Chapter 13
Simon sat at his desk, his attention flitting between scattered papers and the small stack of unopened letters that still
demanded his notice. It had taken longer than usual to settle Fia for the night. The promise of strawberries tomorrow had
fueled her endless stream of questions long after the storybook had closed.
She had insisted, as she had for the past month, that he be the one to tuck her in. To his own surprise, he’d grown to welcome
the ritual. Somehow, it fed a flicker of hope that he hadn’t entirely ruined every life under his care.
His gaze landed on a note from Mr. Tarleton, the first payment for timber harvested from the estate. The sight buoyed his
spirits. Something about earning the sum through his own ingenuity—however modest the amount—stirred a sense of accomplishment.
It was a beginning.
And beginnings, he reminded himself, often led to better ends.
His smile widened as he opened a letter from Mr. Douglas Arden. A chance conversation in the streets of St. Groves had birthed
a promising connection. If all went as planned, Mr. Arden would lease a set of stone storage buildings on the town-side edge
of Simon’s land to expand his cotton mill operations. Combined with the prospect of leasing several acres for sheep, it promised
a consistent income—a step closer to the stability he so desperately sought.
And the tenants only offered another. Mr. Bridges had sent a list of at least ten family names of those who may be possible
prospects.
None of the ideas drastically changed current matters, but altogether? Over time?
Certainly.
There was also progress with his aunt’s stipulations. He’d written to Mrs. Lane and another governess recommended by Ben.
If either candidate proved appropriate, it would be the first and simplest of her demands checked off the list.
His gaze fell on a neatly stacked set of gray-bound books at the edge of his desk. The title along the beige spines caught
his attention: Sense and Sensibility. He rested his chin on his folded hands, eyeing the volumes with suspicion. The three-volume novels he’d perused in the past
had often indulged in wild sentimentality and gothic absurdities—vampires, pirates, ghosts, and fainting heroines in flimsy
gowns.
He released a sigh as he rolled his gaze to the ceiling and then focused back on the books. But this title didn’t fit the
usual mysterious nonsense. Sense was in the title, after all—a clear attempt to entice more rational readers, or perhaps a clever trick disguising yet another
ludicrous tale.
Opening the first volume, he skimmed the initial sentences. A humorless laugh burst from him. The passage about owning an
estate resonated—uncomfortably so. But living in “so respectable a manner as to secure the general good opinion of their surrounding
acquaintance”? That was another matter entirely. Certainly not with the mess the patriarchs of his family had left behind,
compounded by the incessant whispers regarding himself, Teddy, his mother, and of course, Arianna.
“The cheerfulness of the children added a relish to his existence.” Simon paused, considering the sentiment. Fia brought her
fair share of cheer—along with a generous helping of exasperation—but poor Will and Lottie? Their cheerfulness had been in
short supply, at least until today. Emme’s invitation to take them to the Sutherlands’ strawberry patch had been a rare bright
spot.
He read on, gripped by the tale of an older brother whose foppish nature rendered him deaf to decency as his scheming wife persuaded him to abandon his stepmother and sisters with barely enough to live on.
Simon frowned, his jaw clenching. What sort of man did such a thing? A selfish, cotton-headed brute!
But the narrative soothed him with Edward Ferrars—a sensible, amiable sort with a clear appreciation for the refined and composed
Elinor Dashwood. It provided a glimpse into what could very well be an average day for a family within his acquaintance. No
vampires or captured damsels. No ghosts or mad monks. But clever dialogue, wit, and well-drawn characters such as the Dashwood
sisters, the genial Sir John, the meddling but good-hearted Mrs. Jennings, and the quietly noble Colonel Brandon. He’d just
been introduced to the buck Mr. Willoughby when a sharp knock at his study door startled him.
Glancing at the clock, Simon blinked. Had he truly been reading for two hours?
The knock sounded again, firm and insistent. He turned toward the door. Who could possibly be awake at this hour? “Yes?”
The door creaked open to reveal the one person he least expected: Aunt Agatha. She looked less formidable than usual in her
dressing gown, her dark hair threaded with silver and still pinned back. Had she been reading too?
Her expression held a gentleness that Simon hadn’t seen in months, possibly years—curiosity, rather than her usual imperiousness.
He rose, gesturing toward a chair near the hearth. “I saw your light beneath the door.”
“Only answering a few letters and indulging in a book.” He gestured toward his desk. “How may I assist you?”
She wore a cautious expression—not a hard-edged one, but as if weighing her thoughts before they spun into words. “I am for you, Simon.” She paused, holding his gaze. “Or at least for the man I believe you can become.”
The words hung in the air, and truth be told, Simon wasn’t certain how to respond, so he offered no immediate reply, allowing
her sentiment a chance to settle.
Agatha eased into the chair, sitting near its edge as though poised for flight. “You were gone so long in search of Arianna.
I feared . . .” She glanced toward the bookshelves. “I feared you had lost your way.”
At times he almost feared it too. “Like Father?”
Her chin dipped in acknowledgment. “It is a concern I’ve voiced before. But I see less cause for it with each passing day.
Your care for the children, your work—it speaks to a resilience I had thought lost to you.” She drew in a steadying breath.
“We have suffered much as a family, Simon, and the Ravenscross name has borne its share. The road to recovery has not and
will not be easy.”
This was the Aunt Agatha he remembered from before their world fell apart: thoughtful, sharp, and deliberate, with an undercurrent
of care. There had always been an edge to her, like a cat basking in sunlight but ready to strike at the faintest provocation.
Yet compassion had once tempered that edge—until the loss of her sister seemed to have stolen it away.
“I want to see you succeed.” Her gaze fastened on him. “And find happiness. As I do for the rest of your . . . my family,” she corrected. In fact, the Reeveses were all the family she had left. He knew she felt that deeply. “But the quickest
path to securing some semblance of restoration and stability is through an advantageous marriage—to an equal who can elevate
both your finances and your reputation. I can only provide a basic sum, but you need more.”
Simon’s shoulders tensed, bracing for the inevitable.
“Which is why,” she continued, her gaze sharp, “I must know the nature of your relationship with Miss Lockhart.”
It was not the question he had anticipated, though neither was it a surprise. Of course Aunt Agatha had noticed. After all, the woman had appeared in his pond one day, only to surface days later with a rescue plan in place.
Simon’s intentions with Emme had been delicate from the start, which was why he’d protected the information, only sharing
his plans with his cousin (out of necessity), his parents, and Ben. He’d never intended to fall in love with someone so far
outside his rank and position. Yet Emme had fit him so well, so naturally, that he’d prepared to battle every expectation
and argument to make a union happen.
He hadn’t needed to see her with his siblings this week to know how perfectly she belonged in his family. Nor did he need
to picture her in the halls of Ravenscross to realize she would make the estate a home again. He didn’t need to hold her in
his arms to understand that her strength and heart would leave an indelible mark on future generations.
He’d known it all already.
But the moment the title fell upon him, everything had unraveled.
How much should Aunt Agatha know?
“I courted her the season the title fell to me with the intention of marrying her.”
Agatha’s sharp intake of breath cut through the room. “You courted her?”
He nodded, though the admission stuck in his throat. “I had every intention of proposing on the day I received news of Cousin
Rupert’s and Father’s deaths. When the full extent of everything became clear, I knew . . . I couldn’t follow through.”
“Does she harbor false hope?” Agatha stared at him, still surprised. “Does she believe you might offer her some lesser position?”
“No.” The denial came swiftly, almost violently. “Never. She knows I cannot marry her, and I would never insult her by suggesting
anything less than honor.” He slowly shook his head, attempting to explain. “She . . . she wishes to help, that is all. It’s
who she is. But her compassion is more for the children now, I think.”
Agatha’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Take care, Simon. Compassion is well and good, but if either of you still carries a flame for the other, rest assured people will be watching. Scandal is what they’ll hope to find.”
Emme quickened her steps along Avalon Street, one hand clutching a bundle of ribbons from Matthews’ Haberdashery, the other
gripping a pair of gilded hair combs she’d admired in Crown and Comb’s window. The combs, embossed with delicate leaves, would
make the perfect birthday gift for Aster. No doubt her sister would liken them to some Grecian ideal she’d uncovered in her
geographical studies.
Having some extra pin money, especially funds she earned herself, certainly made purchasing gifts more delightful.
She had barely made it past Cole’s Grocer when someone called her name. Turning, Emme found Thomas approaching at a near run,