Chapter Eight #2
Peter sat forward, shoulders square. Firm.
Convincing. “I am not exaggerating. Every time I asked an unmarried woman for her thoughts on any matter, she responded with, ‘What is your opinion, Your Grace?’ Every single time. It is remarkable how well they can twist a conversation so that they aren’t forced to commit to a thought beyond how lovely the weather has been.
Though no doubt, if I’d told them that bright days make me gloomy, they’d curse the sunshine. ”
Perhaps that was the approach he needed to take—state the most absurd opinions possible and watch to see which women balked and which agreed. Booklover would never curse the sunshine for his approval.
Meg frowned. “Are you telling us that you did not have one interesting encounter with a woman the entire night?”
Fine. There had been one interesting encounter.
Running into the compositor from the zoo had been an unexpected boon.
She was unusual, and she didn’t know that he was a duke, so she treated him as though he was a normal person.
She was also very, very pleasing to look at.
But then there was the small matter of her despising the man who was mechanizing her work.
She would soon find out it was him and their conversations would no longer be charming.
He shook his head. “No. There was no encounter of note and certainly none with anyone I’d make a duchess. Searching for a wife in a ballroom is pointless. I have no desire to sift through chaff looking for a woman that does not exist.”
Meg sighed. “Give it more than one week, brother. Give it a month.”
“Yes,” Jac added. “Speak with a woman at least five times before you decide that you can’t fall in love with her.”
Winnie bounced up and down. “Oooh. You could try taking them to the park. Perhaps it’s the pressure of a ball that fumbles their tongues.”
Jac smirked. “Like it fumbles your tongue, sister?”
The tongue in question was promptly displayed, not that Jac could see it.
Meg cleared her throat, and the bickering ended.
“We are in earnest, brother. You must at least attempt to engage meaningfully with potential brides. If, at the end of the month, you haven’t found a single woman who ignites some spark within you, then you can throw in the towel and turn your marriage into a business proposition. ”
Winnie looked so hopeful. Jac’s lip was caught between her teeth as she waited for his response.
Blast. One month. Could he tolerate society for that long?
It would make them happy, and perhaps if they saw how fruitless an undertaking it was, their disappointment would not be so great. He had to chaperone Winnie regardless.
“After a month, when I’ve not found a woman to love, do you swear not to criticize me for taking more practical measures?”
All three nodded, though he suspected Winnie, at least, had her fingers crossed.
His chest tightened. “And will you not take it to heart?”
Winnie grabbed his hand and hooked her little finger around his. “If you haven’t found a woman to love in a month, we will give you our full blessing to marry a woman you don’t care for.”
He sighed. “Good. But don’t get your hopes up. Dukes don’t get to fall in love the way others do.”
Dear Captain,
Your letters the past two days have felt odd. Their contents have been perfectly normal but the cadence of them has felt constrained…
Dear Booklover,
I apologize. Please find enclosed a sketch I drew of the Tattler snoring on the couch, as evidence that I am perfectly jolly and my cadence is the result of having misplaced my favorite pencil.
I have stolen another one from her writing desk and the fact that she will blame a different sibling makes it my new favorite.
Dear Captain,
If you are this bad at lying when you’ve only the words and the handwriting to mask, I can’t imagine how you get by when you have your face to contend with as well. Something bothers you. Also, that is not a sketch; that is a stick figure. They are worlds apart in meaning.
Dear Booklover,
I reject the idea that I am a terrible liar.
If I were, others would have called me out on it.
I do realize that by defending myself with that argument, I confess to regularly hiding the truth.
It is well-intentioned. I rarely discuss the things that weigh on me.
Those problems are mine to solve. I am loath to share them with you, in fact.
But since you are so insistent—my current circumstances have me thinking of my brother.
Recently, he found happiness that I never will.
It took everything I had to congratulate him without the frog in my throat twisting the words.
I thought I had moved past jealousy, but every now and then, it catches me.
I am a terrible person. Tell me something that will distract me from that awareness. What do I not yet know about you?
Dear Captain,
I don’t believe you could be a terrible person.
We may not have met but I feel as though I know you, and I am rarely wrong about a person’s character.
Envy consumes us all at times. I would love to tell you that all will be well but without knowing your situation, all I can promise is that there are many types of happiness.
Yours may not be like your brother’s, but a different happiness will present itself and you will be just as fulfilled.
As for something you do not yet know about me: I love flowers almost as much as I love books—peonies if I have to choose just one type—and I am drawn to color.
I cannot help it. I’ll often get distracted mid-conversation by the flash of a goldfinch or the pop of green and violet where flowers grow sneakily in corners.
Last night was a riot of hues, then I stepped outside where the streets looked pallid.
Last year I journeyed two days to see the sun rise at Ramsgate.
The sea was as gray as slate and just as unwelcoming until the first few rays crept over the horizon.
Then the water and sky were as lovers in that first blush of romance, sending bursts of pinks and purples washing over each other.
Watching color bleed into the world made my heart full.
Grays softened into browns and blues and greens.
You must visit, if your commitments release you.
At the very least, you should stand in the middle of Waterloo Bridge—not in the traffic, mind you—and watch the sun rise over the Thames. It is magical.
Of course, enjoying a London twilight depends on which end of my day I am experiencing it.
It is one thing to embrace the bustling streets as I launch into the morning.
It is quite another to be dragging myself to bed at such an hour, as was the case this morning.
I witnessed the sunrise briefly as I climbed into a carriage and then shut the curtains on it hoping for a few minutes’ rest. I have at least a month of these horrendous hours ahead of me.
In West Africa, they talk of zombies—corpses revived by witchcraft—and that is what I fear I’ll turn into soon. I keep reminding myself that it is a price I choose to pay.
—Booklover