Chapter 19
Aunt Agatha had agreed to meet with Simon alone after dinner that evening.
He would make his case.
He’d dutifully played his part at the last ball, dancing with a veritable parade of suitable options she’d brought before
him. Dutifully, he’d returned with his observations—polished, diplomatic, and entirely detached. Yet none of them, not one,
could compare to Emmeline Lockhart.
Some had their merits, he supposed. A few came with fortunes large enough to settle Ravenscross’s debts outright; others displayed
a measure of charm or kindness. But how could he transfer his affections, like a ledger entry, from one lady to another when
his heart so clearly, so immovably, belonged to Emme?
In truth, Simon felt like Edward Ferrars, caught in the aching dissonance between duty and love. He recalled Elinor Dashwood’s
quiet anguish upon hearing of Edward’s engagement to Lucy Steele. Elinor’s outward composure had masked a torrent of heartbreak,
but Simon suspected her suffering paled in comparison to Edward’s torment—trapped with a woman he could not love, while loving
a woman he could not claim.
That would not be his fate.
Not if Aunt Agatha accepted his terms.
And not if Emme would have him.
That morning’s ride to visit his new tenants had only solidified his resolve.
Mr. Chapman and his young bride, Anna—formerly Miss Dean—had taken up residence in a modest cottage at the edge of the estate.
They had gone about their union in an unconventional way, eloping to Scotland, much to the shock of her family. Yet as Simon
observed their quiet joy, the way they seemed to exist entirely for each other, he couldn’t help but feel humbled. They had
no grandeur and no fortune, but their affection for each other was wealth enough.
Then there were the Pooles, who had been tenants for little more than a week. Decades of shared hardships had forged a partnership
of seamless understanding. Their cheerful camaraderie, their unspoken harmony in labor and life, was a quiet testament to
the power of true companionship. Simon left each visit more heartened by their example than by any encouragement he had offered
them.
It was those moments—simple yet profound—that assured Simon he was making the right decision.
The only decision.
Colonel Brandon had been mocked for his steady nature, his lack of flamboyant passions, yet in the end it was his constancy,
his unwavering devotion, that laid the foundation for his happiness. Brandon had waited, endured, and hoped.
Could Simon not do the same? Given time, could he not earn his own happy ending?
He had no Lucy Steele forcing his hand, no clandestine engagement threatening to undo him. All he needed was time—just a little
more time.
Emme wasn’t merely the best choice for him, she was the best choice for his family and for Ravenscross. As a wife, a guardian
to his siblings, and a viscountess, she would bring warmth, intelligence, and resilience to their lives. She would be the
anchor they all needed.
The estate was improving. The new tenancy agreements were yielding profits, modest though they were. The timber management, carefully overseen, had already begun to show promise. Even the wool production—a venture Aunt Agatha had been skeptical of—was on a steady upward trajectory.
If Aunt Agatha could be persuaded to grant him the freedom to delay his choice, he could build enough financial stability
to relinquish his dependence on her allowance. They might endure a leaner season or two, but in the end, his decision would
secure their future.
Surely Aunt Agatha would see reason. She was a practical woman—sharp-tongued, yes, but not unfeeling. He would present his
case with logic, clarity, and with any luck, a measure of humility that might soften her resolve.
This wasn’t merely sentiment. It was strategy. For them all.
Simon straightened his cravat in the mirror over the mantel in his office, holding his own gaze with a promise. Tonight he
would make his aunt see.
At that moment the door burst open, and in ran Fia, a cat slung over one arm and a crumpled paper flapping in her other hand.
She stopped abruptly in the middle of the room, her little face scrunched into a frown. It was clear she hadn’t even noticed
him.
Midas, the long-suffering feline, hung limply, resigned to the whims of his pint-size captor. The poor creature likely had
no illusions left about dignity.
Two more days. Just two more days until Mrs. Lane arrived to impose her miraculous order upon the household. Emma had praised
Mrs. Lane’s ability to somehow wrangle chaos into something resembling routine, while still allowing the children their games
and whims. Simon raised a thankful gaze to the ceiling.
Oh, happy day.
“Are you looking for me, Fia?”
Her head snapped up, and her face lit with a wide, toothless grin. “Mrs. Patterson said you were here, but then you weren’t.” She shuffled forward, and Simon lowered himself into a nearby chair, bringing himself to her level.
Of course she had a story to tell. Fia always did.
“Midas brought me a bird,” she announced with the solemnity of a royal decree. “But it was very asleep, so I took it to Mrs.
Patterson.” She nodded, her eyes wide with the weight of her tale. “But she said it was a very special sleeping bird and needed
more rest, so she put it outside again.”
Poor Mrs. Patterson. Simon bit back a laugh. “Very wise of Mrs. Patterson. I’ve heard those sleeping birds are not very good
at managing either cats or the indoors.”
Fia tilted her head, considering this, her curls bouncing with the movement. “Then I do hope Midas stops catching that sort.
They’re no fun to play with at all.”
“Indeed, I imagine they aren’t.” His lips twitched as he glanced at the paper clutched in her small fist. “Was there something
else, lamb?”
She beamed at him, her dimples carving into her cheeks, her golden curls framing her face like a cherub in a painting. With
that combination of a toothless grin and earnest eyes, she could melt the heart of the sternest curmudgeon.
Fia skipped over to him, unceremoniously releasing Midas, who bolted for the safety of a nearby chair. Then, without so much
as a by-your-leave, she climbed into Simon’s lap. “Lottie asked me to give you this very special letter.”
And just like that, Simon’s smile faded.
A letter.
Arianna’s farewell had come by letter too. Its brevity had been as cutting as its contents—irrational and emotional, its cruelty
sharpened by the whispers of a flatterer who’d preyed upon her grief.
He shook the thought away and forced himself to focus on the scrap of paper Fia now held aloft like a prize. With a steadying
breath, he unfolded it.
The words were written in a childish scrawl, their content equal parts innocence and impudence:
I’ve gone to Miss Lockhart’s house to learn about strawberries. I didn’t ask because I knew you would say no, which would
have been a very bad idea as Miss Lockhart has been so kind to us. Perhaps someday you’ll remember how to be a gentleman,
but I don’t care to wait until then.
Simon suppressed a groan, his jaw tightening. The little imp.
“Thank you, Fia,” he managed, though his voice sounded strained even to his own ears.
He stood, setting Fia gently on her feet. Would he have refused Lottie’s request if she’d asked? Likely not. The idea of building
a stronger relationship between Emme and his sisters might have felt dangerous—not only because he hadn’t secured any acceptance
from Aunt Agatha, but also because every additional moment he spent with the woman only made him want to spend dozens more
without a certainty of their future—but for Lottie’s sake, he might have relented.
Now, it seemed, she had taken matters into her own hands. Typical.
Tucking the note into his pocket, Simon sighed. His little sister’s audacity had certainly been inherited from somewhere—though
at the moment, he wasn’t particularly inclined to take credit for it.
He glanced at Fia. “Anything else you’d like to confess, lamb?”
She shook her head solemnly, then beamed up at him again, her smile entirely guileless.
“Good. Now I must ride to one of our neighbors’ houses.” Simon reached over to ruffle her curls. “Do you think you can manage
to stay out of the water puddles while I’m gone?”
Fia nodded, though her expression wavered as though the promise might cost her dearly. “But sometimes, they’re so big, they
find me.”
“Understandable.” Simon pressed his lips together as though weighing her predicament.
“But perhaps you could stay inside, just for a little while, and search for”—he glanced around the room, desperate for an idea, until his eyes alighted on the carved ravens perched over the doorway—“ravens. How many ravens do you think there are in the house? Count them all, and when I return, you can tell me the number. If you’re very thorough, I daresay we’ll have strawberry tart to celebrate. ”
Fia’s face lit with delight, her previous hesitation vanishing. She followed his gaze to the carved ravens, her brows knitting
with determination. “I am very good at finding things.”
“I know.” Without a doubt, and many times things he’d wished she hadn’t.
With that, she scampered off and Simon marched to find Mrs. Patterson. Who knew whether Emme had actually invited Lottie or
if his sister had concocted the scheme entirely on her own?
After notifying Mrs. Patterson and Aunt Agatha of his plans—“a quick ride to a neighbor’s estate, back by dinner,” he assured
them—he saddled his horse and set out toward Thistlecroft House.
And yes, he could have stayed home. He could have waited for Lottie to return, heard her story, and avoided yet another interaction
with Emme Lockhart.
But what would that accomplish?
Yes, calling on her at her home was ludicrous. Borderline improper, even, considering his supposed search for a different
sort of bride.