11. Chapter 10
Arabella
Istood staring at the row of books in front of me for a solid five minutes, my shoulders lifting with each fuming breath I took.
The spines in front of me blurred, my mind completely absorbed in the argument I had had with Rowan.
Choosing a book in this state was madness.
No, it was that man who was maddening. How galling of him to show up here in my house after toying with me in Quillsbury.
Well, there was no use staying here. I wouldn’t be reading a word with this mindset.
Clenching my fists, I marched from the library all the way to my bedchamber.
Once in my room, I yanked the cord for my maid and paced until she arrived.
It was a wonder the woman managed to unbutton my gown with how restless I felt, but somehow, I undressed and donned my nightgown.
I sat down hard in front of my dressing table mirror, repeating my conversation with Rowan over and over, trying to make sense of how I had managed to be fooled by that man again.
My maid brushed my long hair and began wrapping the front section in curling papers. My foot bounced beneath my chair. Before one side was fully finished, I couldn’t take it any longer. I had to speak with my sisters.
“Pardon me.” I jumped from my seat and grabbed my powder-pink robe laid out on my bed.
“Miss?”
I ignored her, not because I wanted to, but because my brain was not in a proper state.
I shoved my toes into my satin slippers, my heels stepping on the backs, and darted from my bedchamber.
Shoving an arm through one of my robe’s sleeves, I hurried toward Tabitha’s room.
My second arm got lodged in the second sleeve halfway through, and in my rush to walk while sorting it to rights, one of my slippers fell off my foot.
Growling impatiently, I spun around to fetch it. Before I had even bent over, I heard my name called.
“Miss Delafield?”
I whirled back around. Rowan had just rounded the corner of the stairs and was walking down the corridor toward me.
His face was screwed up in confusion as he eyed my current state—the night-clad version of me with one side of my head in curling papers, my left arm stuck in my robe’s sleeve, and only one slipper on my foot.
So like the intelligent being I am, I stood there gaping at him with my mouth unhinged.
It was surely a familiar, dumbfounded expression at least, since I had no doubt stared in much this same way when I had first seen Rowan at Elmhurst earlier that day.
“Do you require any assistance?” His tone was much softer and kinder than it had been a quarter hour before. There were lines of fatigue under his eyes, but I swear I caught a glimmer of amusement in his gaze.
My floundering mouth managed to produce a few words.
“No, thank you. I can manage.” My own tone still held a small bite to it, even in my mortified state.
I attempted to cover my very modest nightdress with the one side of my robe that was capable of hiding anything and hobbled to the far side of the wall of the corridor.
With my free hand, I motioned for him to pass.
Any effort I had made to put him in his place in the library now seemed to laugh at me in the face.
“Are you quite sure?” He pointed to the wadded sleeve partially on my arm.
I yanked it as far as I could away from him. “Mm, quite.”
His lips tightened, as he fought a smile. Drat that man.
“Goodnight then, Miss Delafield.” His eyes remained on me as he passed, and I dared stare back, dearly wanting, to my shame, to know what he was thinking. I never got the chance to know, because a moment later, Rowan tripped. On my slipper. His tall body came crashing down in front of me.
My hand, fisted on the knot in my robe, bent over my heart. “Are y-you hurt?”
“Just a little humbled.” In a limbered motion, he jumped back to his feet, my slipper now in his hand. His complexion was slightly pink as he extended the slipper to me. “I believe this is yours.”
I swallowed, my eyes incapable of blinking. “Yes, thank you.”
He nodded, turned, and walked the rest of his way to his room.
At least we had both embarrassed ourselves?
Right? Or wrong, since it was my fault he had tripped.
Oh, good heavens. I wasn’t going to make it to Tabitha’s bedchamber.
I grabbed the closest door handle, which belonged to Elizabeth, and practically threw myself inside.
“Arabella?” Elizabeth turned in her desk chair, her nose wrinkled. “What’s wrong? Did you see a mouse again?”
I collapsed against the door behind me. “Worse.”
Elizabeth instinctually drew her feet up under her nightgown. “A rat?”
“Not exactly,” I said, my breath short. “I had two run-ins with Rowan Ashworth. Two! And both were enough to scar me for the rest of my days.”
“You mean you ran into him looking like that?”
Her expression was all I needed to know just how horrible I looked. I squeezed my eyes shut, but it was not enough to prevent great big tears from welling up and pouring down my face.
“Goodness,” Elizabeth said. “It looks like we are going to need Tabitha for this.”
A few minutes later, my sisters dragged me to Elizabeth’s bed. They sat on either side of the butter-yellow coverlet from me.
I took a deep breath and blurted the worst of it. “Rowan Ashworth is Mr. Prologue.”
“Who?” Elizabeth asked.
Tabitha gasped and started coughing. “The man from the bookstore? The one you were flirting with? I can hardly believe it. Then neither of you recognized each other?”
I shook my head over and over again. “It’s uncanny. Too uncanny.”
“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 her most 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.