Chapter 27
Rowan
Soft yellow beams of afternoon sunlight streamed through the carriage windows and danced on Lady Farthington’s sagging cheeks while she dozed.
Her purring snores filled the small space like the sound of bees swarming in the distance.
Stale air from hours of confining ourselves in the bouncing conveyance had me reaching for my cravat.
The knot had lost any neat appeal hours ago, and I longed to rip it from my throat.
My mind whirled as steadily as the bounce of the carriage on the road, reviewing all the moments I had had with Arabella—from my earliest memories to this morning when she had dashed all my hopes for a future together. How could I return to Elmhurst Hall now?
My eyes fell on my satchel on the seat beside me.
A corner of a book peeked out the opening.
I had forgotten about Mr. Delafield’s books.
My mind had been so completely consumed that I had not thought of them once.
Sticking out of one was a letter from Ambrose Hartley that I had received only last night.
I had been too caught up in my thoughts of Arabella to read it, and I had shoved it in my bag.
I slipped the letter out and unfolded it.
Besides Leonard, Rosie was one of my only friends still unmarried and at risk for losing the bet.
He was a good friend, and I wanted him to be happy.
But if he mentioned one word about being in love, I would cast it out the window before finishing.
And my reasons had nothing to do with money or competition.
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 from The 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.