodwick once I explained how happy we would be together.
Papa shoved Mr. Prologue toward me. “You are confused. This is your betrothed.”
“W-what?” Had Mr. Prologue followed me to Writcombe? Had my absurd secret fantasy of love at first sight come true? Had he longed to see me again as I had him?
And then, with the leeching of blood from my face, did I realize the obvious. There was only one man I was promised to—one man who could be my intended in my father’s eyes. Mr. Prologue had not followed me to Writcombe. He had come because he was none other than Mr. Rowan Ashworth. My nemesis.
And I had not recognized him.
My vision whirled, and I reached for something to hold on to.
Mr. Ashworth’s arms jerked forward and caught mine.
I blinked rapidly, my vision clearing to reveal his perfectly handsome face—a face I had once hated but now made my heart race.
His features, once full, were thinner now, more defined.
He had a jawline sharper than a ruler’s edge.
And his dark eyes—far more deep-set than his youthful pair—sparked with energy that seemed to ensnare me.
I gulped. Life had a funny way of abusing a person. I had just announced my engagement to Mr. Clodwick but was clearly attracted to another man—a man I loathed. A man who had yet to release me.
It was only then I noticed the entire room had grown eerily silent.
“I am well enough now,” I whispered, blinking rapidly to clear this strange grip he had on my attention. “Just a dizzy spell.”
That seemed to jolt sense into Mr. Ashworth. He stepped away from me, his arms dropping to the side.
“Who is this man who has the audacity to announce an engagement without speaking to me first?” Papa commanded, pointing to Mr. Clodwick.
I swallowed. “Papa, of course nothing is quite official. This is Mr. Clodwick, and he has every intention of asking you for my hand. Mr. Clodwick, this is my father, and this is . . . ahem . . . Mr. Ashworth.” My tongue barely managed Mr. Ashworth’s name, like a child learning to pronounce it.
While the men performed stilted bows, I awkwardly turned away from them. “Mr. Clodwick, may I present my mother, Mrs. Delafield, and my sister, Miss Elizabeth Delafield. And you know my sister and her husband, the Masons.”
Mr. Clodwick bowed to the room at large, stoic and unmoved by the circus around him. “I am Mr. Mason’s cousin.” He motioned to my brother-in-law, as if the relationship would dissipate the unbreakable tension in the room.
“Please, Mr. Clodwick,” Mama urged. “Sit down and take some tea while we adjust to the news you have shared with us.”
“I prefer my tea black, no sugar or milk. And if you have any fresh biscuits, I will take two.” He flipped back the tail of his coat and sat rigidly as if waiting for someone to hop to his command.
Mother gave me one of her rare quelling looks, and I moved quickly to take a seat as far away from her as possible. Papa intercepted me. “Not you, Arabella. You will see me in my study.”
“But Papa,” I stammered. “We have guests.”
“If he cares for you enough to propose marriage, he’ll still be here when you return.”
I gave a reluctant nod and stole a glance at Mr. Ashworth.
That name had become stuffy and vile to me, and I could not reconcile it with the man I had met in Quillsbury.
But he could not be Mr. Prologue either because that man did not really exist. I suppose he would have to be simply Rowan again, as he had been twelve years ago.
Rowan, as in, untrustworthy and still full of surprises.
Not that it mattered what I called him in my head.
He would not even meet my eye. In fact, his entire being had gone as rigid as stone.
I had thought to laugh at him when he learned how I had thwarted his plans, but there was nothing at all humorous about the situation I now found myself in.
Would it be too much to ask that he be gone by the time we returned from Papa’s study?
With somber steps, I followed Papa down the corridor, taking a seat across from his all-too-familiar oak desk. His light eyes, narrowed and hard, were absent of their usual warmth. I had underestimated his hopes for my marriage to Rowan. He was not just disappointed, but livid.
Father crossed his arms over his chest in a way that turned his slender figure into an impenetrable wall. “You cannot be engaged to two people.”
I swallowed, tugging at the hems of my sleeves. “It’s a rather complicated story.”
Papa glowered at me. “Then, uncomplicate it.”
I adopted the same carefree tone John Mason, my brother-in-law, often employed.
“What I meant to say is though the story is complicated, the solution is simple and easy enough to explain. However, before I go into the details, I have to tell you the most exciting news. While in Quillsbury at that darling bookshop we both adore, I discovered a copy of Shakespeare’s first quarto!
It was in prime condition with not so much as a bent corner.
Of course, I had to buy it for our collection, but I will need an advance in my allowance to repay Tabitha.
I think we should have a glass case made for it. I—”
“Arabella,” Papa interrupted. “You said you had a simple solution.”
“Yes, but I thought you would want to hear about the first quarto.”
“Shakespeare is well enough, but my daughter’s future means more to me than any rare book.”
I blew out my breath. So much for an attempt to lighten the atmosphere in this cramped room.
Papa would not be as easy to convince as I had thought.
I folded my arms across my chest. This was my doing, and I had to hold my ground.
“Since I am content writing books and keeping my own company, I really cannot see why marriage is so important at this time. I propose that I marry neither of them.”
“Try again,” Papa said.
I ground my teeth together. It was a wild shot, but I was not surprised I had missed completely. “Then I will marry Mr. Clodwick.”
“Wrong.”
I huffed. If he could be angry, then I could be too. “I cannot marry Mr. Ashworth.” That name again. It flew out like a curse word.
“And why not?”
“Because . . . because I cannot.” How could I explain how horrible all our childhood interactions had been?
It would not be substantial evidence to a man as intelligent as Papa that a marriage between Rowan and me was doomed to destroy my spirits for all of eternity.
I grasped for the only argument that Papa might understand.
“I cannot marry a man who does not share the same taste in literature as I do.”
Papa groaned. “He adores books as much as anyone, and I daresay he likes the very same ones as you. I thought you were a sensible woman, Arabella, but the last quarter hour has made me question if I even know my own daughter. A husband and wife can be perfectly happy without sharing the same passions.”
He was right. It was a silly excuse, but it was the only one I felt comfortable sharing. I gripped the desk’s edge, refusing to back down. “You have read some of his criticisms. He thinks he knows everything there is to know about a book. The man is conceited.”
“My dear, you also do not know all there is to know about a book. Perhaps if you spend time together, your perspective will improve his literary analysis.”
“Perhaps,” I agreed. “But I would rather focus on improving my relationship with Mr. Clodwick.”
Papa rubbed his temples. “You cannot tell me that you care for that imbecilic man out there, for I would not believe you. Why, he’s nearly twice your age.”
“He’s not more than fifteen years my senior. He cannot help that he appears older than he is.”
Papa stared at me. “I believe you have made my point for me.”
His words hurt deeply, but they also prompted me to defend myself.
“You can insult him all you want. He is currently the man most capable of bringing me happiness.” No man could ever do that completely, so I was not lying.
This was a path to gaining my independence in the only way I knew how.
Besides, he had not seen Harriet at tea last month.
He had no idea how altered she had become.
The wrong marriage had power to cripple an otherwise healthy individual.
Papa’s features marginally softened. “Happiness is not a guarantee.”
He was right. And that’s why I wrote stories where I could control the ending. What would I do if that was taken away from me? “Please, Papa. Let me marry him.”
He moved away from his desk to the small window overlooking the side yard and pushed back the blue velvet drapes to gaze upon the green expanse of yard.
“Since Mr. Ashworth has earned my approval but has yet to speak to you, and since Mr. Clodwick has yet to gain my approval, I suppose neither engagement is entirely official. I will grant you a portion of your wish. I will give you the chance to convince me that Clodwick is better for you than Ashworth. You have two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” I wanted to balk at the impossibility of my situation.
It would be like convincing a cat to prefer cheese over a mouse.
Clodwick was decent enough on paper, but he did have a few idiosyncrasies that were hard to explain .
. . such as his preoccupation with ghosts.
I had not had time to come to terms with it myself.
Papa shook his head. “Two weeks is generous. I do not think I can keep the neighbors from discovering this wretched situation should I extend even a day more.”
Well enough for him to say. Papa was particularly fond of Rowan! “Is my partiality not sufficient?” I pinched myself to keep from admitting to myself that I was actually more attracted to Rowan, because I was weighing qualities that mattered.
His eyes turned to steel. “You raced to your sister’s house the moment you learned Ashworth was coming for you. It does not take much discernment to discover that you lost all your good sense and threw yourself at Mr. Clodwick.”
All my clever planning and Papa had deduced it to be an act of madness in a mere few sentences.
Perhaps he was right. Perhaps Rowan brought out the worst in me.
If that were the case, then I would not need the entirety of two weeks to convince Papa—Rowan would revert to his vexing self and prove how horrible he was himself.
I left his study seething, my eyes on the wood floor as my feet slapped against it with each fuming step. My shoulder hit someone, and I looked up to see I had bumped into Mr. Ashworth just outside the drawing room.
My heart did a somersault in my chest. Drat! If only I had waited in the study for one measly minute longer.
“Forgive me,” I mumbled. “Are you leaving?” Did I sound too hopeful? I was so flustered, I didn’t know how to act.
Rowan folded his arms and shifted his weight to his right leg. He had grown so tall in all these years. No wonder I did not know him. “Your parents have insisted I be their guest.”
“Oh.” No other words came to my mind. Not a single descriptive one. What was this curse over me? Whatever it was, the name was Rowan Ashworth!
Rowan glanced at the drawing room door. “Congratulations on your engagement, Miss Delafield. An interesting plot twist.”
“It is not official . . . yet,” I squirmed.
“And for the record, it’s obvious that I did not recognize you in Quillsbury.
” I clasped my hands together in a casual attempt to hide my shame on that count.
“I suppose this means you will no longer call me Miss Page?” I do not know what possessed me to ask such a question.
We weren’t friends and never would be—not now that I knew who he really was.
But I needed to establish our new footing.
One where I attempted to act like a lady before I politely asked him to leave.
Rowan shook his head. “No, I will not call you Miss Page. I know far more than a few paragraphs about you now. I know entire chapters.”
Some, he no doubt wished to permanently purge from his memory.
I tried to control my breathing, feeling unaccountably vulnerable.
While he had been cruel to me, I had not been a passive actor in our childhood past. “Be that as it may, you cannot claim to know all of my story.” My voice was weak and without feeling, though the memory of him ripping apart my words had settled so deeply inside me that it had grown roots and sprouted branches of hurt that stretched to every corner of my frame.
In that moment, he had killed my dreams of ever having a happy ending of my own.
I met his gaze head-on, desperately trying to hide my nerves that his presence brought.
Gone was the soft gaze that I had become accustomed to this past week.
This one was guarded and resolute. He clasped his hands behind his back and lorded over me.
“No doubt we have both changed in all these years, but I find you have only altered in appearance.”
I had surprised him with Mr. Clodwick, just as I hoped. But was he really insulting me? “What exactly do you mean by that?”
He pointed to the drawing room. “That stunt in there. I find that I don’t have a taste for whatever genre that is.”
I pursed my lips. Horror? Comedy? Whatever it was, it was definitely not a romance. No thanks to him. So why did I feel absolutely horrible? Like this was my fault and not his?
“Excuse me.” Rowan frowned before my muteness could fade. “I am going for a ride.”
I stood pitifully in the corridor, wondering how he had rendered me so incapable of arguing with him.
Wasn’t I supposed to have the last word?
He was the man who thought he could waltz in here and marry me after twelve years of mutual loathing from afar.
So why did I feel cold and alone in his absence?
Was I confusing Rowan for Mr. Prologue again?
They were not two different people. They were one and the same!
If I was going to survive two weeks in the same house with him, I had to draw clear battle lines between us. I couldn’t let my kind heart have any sympathy for him. There could be no guilt over my decision. Sure, he had come here expecting to finalize our engagement, but he was the enemy.
And I planned to come away the victor.