Chapter 6 #2
an ill-suited backdrop for the lecture at hand. Aster, ever the strategist, positioned her sketchbook in front of her, likely
to refine the map she’d been secretly working on for weeks.
Emme folded her hands in her lap and braced herself, especially since most of Aunt Bean’s instruction seemed rather pointedly
fixed on her.
“Charm,” Aunt Bean began, the word lingering in the air like the scent of overly strong perfume. “A lady must wield charm as a soldier wields a sword—deftly, with precision, and always to disarm.”
Emme suppressed a smile. Aunt Bean’s metaphors were often on the edge of the ridiculous, yet poetically so. As an author,
Emme couldn’t help but appreciate the exaggeration.
Which was to say, all of it.
“Now”—Aunt Bean lowered her voice for dramatic effect—“there are three categories of charm every lady must master. The first:
the art of listening.”
Aster, who had perfected the art of appearing engaged without truly listening, did not look up from her sketch, giving off
the illusion that Aunt Bean’s words were so compelling that they demanded to be recorded.
From the tilt of Aunt Bean’s chin, she was clearly pleased with the reverence.
“To listen,” Aunt Bean elaborated, “is not merely to nod and murmur. It is to flatter. You must hang upon a gentleman’s every
word, as though his opinions are both novel and profound—even when, as is often the case, they are neither.”
“Even when they are utter nonsense?”
“Especially then.” Aunt Bean fixed Emme with a sharp glare. “A man must never suspect he is anything less than brilliant in
your eyes. It is his first and greatest weakness.”
Emme bit the inside of her cheek to stifle her retort.
“The second category of charm,” Aunt Bean said, forging ahead, undeterred, “is the subtle yet effective compliment. You must
be precise, yet vague enough to let his imagination do the work.”
“Such as?” Aster glanced up from her paper, her tone too innocent to be sincere.
Ah, her sister was catching on to the idea of engagement too.
Aunt Bean waved her hand dramatically, as though brushing away their collective ignorance. “For example, you might remark upon his excellent posture, the strength of his stride, or the pleasing resonance of his voice. Men are highly susceptible to praise that suggests physical superiority.”
Emme couldn’t resist. “So we should compliment them on attributes they have little control over, like their natural height
or the timbre they were born with?”
Aunt Bean’s eyes flashed. “Exactly, my dear! It’s not the truth that matters but the flattery. Men are simple creatures—a
few well-chosen words, and you’ve won half the battle.”
Aster’s pencil stilled, her lips quivering. “What if his posture resembles that of a wilting flower? Or his stride is more
of a stumble?”
“Then you admire his determination in overcoming such obvious challenges, but never speak of those unfortunate defects before marriage. After you’ve secured him, you are at leisure to dissect to your heart’s content, but never before,” Aunt Bean snipped.
“A real lady is clever enough to adapt.”
Emme pressed her fingers to her lips, pretending to stifle a cough.
“And lastly,” Aunt Bean declared, her attention fixed on Emme. “The third and most critical category: restraint.”
“Restraint?” Emme echoed, feigning ignorance.
“In speech, in action, in expression,” Aunt Bean clarified. “You must never reveal too much of your true thoughts. A man should
see you as an enigma—desirable but unattainable, until, of course, he has committed himself to you entirely, and then you
are at liberty to hold nothing back. It is his fault, of course, for not doing better research.”
Emme drew in a deep breath. “So we are to be simultaneously captivating, complimentary, and incomprehensible?”
“Precisely,” Aunt Bean said without hesitation, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
“And do not think I haven’t noticed your particular failures in this regard.
” She narrowed her gaze on Emme. “The incident with Mr. Long at the ball, for instance—arguing about women riding horseback unchaperoned! Do you imagine such talk endears you to a gentleman?”
“Mr. Long seemed rather invigorated by the debate,” Emme replied, although the real reason she’d engaged with him with such
passion was simply due to the fact she’d seen Simon dancing with the honorable, and rather rich, Miss Steele.
Yes, it was an irrational choice, but there she was.
“Precisely the problem,” Aunt Bean snapped. “A man invigorated by your intellect will only seek to conquer it. Far better
to leave him enchanted by your silence.”
“And if silence fails?” Aster interjected, tapping her pencil against her smile.
Aunt Bean’s brows rose to almost touch her hairline. “Then, my dear, you must resort to the ancient art of . . . fainting.
Nothing disarms a man quicker than a lady collapsing at his feet. He’ll be so concerned with reviving you, he won’t notice
your intellect at all!”
Emme worked so hard to quell her laughter, she started coughing. Aunt Bean was quite serious. Too serious not to laugh.
With that benediction, Aunt Bean rose, her gown rustling like the wings of an indignant goose. “Remember, my dears, in the
battlefield of love, sometimes you must fall back—or fall down—to win the war.”
Emme and Aster exchanged a look, barely waiting for Aunt Bean to leave the room before they broke into laughter.
Mr. Donald Tarleton gave Simon the first good news he’d had in weeks.
The prosperous tradesman proposed to buy some of the timber from Ravenscross for a price that, while not princely, would certainly grant Simon the breathing space needed for essential repairs and perhaps a new coat or two for himself and the children.
After all, if he were to charm a lady of fortune, he must look the part.
In an era where Beau Brummell dictated the very threads of fashion, Simon knew the significance of a well-tailored suit.
Thanks to Nora’s meticulous list, Simon had whittled down his pool of potential brides to four promising candidates—each less
tedious than the last and, most importantly, financially advantageous. But before introducing them to the rather . . . eclectic
state of Ravenscross and his lively siblings, he needed to embark on the delicate dance of courtship.
His thoughts were interrupted by a letter perched precariously on the edge of his desk. Stokes, the venerable, ancient, and
underpaid butler, must have placed it there while Simon was busy repairing Fia’s swing in the garden. The handwriting was
unmistakable.
Aunt Agatha.
Simon’s shoulders slumped. His mother’s eldest sister, a widow with a fortune, had always been their family’s beacon during
rough seas, especially since his mother’s passing. She had been the first to detect Arianna’s unwise affection toward Joseph
Leeds and had warned Simon accordingly. However, her scrutiny often left Simon feeling like a disappointing echo of his father,
though his flaws lay in arrogance and youthful indiscretions rather than harshness and financial caprice.
Perhaps she’d seen a change in Simon, though. He could only hope.
He needed at least one ally who understood their family to help him navigate this new world. Ben was an excellent sounding
board, but Aunt Agatha knew the expectations of title as well as the depths of Father’s offenses and the gravity of those
to the whole family.
He opened the envelope, skimming over the familiar hand. It wasn’t a long missive. A few simple lines alerting him to her
arrival.
This afternoon.
He stood abruptly, the word echoing in his mind.
This afternoon?
He read on . . .
She was coming to alleviate some of their financial strain?
For the first time in months, a whisper of relief washed over him.
If anyone had the ability and interest to generously help his family without strings attached, it was his mother’s only sister.
Perhaps her support could buy him time to put some of his plans into place to save the estate without a hasty marriage.
He rushed from the room in search of Mrs. Patterson, and as he passed the library, he spotted William, absorbed in a book.
“Will.”
The boy’s eyes lifted, wide and curious.
“Would you lend me a hand for a moment?”
A light bloomed in the boy’s eyes, and he closed the book, standing to attention in answer. The response paused Simon’s thoughts.
Was Will’s solitary behavior less about escape and more about seeking purpose? Or not knowing where to find it?
Simon swallowed a groan. Of course he needed a purpose. Why had it taken so long for Simon to see it?
“I’ve just learned something quite important.” Simon passed the letter to Will.
Will’s face grew serious, absorbing the news, and Simon resisted a smile. Perhaps he had misjudged his brother’s disposition
as retreat rather than a silent plea for involvement.
“Aunt Agatha is arriving at Ravenscross today. We should inform your sisters so they can make a good impression, and alert
Mrs. Patterson. Don’t you agree?”
The boy looked from Simon to the page, blinked a few times, and then the smallest smile creased one corner of his mouth. “Yes,
sir.”
“It would be quicker if we divide the tasks.”
Will’s smile grew. “I could find Lottie and Fia.”
“Excellent.” Warmth branched through Simon’s chest at that smile. “And then let us meet in my study to discuss further?”
“Aunt Agatha will want the Blue Room, sir.” Will offered back the letter. “She said it was her favorite last time.”
“Then we’ll make sure Mrs. Patterson knows. Thank you, Will.”
Will nodded, his smile now fully fledged, before darting off.
After informing Mrs. Patterson, who always seemed to glow at the mention of Aunt Agatha’s visits, Simon tidied his study,
the library, and a corner of the sitting room before returning to the study to await his siblings, ready to strategize.
Not two steps into the room, he came to a sudden halt.
There stood Mrs. Patterson and Will, their expressions grave. Fia was there too, more preoccupied with a worm in her hand
and what appeared to be a twig in her hair than any current crisis.
“What is it?” But as soon as he asked, Simon knew. One child wasn’t among the group.
“Lottie’s missing.” Will swallowed, his voice growing small again.
“And that’s not all, sir,” Mrs. Patterson added, her hands wringing together in a manner that tightened Simon’s chest. “So
is Zeus.”
“Zeus?” Simon’s face went cold. “Zeus is missing too?”
Fia, seizing her moment to contribute, piped up, “I thought Zeus was your horse, Simon.”
Simon exchanged a look with Mrs. Patterson, her pale countenance reflecting his own dread.
Lottie had never dared to ride Simon’s spirited stallion. She preferred Cleopatra, her steady mare. But Zeus was built for
speed and distance, suggesting Lottie had ambitions to venture farther than her previous escapades.
His shoulders collapsed under the weight of the realization as he turned and sprinted toward the hallway.
Lord, help me.
He couldn’t manage another missing sister.