Chapter 29
Rowan
Arabella was not at breakfast, and I wondered if she had overslept yet again. The smells of salty meat and cheese greeted me as I entered the breakfast room, but my eyes were not on the sideboard. My gaze traced the empty chairs, feeling disappointed. Was I the only one eager for our meeting?
Last night, I had learned that Mr. Clodwick was gone, and I had jumped to the conclusion that the road for Arabella and me would finally be smooth.
We would declare our love for each other this morning, post the banns, and be married in a month's time. We would live an exceptionally blessed life together too. I had not gone searching for love, but I had found it just the same. Now all I had to do was confirm Arabella’s feelings.
My gut was telling me that she cared for me, but her absence this morning made me second guess all the conjectures I’d made.
It wasn’t normal for me to feel uncertain and apprehensive, but not being completely sure of Arabella’s feelings left me more nervous than any feedback from any literary opinion I’d ever published. I daresay my entire future happiness weighed on her verdict about us.
I plopped some cheese and bread on a plate and made my way to my chair. I had just sat down when a footman entered with a silver salver that appeared empty on first glance. When he extended it to me, I saw a letter with my name written across the outside. I knew at once it was from Arabella.
I unfolded the paper to reveal a beautiful script that flowed effortlessly across the page.
I knew this handwriting. It was as familiar as her blue eyes had been in Quillsbury, but I discarded my curiosity and the connections forming in my head.
It was the content that mattered at the moment.
The words, however, were not in typical letter form.
I leaned over it, eager to learn why Arabella had written me.
It all started with a framed landscape painting of Rochester, Kent by Thomas Girtin.
My aunt, Lady Farthington, brought it home from London and hung it in a prominent place in her morning sitting room.
At ten years of age, I knew little of popular artists and only wondered about the scene depicted.
A fine blue sky lay over the river Medway, which wound past the little houses with smoke curling from their stone chimneys.
A cluster of men circled together, conversing upon the grassy banks as if they had known each other all their lives.
I wondered what it would be like to live in Kent and why one of the men was pointing away from the city.
He had the look of an adventurer about him, daring his friends to join him as he traveled to see the grand sights of China, the ancient temples in Greece, and to smell the spices fresh from Bombay and Madras.
For days, I thought about the painting, daydreaming about the perils of Roma life and contrasting it with the thrills of crossing an ocean to see new vistas.
Real adventure scared me, but I could endure it through my imagination.
I was ten when I wrote my first story: The Quest of the Horatio Tuffin.
It was thirteen pages long and quite bad.
Writing, however, was addictive. More characters came alive in my mind, and the stories of their lives begged to be told.
By the time I was twelve, I had read everything I could get my hands on to improve my writing, including boring lessons on rhetoric and grammar.
I much preferred studying the techniques of classic literature, and I still do.
I wrote my third book that year: The Highwayman’s Escape.
I knew that title. Lowering the letter, I thought of the well-used book in my drawer I had thought had been dropped by a passing traveler.
I had devoured the book a dozen times if not more.
It read like a simple children’s book but had wit and insight an adult could appreciate.
The hero—Mr. Eustace Pimm—was a poor bank clerk who had pretended to be a highwayman to impress a woman.
Through his bumbling efforts, he’d been mistaken for a real highwayman who the runners were pursuing, and was cast into prison.
The story is about how he managed to escape certain death at the last harrowing minute.
He never married, but his experience gave him the courage to take over as the new bank director.
Arabella had written that story? I could scarcely believe it. At a mere thirteen? My eyes widened with realization—the familiar handwriting clicking into place. She had been the one to write The Pirate Escape and The Liberty Sisters. I lifted the letter to continue reading.
I was terribly proud of my newest book. I wanted nothing more than to read it to my family, but a group of boys discovered it first. They called it utter rot and mocked its every page.
Horrified, I swore to never share my stories outside my family again.
They ran off with my final copy, but I burned the draft of The Highwayman’s Escape that was still in my possession.
I tried to stop writing, but the words returned again and again. I care for you, Rowan Ashworth, but I want to protect this part of me. You’re a well-known literary critic, and I have no intention of—
I pushed back from my chair so quickly it nearly toppled over behind me.
After steadying it, I hastily folded the letter in half without finishing it.
I didn’t need to read the rest. I understood better than ever why she had kept me at arm’s length for so long.
And there was no one to blame but myself.
I fled the room like it was on fire. My feet skidded across the tiles in my hurry to the library.
I threw open the door once I reached it, the force making it slap against the wall on the other side.
Arabella stood from her seat. She was positioned directly in front of the sofa she’d hidden behind the night I had made waves with Mr. Clodwick.
The reminder was like a knife in my chest. I hated that I had been the one to hurt her—again.
“Arabella.” My feet came to a halt three paces in front of her. Her hands stilled over the handkerchief she had been wringing. And while her color was perfect, much like the rest of her, I knew she had been fretting. I longed to ease her worries.
“I’m so sorry.” I lifted the letter as a way of explanation.
“I would never, ever, knowingly hurt you again. My friends and I were rude and callous. We thought only of making ourselves sound smart. But you must believe that I did not mean what I said that day. I kept your book. Indeed, I still have the copy of The Highwayman’s Escape in my room at home. I’ve read it dozens of times.”
“Truly?” her smile trembled, and her eyes flashed with uncertainty.
I shuffled forward another step or two. “I hope you write many more stories to come, and it would be an honor to read every word.”
She bit her lip. “This isn’t your way of convincing me to marry you, is it?”
“I hope to do plenty of convincing, Arabella, but I do not speak lightly when I tell you that your words are brilliant. I unknowingly borrowed two of your books from your father. They were fantastic—not just the mechanics, but the creativity is superb.”
Arabella gave a disbelieving laugh. “And Father didn’t tell you to say that?”
I hated that she thought so little of writing and that I had been the reason.
“Your father did not tell me who authored the books. I only discovered it was you when I saw the handwriting on your letter. My opinion means nothing, but I tell you this not as your friend but as a critic. There will be a bidding war over who gets the rights to your work, should you choose to publish.”
Her wavering smile suddenly burst into a wide grin as bright as the sun debuting in the sky. “You exaggerate worse now than you did as a child.”
“I would not exaggerate about something so dear to your heart—especially to someone so dear to mine.” I closed the gap between us with two long strides.
As soon as my arms opened, she threw herself into them with a half-laugh, half-sob.
I would hold her until every last fear that I had inflicted upon her disappeared forever.
Dipping my head, I pressed a kiss to her forehead.
“I’m so, so sorry. How can I make it up to you? ”
She lifted her bright blue eyes to meet mine, the color gleaming with a sheen of unshed tears. Her smile, however, brimmed with happiness. “You’re doing a fair job of it right now.”
“I think I can do much better than this.” My lips fell naturally to hers, as if they belonged there.
Her sweet fragrance soothed and invigorated my soul.
The feel of her hands cradling my face breathtaking and wonderful.
Her hands traveled down my neck and around my back.
Everywhere her fingers touched left a streak of heat, sending fire through my veins.
I kissed her until we were out of breath. “I love you, Miss Arabella Delafield.” I stroked the downy skin of her arm just below her sleeve. “I want to spend all the chapters of my life with you until the very last page. Will you marry me?”
Her eyes danced like two gleaming crystals. “I love you too, Mr. Rowan Ashworth. But the last page of a good story always leaves me sad. I would like to counter your proposal and insist we write an epilogue together too.”
I chuckled. “You shall have it then. One very sweet epilogue, as you command.” I wrapped my arms around her waist, tucking her close to me.
“Before we can have any happy ending though, there is something you must understand. I am not marrying you because of our family, or the silly bet with my friends, or any fancy book. I simply want you and only you.”
“I believe you. You’re too stubborn to hold me like this for any other reason.”
I grinned. “You know me well. Is everything right between us then? I don’t want anything left unresolved.”
“I suppose your kiss made up for a few years of grief. You can work on the other years later.”
“Later?” I wrapped one leg behind hers and dipped her back. She squealed with laughter. I bent over her, my lips hovering just above hers. “Why wait?”
She giggled. “By all means, you have my permission to apologize at your leisure.”
I dropped a kiss on the hollow of her neck. The silken skin nearly undid me. I could not believe that this woman would be my wife. “This may take all day.” I pulled her back up and thoroughly kissed her. I figured if someone found us and forced us to marry straightaway, they’d be doing us a favor.