Chapter 4 #2
Dahlia was moved by her friend’s words. She never sought validation for her work, but to hear such accounts about the effect of Penelope Lovelace’s work was like a balm to her sorrows. She smiled tearily at her friends, wiping at her own eyes.
“I thank you; your words mean the world to me.” Then she continued, letting out a long sigh, “But what am I to do? Those are his terms: we will marry, and I will give up my writing.”
“You could not have agreed to that, Dahlia, have you?” Helena was indignant.
“I seem not to have a choice in the matter.”
“But–but you must be allowed to do what makes you happy; it isn’t as if it will do him further harm! Everyone already knows anyway!” Celine stood up and paced the room.
“Perhaps if you explain to him how important your work is to you and how good you are at it; he will understand and let you continue?” Helena asked hopefully.
“There is no chance of that happening, Helena.”
“This is ridiculous! You are a grown woman; you haven’t hurt anyone with your writing—well not really anyway. Why must you not be allowed to pursue it?” Celine walked back to her friend, the sympathy and outrage in her eyes, indeed, in both her friends’ eyes, lit a fire within Dahlia.
For the first time that day, someone—two people, in fact, were ready to support her. She felt a lightening in her heart. Perhaps something could be done; perhaps there was still a way. She must find some form of happiness in any way she could.
Celine put her hand over Dahlia’s, and Helena leaned over and rested her head on Dahlia’s shoulder.
“It’s only on paper after all,” Dahlia began softly then she smiled widely at her friends. “Not set in stone.”
The next morning, Dahlia found herself calling for breakfast to be brought up to her chambers. Indeed, she had no inclination to have the morning meal with anyone.
“The morning paper, M’Lady,” said Biddy as she laid the neatly folded periodical beside the breakfast tray. “Should I have John purchase the other publications as well?” she asked carefully.
Dahlia sighed and put down her teacup.
“I thank you, but no, Biddy. This one is quite enough.”
“M’Lady,” Biddy started, “Benson told us that he spoke to you last night before—before the incident. I’m so sorry to be causing you pain, M’Lady. Believe me, that is the last thing I want but—”
“My dear Biddy, you need not apologize. In truth, I should be apologizing to you for placing you in such a predicament.”
“No, M’Lady, I—”
“Perhaps it is best if we move on from that?” Dahlia said, sincerity in her eyes.
“Yes, if it pleases you, M’Lady.”
Dahlia smiled warmly at her maid. “Thank you, Biddy.”
Alone, she started on her breakfast. Dalia looked out the window, afraid to open the newspaper that lay beside her tray.
What’s the use? I already know what is written in it.
Impulsively, she took hold of the newspaper, walked to the fireplace, and before she could change her mind, she threw it into the hearth.
For my peace of mind! What will be, will be, but I am determined to weather this!
Her friends’ visit yesterday showed her that her world had not ended. It had definitely altered, but she was determined to have some say in it.
I refuse to be a mere spectator!
When she finished her breakfast, she rang for Biddy. Dahlia was ready to commit to the day. But much sooner than she had expected, her maid knocked urgently on her door and burst into the room.
“M’Lady must get dressed! His Grace is here!”
Before any of her morning dresses could be brought out, her mother appeared at her door as well, bursting with the same energy as her maid’s.
“Make haste, Dahlia! The Duke has just been shown into your father’s study. You are still in your dressing gown!”
“But why is he here so early in the day, Mama? Perhaps he has changed his mind!”
Her mother sent her a look.
“Stop your nonsense, daughter, and make haste!” Her mother looked her in the eye. “You must be very civil to the Duke, Dahlia. It is important to your father and me. You must do this for us for the family.”
Have I not always done everything that both of you wanted?
“Of course, Mama.”
Her mother sighed.
“Dahlia, it shall be fine.”
“Yes, mother.”
As she dressed, Dalia looked at herself in the mirror.
“I can do this; I can do this for my family. I can do this!”
Peter heard the footsteps that echoed outside the open door of the sitting room. He put the paper that he had been reading down and stood up.
“I know the hour is too early for a social call,” Peter had said earlier to the Marquess of Bolton when asked into the older man’s study, “but I have come to speak to you about a date for the wedding.”
Peter was not a man to waste time; indeed, once his mind was made up, he acted swiftly and efficiently.
The decision to marry Dahlia Hill was no different.
He had thought out the best way to solve their problem, and that, of course, was marriage.
So efficient was he that his solicitors were now in the process of securing a special license for the wedding, and this news he had relayed to the Marquess.
The Marchioness of Bolton entered the sitting room followed by her daughter.
His reaction was not unlike the time he opened her carriage door and really saw her.
Peter was aware that he was staring, his eyes absorbed in Dahlia’s appearance.
Clad in a simple morning gown of a pale green, she looked sleepy and disconcerted—and unnervingly attractive.
Her red hair gleamed in the morning light that streamed through the windows.
Recovering his control, he bowed curtly.
“A good morning to you, Lady Teresa, Lady Dahlia.”
“Good morning, Your Grace.” Teresa and Dahlia both curtsied in reply.
Peter watched as they went to the settee to sit down. Teresa inclined her head at her daughter, indicating that she should take the seat closest to the Duke. With a roll of her eyes, Dahlia did as she was bid. Peter pretended not to have noticed the exchange.
“I hope my sudden visit did not upset your plans this morning.” Peter kept his tone even.
“Not at all, Your Grace,” Teresa replied. “Dahlia had no prior engagements this morning.”
The Marchioness gave her daughter a look; again, Peter pretended not to notice.
“It is good of you to come and pay us a call, Your Grace, I hope your trip here was pleasant?” Dahlia gave her mother an answering look. This time, Peter could not help his reaction; he covered his laughter with a frown.
“It was an uneventful walk, thank you.”
“You walked?”
“I did, yes.” Peter raised an eyebrow. “Is that surprising? It isn’t very chilly out, and there are less people about at this time of day. The perfect time for a walk in my opinion.”
“I had not thought of you as a morning person either.”
Before Peter could reply, the Marquess of Bolton entered the room and bid them all a good morning.
“Teresa, my dear, are you quite ready?”
“Yes, quite, Andrew.” The Marchioness smiled at her husband and stood up to address their guest. “You must excuse us, Your Grace.”
“The Marchioness and I are off to meet with a textile merchant. You will relay our conversation to Dahlia?”
The Duke nodded, and the older couple took their leave. Silence filled the room after they had gone.
“They are off to choose fabrics for my mother’s chambers.” Dahlia’s words broke the silence. “My father insists that they need redecorating.”
“I see.” Peter could not fathom an appropriate reply.
“They like doing even such mundane things together.”
Peter nodded. Silence followed.
“It is your turn to say something, Your Grace.”
Peter almost laughed, but instead he frowned again.
“And you prefer not to accompany them? I should think the task calls for a feminine hand.”
“Why does that sound like a reprimand coming from you?” Dahlia frowned as well.
“My apologies,” Peter said stiffly. “It was not meant as one.”
Dahlia sighed. She fell back against the settee.
“No apology needed, Your Grace,” she hesitated. “My parents, they—they prefer each other’s company over anyone else’s, including my own.”
Peter took a moment to absorb this.
“And how do you spend your time when they are gone?”
“I have my own social circle, You Grace. And I can keep myself busy.” Dahlia sniffed.
Peter sighed heavily.
“Are you always so defensive, Lady Dahlia? Or is it just with me?”
“I am not being defensive!” Dahlia sputtered.
Peter watched her inhale, seeming to take a hold of her emotions.
He had called that morning with the express intention of securing a date for their wedding and of making it known to the world at large that they were courting, indeed, that they were betrothed.
She was obviously still angry about the betrothal, but he refused to placate her; after all, the arrangement benefitted her as well. He stood up.
“Come, let us go for a walk. I think we both could use the benefits of the crisp air.” He walked to her and held out his hand to escort her.
“A walk so early in—” Dahlia took in a sharp breath then continued calmly, “Your Grace, I don’t normally walk out at this time, and I am not dressed for walking out as well.”
“Are you really so against the idea? Might not you try it? You might find that I am right and that it is a rather pleasant exercise.”
His words seemed to work, for Dahlia suddenly stood up and smiled. He found that he did not like the gleam in her eye. What could be going on in her mind?
“If you will grant me a few minutes to change, Your Grace.”
She turned and left the room without waiting for his reply. Peter could swear that he heard her snicker as she walked out.
What can the chit be up to?