Chapter 3 #2
She’d asked the question in all seriousness, yet he suspected she was teasing him.
He rather liked being on the receiving end of a tease from Miss Windermere.
“I’d prefer to keep it,” he said. “I rather like Baile ìm.”
Her head canted to the side. “You do have a, erm, way with words.”
Rory winced. If that wasn’t damning by faint praise, he didn’t know what was. “You have a way with words, Miss Windermere,” he said, earnest.
He thumbed through the journal, each new page filled with more brilliance than the last.
Right.
He snapped it shut and held it out for her to take, only now realizing she hadn’t given him permission to read her brilliant words. She stepped just close enough to grab it and took an immediate step back.
“My apologies for taking liberties with your work,” he said, sheepish. It only seemed right.
She nodded her acceptance of his apology, but didn’t turn to leave. “I’ve heard that you write the occasional verse.”
“Very occasional,” he said. “I’ve mostly stopped.”
“Why would you do that?”
“May I be blunt?”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Oddly, he believed her. “I’m a bloody atrocious poet.”
She smiled. “How can you know that?” she asked. “Have you shared your poems with anyone?”
“One person,” he admitted. “One poem.”
“Neither number is enough to gauge the quality of a work.”
She’d asked for the truth. Here it was… “You know that I proposed marriage to Miss Dalhousie a few years ago?”
“I’d heard something about that.”
“I wrote her a poem.”
Miss Windermere gave a slow nod. “I take it the poem wasn’t to her taste.”
“The poem and I, as it turned out.”
Curiosity lit within Miss Windermere’s eyes. “Do you remember the first line?”
“I do.”
“Would you mind reciting it to me?”
He considered saying no, but hadn’t he just read her poetry without permission? Turnabout was only fair play. He cleared his throat. “Ye are like a wee Highland coo, stout of mind, heart, and body.”
Brow lifted, mouth slightly agape, Miss Windermere looked utterly stricken.
Which was the same look that had come over Miss Dalhousie’s face when he’d recited the line to her.
“You cannot say that to a woman.”
“But it’s the truth.”
“No one wants to hear the truth about themselves.”
“I wouldn’t mind it.” In fact, he’d rather like being compared to a Highland coo. He scratched his beard. He was well on his way, in fact.
“Allow me to clarify,” Miss Windermere continued. “No woman wants to hear that particular truth spoken about her.”
Rory pointed at the journal clutched to her chest. “See? If I had your way with words, Miss Dalhousie would’ve surely consented to be my wife.”
It was only the truth—but a truth that held no bitterness for him. It was merely factual.
A funny look came over Miss Windermere’s face. It was the exact same expression he’d once seen depicted on an Italian painting. The subject had been Joan of Arc.
He only just didn’t take a step back.
“I could help you woo Miss Dalhousie,” said Miss Windermere with the same note of fervency and inspiration that must’ve convinced thousands to follow Joan of Arc to their doom.
Rory spread his hands wide, hoping to calm this situation before it got out of hand. Fervent and inspired weren’t his métier. “That will not be necessary, I can assure you.”
He could tell even as he spoke them that his words landed on barren soil. “I can be your Cyrano de Bergerac,” she continued.
“Cyrano de…who?”
“He was a French poet and adventurer a couple hundred years ago,” she said, dismissive.
“And what has he to do with my situation?”
“He used his way with words to help others.”
“And your way with words will help me how?”
“I shall write a poem for Miss Dalhousie, and you shall recite it to her.”
Rory only just followed her logic. “So she would think the words mine, and…and what precisely?”
“Consent to be your bride.”
Rory felt his brow gather. The fact was he hadn’t considered trying to woo Miss Dalhousie again. She’d rejected his proposal, and he’d been cast down about it for a few months, but that had been the end of it.
Further, since becoming neighbors with the Dalhousies, he’d had opportunity to observe Miss Dalhousie more fully. She was kind and accomplished and very pretty, but upon reflection, whatever spark she held within her didn’t call to a spark within him. That was the only way he could put it.
But Miss Windermere looked so strangely excited by the prospect of this poem that he was finding it difficult to deny her. She looked…inspired. And who was he to deny inspiration to a poetess of her talent?
“Oh,” she exclaimed in a sudden burst. “I have it!”
“You have what?” he asked carefully. They always said artists contained a bit—or a great deal, in some cases—of madness in their souls.
“Miss Dalhousie will return in time for the play,” she said, her words making sense only to her. “At the end, you can recite the poem to her in the audience.”
“To Miss Dalhousie?” he asked slowly.
“It’s perfect. It gives us one week—which is rushed for a finished poem—but it should be enough time.”
“Hmm,” was all Rory said. It would’ve been perfect two years ago, but now it felt decidedly less so.
Miss Windermere tapped a forefinger to her mouth, drawing Rory’s gaze. Plump and pink. How had he never noticed that about her bottom lip?
“I do see one problem with the plan,” she said.
Just the one? Rory didn’t say.
“I don’t really know anything about Miss Dalhousie.”
“Well,” began Rory, “she’s an accomplished violinist and speaks more than a few languages, for starters.”
Miss Windermere gave her head an impatient shake. “Not her accomplishments, but the true Miss Dalhousie.” She pressed a palm to her chest, and Rory tried not to notice the shallow swell of her breasts beneath.
Truly, he did.
“Here,” she continued. “Her true life—the one that lives inside her heart.”
In that instant Rory understood how Miss Windermere was able to write with the skill and emotion she did.
A poet’s soul resided in her heart.
And he understood something else, too.
He wanted to know more of it.
An idea began to form. “She loves nature,” he blurted.
“Oh?”
In truth, he hadn’t the faintest clue. “I could show you her favorite places.”
Actually, he was fairly certain Miss Dalhousie didn’t enjoy being out of doors.
Miss Windermere gave a slow, considering nod. “That idea holds promise.”
An unexpected flare of relief rippled through Rory. And it had naught to do with Miss Dalhousie, but with the woman before him clutching a journal of poetry to her chest and speaking of the truth that lived in a heart.
He now had the perfect excuse to spend time with her, showing her his favorite places, getting to know the true Miss Windermere who resided in her heart.
Though he’d been acquainted with her for years—through youth and into adulthood—he was only now seeing her.
Today offered a glimpse, but tomorrow…
What new vistas awaited?
Yet a question did occur to him. “What benefit do you get out of this?” He simply didn’t see it.
She blinked, and her straight black eyebrows drew together for a perplexed instant. They released. “To help a friend find his happily ever after, of course.”
Rory wasn’t sure if she believed the words as she spoke them, but he was certain he didn’t. He and Miss Windermere had never been friends—or even particularly friendly.
However, he did think of a way to even the scales. “What can I do for you?”
“You do something for me?”
“It only seems gentlemanly.”
“I’ll, erm”—her teeth worried her plump bottom lip—“I’ll think of something later.”
Rory nodded. That would have to do for now. “May I escort you back to Dalhousie Manor?”
“I think not,” said Miss Windermere.
“You won’t get lost?”
“I never get lost.”
She was sounding more like her usual, capable self, which should’ve been a relief. But he wasn’t sure it was.
He rather liked the Miss Windermere who shifted on her feet and revealed more than she’d like to say. But he could see that Miss Windermere was lost to him for now.
He tipped his hat and whistled for Clootie before heading to his day’s work.
More frothy bloat awaited.
He only just didn’t groan aloud.