Chapter 14
Arabella
It felt as if an entire week had passed since Honey had thrown me, instead of only yesterday.
I tucked my injured wrist, wrapped in strips of linen, close to my stomach, glad it was only a bad sprain and not a break.
Then, I proceeded down the stairs after having breakfast in my room.
My back hurt, my leg wound itched, and my wrist throbbed, but I could not stay confined to my bedchamber a moment longer.
If only Harriet would respond about visiting. She would be the perfect distraction.
Laughter drew me toward the drawing room. Inside, my sisters sat with Mr. Clodwick and Mr. Ashworth. Ashworth stood and waved his arms to emphasize a part of a story he was telling, and my sisters burst into laughter once more.
What was happening? They couldn’t actually find Rowan Ashworth entertaining. They were on my side and weren’t supposed to like him at all. I hurried to the sofa where they sat.
My good hand went to my hip. “Tabitha! Elizabeth! What is the meaning of this?”
“Should you be up on your feet so soon?” Rowan asked, coming up beside me and resting a gentle hand on my shoulder.
His sudden kindness surprised me—again. “I was growing stir-crazy,” I admitted.
“You must sit down, Arabella,” Tabitha coaxed. “This will be the perfect distraction. Mr. Ashworth tells the most delightful stories.”
I did sit, but only because I needed to make certain my sisters stayed on my side.
“Did you steal all your stories from books?” I asked Rowan.
Though I could not avoid the subtle jab, I tried to keep it as light and friendly as humanly possible.
I had promised not to hate him, after all. And I could be just as nice as he was.
“Not at all,” he said. “They’re mostly stories about you.”
“Me?” I gasped.
He laughed. “I might have made a slight exaggeration or two. I have always been a bit of a storyteller.”
Him, a storyteller? How the idea irked me. I was the storyteller! And yet, because of him, any words I managed these days were absolute rubbish. My heroine had been stuck in her tower for weeks! Weeks, I tell you!
“Shall I share about the first time we met?” Rowan’s mouth slid up on one side, and his gaze settled warmly on my own.
My ire melted beneath it like a traitor succumbing to the enemy without a fight.
Was . . . was he flirting with me? Unsure of what to do with such information, I cleared my throat.
“I don’t think it’s necessary to reminisce.
After all, we both were too young to remember that particular moment.
” I quickly shot a kind smile Mr. Clodwick’s way, worried this interaction was making him uncomfortable.
I shouldn’t have been worried. His chin had fallen to his chest, and he had clearly nodded off.
Lovely. I couldn’t even encourage his affection by making him jealous. He had yet to show any concern about my health, and the few private conversations we’d had since his arrival had all been inquiries about my aunt and Thomas Hope. Our marriage was going to be rather interesting at this rate.
“I have never heard the story of how you two met,” Elizabeth said. “Do tell us.”
I glowered at her. Elizabeth wasn’t the type to get sentimental. She needn’t start now.
“It was a perfect summer day,” Rowan began.
“Spring,” I corrected.
“Aw, so you do remember the story.” He winked.
My eyes widened. Was he allowed to wink at me? Wasn’t that against the rules for a childhood nemesis? “I—er—I remember what my parents told me about that day.”
Rowan grinned. “Then by all means, please interrupt if you recall any details I get wrong or unintentionally leave out.” His smiles were full of charm and . . . and . . . he was directing them at me as if I were once again Miss First Page.
While I was left gawking, Rowan began his story.
“On this delightful spring day, the Delafield family departed from their London Season and traveled to a house party my parents were hosting. This was the Delafield’s second trip to Ashworth Hall, but this was the first time they had brought with them their two little girls. ”
“Darling little things,” I added in an exaggerated voice.
“Indeed, with brown curls and cherubic faces. The youngest, in particular, had the most stunning pair of celestial blue eyes.” He met my gaze for good measure. “Even at two and a half years of age, I was enraptured.” His voice dropped, and a shiver ran down my back.
The moment passed, and he quickly recovered—though I could not say the same.
“Of course,” he continued, “those blue eyes were soaked with tears after being confined in a carriage. I had the perfect solution. I extended my arms to baby Arabella and cried, ‘Hold me, hold me!’”
Tabitha broke out into a giggle.
“Mrs. Delafield was quite confused by my childish babblings. ‘You want me to hold you?’” she asked.
“‘No, hold me!’ I demanded, pointing to the baby. The adults laughed when they finally understood that I had flipped my words as young children often do. Then they praised the charming young boy before them for his desire to help.”
“You were two!” I interrupted with a laugh. “All little boys are charming at that age.”
“But I must have been the most charming, because you were not at all happy until I had you in my arms. To everyone’s surprise, you ceased your crying, grinned, and squealed with delight.”
“I did not squeal.”
Rowan perched on the arm of the sofa next to me. “That is how the story is told.”
“Very well, I squealed.” I cast my gaze to the ceiling, surprised how involved I was getting in the story.
Rowan picked up the story again. “The entire house party went on this way. Every time baby Arabella cried, they brought her to young Master Ashworth to cheer her back up. On each occasion, to their delight, it worked. Our parents could not believe how effortlessly the two children took to each other. There was something fitting about them, and the way they were drawn to each other’s sides.
No one could fathom how or why, but they were clearly meant to be.
” He dragged out those last few words as if he were telling them more to himself than the rest of us.
His sudden somber tone quickly shifted back to one of cheerful storyteller.
“And that, my friends, is how we became promised to be married. For the story goes, that I am the only one truly capable of making Miss Arabella Delafield happy.”
I had heard the story a dozen times, but it struck me differently this time.
How strange it was that we had gone from such eager playmates to such enemies in our adolescence.
Regardless, our parents had been wrong about us being a perfect pairing.
It had been many, many years since Rowan Ashworth had been capable of making me happy.
My time with Mr. Prologue, excluded.
Rowan’s eyes settled on mine. “Do you have anything else to add?”
I had become too lost in my thoughts for any witty remark to the contrary and shook my head.
“What a darling story,” Tabitha said, her hand going to her heart. “I hope something similar can happen to my children.”
With a tight smile, I reached over and squeezed my sister’s arm. “You must remember that not all that begins well ends well.”
“Don’t be too hasty where we are concerned,” Rowan said, jumping to his feet. “Our story is not over yet.” He crossed to Clodwick’s side and slapped him on the arm. “Eh, Clodwick?”
Clodwick jolted forward out of his nap, his eyes blinking rapidly, and his jaw opening and closing. “W—what happened? What did I miss?”
“Nothing at all,” Rowan said. “Just waiting for you to ask after Miss Delafield’s wrist.”
I dipped my head. So he had noticed Clodwick’s lack of attention to me as well.
When I lifted my gaze again, Mr. Clodwick wiggled his nose as if waking it up. “Yes, I have been meaning to ask about it. I was worried that Miss Delafield would no longer be able to paint.”
“Paint?” Rowan frowned. “Arabella—er—Miss Delafield, are you hiding such a special talent from me?”
I hadn’t heard him call me Arabella since the moment he had come to my rescue.
Was he doing it on purpose to soften my resolve toward him?
I would have to think on that later. “My skills as an artist are too limited to call a talent,” I explained.
“And I am sure there are many things you do not know about me, Mr. Ashworth.” I emphasized his surname so he would understand that we were not on such casual terms for him to keep calling me Arabella.
Even if I kept calling him Rowan in my head.
His mouth curled. “Are you issuing a challenge?”
“Absolutely, not.” My sharp words surprised me. It was all too easy to forget my manners where Rowan was concerned. Mr. Clodwick would think I was a woman possessed. He had enough delusions with his ghost friends to worry about me as well.
“Can we see your paintings today?” Clodwick asked, completely oblivious to the tension right in front of him. I didn’t know whether to be grateful or annoyed. That man had only two interests in his life, and I did not think I was one of them.
“Yes, my art. Of course.”
“Surely, not now,” Rowan said quickly. He had a strange look in his eyes that reminded me of his mischievous youth. “Miss Delafield has just exerted her energy to come down the stairs. Tomorrow is soon enough.” He slapped Clodwick on the arm again. “Isn’t that right, Clod?”
“Clodwick, sir,” Mr. Clodwick corrected.
“That’s what I said,” Rowan argued. “Now who is up for a game of riddles to distract Miss Delafield?”
My mood brightened. I did love a good riddle.
With Rowan’s promptings, Clodwick started us out, his voice monotone and mechanical, like a dying clock.
“I haunt the house where my body expired. Up.” Clodwick pointed to the ceiling.
“Down!” He pointed to the ground. “In your bed, in your chair, in your study, in your mirror, and,” he sighed heavily, “sometimes even in your hair. Who am I?”
I hid my grimace with a forced laugh. “A ghost.” Then I clapped excessively to cover how my laugh sounded more like a cry.
The rest of the riddles were far more normal, many of which I had heard before. But it was the perfect distraction from my irritation and achiness. How could Rowan have known? He couldn’t possibly have remembered how fond I was of riddles.
Rowan came to perch on the arm of the sofa beside me again, as if he sensed my conflicted thoughts about him. His presence proved more distracting than any riddle. “Thank you,” I whispered.
His brow lifted. “For what?”
“For this.” It was the most words I could manage, but I could see by the look in his eyes that he understood.
A maid brought in a tray of tea and sandwiches just as Mr. Mason joined us.
Elizabeth took the opportunity to excuse herself to see to her correspondence in her room—though I could not fathom who she would be writing to.
In the bustle, Rowan gently picked up my injured hand. “Your bruise is healing.”
I glanced down to see the faint ink stain on my middle finger.
I quickly withdrew it. I was not, nor would I ever be, ready to tell him I wrote stories.
For if I did, he would surely inquire after them like he did the paintings.
Where would I begin? I couldn’t very well tell him the reason no one outside my family could read them was because of him—how I had stopped writing all together for a time after his barbed insults when we were children, but how I had started again to console myself that there was still something beautiful for me in this cruel world.
There was no use sparring with him on the subject.
He would never read my words. No one unrelated to me would ever read any of them ever again.
“I am glad to see you are feeling better today,” Rowan said, ignorant of my dark thoughts. “I hope your injuries heal quickly.” He gave me a smile before fetching me a sandwich on a plate while Tabitha took over the tea things.
There it was again. More kindness.
Was it me, or was Rowan vastly different from the adolescent I had once known? No, it was impossible. It had to be an act. But what was he playing at? I wasn’t certain, but I would find out. For if I did not, I feared I would fall under whatever spell his presence seemed to cast over me.