Chapter 24
She’d written him as a hero.
Simon turned the last page of the manuscript, his throat tight and eyes burning. Fia played with Blast in the garden before
him as he sat in a chair beneath a nearby tree, her little voice creating a background for his thoughts. The day had turned
cold in concert with the aging season as fall bent to winter, but Fia didn’t seem to mind, and Simon had needed to escape
the walls of the house.
To breathe in more space and earth and fresh air, as Emme’s story came to life and pierced him through. How could she portray
his tortured soul so well and yet still make him out to be a hero?
He shook his head with a chuckle. Only her.
And Emme’s writing—her style, her way of bringing out the subtle nuances and shifts in the stories and characters, matched
anything from the previous novel he’d read, except this one, Emme’s book, seemed to be written just for him.
Of course the hero was not fully him. A gentleman of high rank but not aristocracy; caregiver of two siblings instead of,
in reality, five; a broken past, partially of his own making instead of his father’s—but the essence of the character was
him.
And the way he’d dealt with the heart of the heroine resembled Simon too. A relationship broken because of tragedy that forced
the hero into making a choice between his heart and his future.
Yet instead of painting him in the light of a man who’d broken her heart, she’d written about his strengths.
His care for his siblings, his willingness to sacrifice, his desire to do right for the sake of his family legacy.
His lips tipped. She’d even written a scene where the hero saves the heroine from a fall in a pond.
He gripped the manuscript tightly, his emotions warring for release, the torture painfully acute. Was that how she saw him?
Truly? Even now?
Not as the failure, the inconsistent Mr. Willoughby, but as the faithful and noble, though fumbling, hero in his own story?
Much more Colonel Brandon than he deserved.
The sting in his eyes intensified.
And Mr. Bridges had been right. She was an excellent writer. Penning feelings and relationships with the skilled hand of not
only an author but also an observer of her own world. The strangest combination of pride and humility swelled before him,
intermingled with a bit of gratitude and a whole lot of longing.
He’d known only one part of this beautiful woman—a wonderful part—but reading her words gave him a much clearer picture of
the lady who held his heart.
She was meant for this.
He lowered the pages to his lap and looked out over the garden. Would she be willing to wait for him as long as it took to
earn the funds to become independent? Would she allow him the chance, even if it took a while, to be a part of the story they
lived, instead of just the one she created on paper?
Perhaps he could talk to her father. Take out a loan from the bank or from Ben. He stood. Surely there had to be a way to
change this fate instead of sitting around waiting for something impossible to happen.
Have mercy! Was this what Emme had talked about—the plight of women having to wait for something to happen to them, feeling powerless?
He hated it!
“I approve of the new groom.”
Simon jerked his head toward the house entrance to find Aunt Agatha stepping out onto the veranda, her navy traveling suit billowing like a storm cloud as she approached.
He turned in full, blinking in disbelief.
She had barely been gone a week—what on earth was she doing back at Ravenscross already?
As though reading his thoughts, she declared, “Women of a certain age are not meant to travel so often. Such extravagance
is for the young—or the foolish.” Her sharp gaze swept over the garden before she strode past him and seated herself in his
vacated chair, arranging her skirts with brisk efficiency.
What was she doing here? He’d expected a letter from her, but for her to travel all the way back from London to St. Groves?
Was she so concerned about his welfare? Or, he frowned, about scandal?
“I hadn’t expected you to immediately return upon receiving my letter.”
She turned her head sharply, her brows arching into an expression of withering disapproval. “And I hadn’t thought I would
learn that my nephew’s intended is the subject of local ridicule. A novelist, Simon? Really? No doubt, she’s the laughingstock
of St. Groves.”
Ah, so that was her game. She wanted a fight. Well, she’d picked the right day for it. “The people who matter most are not
laughing at her,” Simon countered smoothly. “And you may be surprised how many of the so-called elite find her resourcefulness
admirable.”
In fact, he’d been stopped just yesterday by Mrs. Cox and Mrs. Sanderson, two stalwarts of the local social scene, who had
confessed their secret delight in Emme’s stories. “How brave she is,” they’d whispered. “How clever.”
Aunt Agatha sniffed. “A blessed few, I should think.” She studied him with an expression that could curdle milk. “You may
have inherited your father’s looks, but it seems you’ve acquired your mother’s poor discernment in choosing a spouse, if I
must judge by your two current offerings.”
His jaw tightened. “And what precisely do you mean by that?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Miss Hemston was a complete disaster, and now you’ve gone and given your heart to an authoress—a woman who kept this shameful secret from you. Why? To trick you into an attachment?”
Simon barked a humorless laugh. “Hardly. She had no idea I intended to propose at the ball. If she had known of my renewed
affection, she would have told me the truth.”
“How convenient,” Aunt Agatha replied, her tone dripping with disdain. “And yet here you are, entangled with someone who brings
neither fortune nor reputation to your already precarious circumstances.”
Simon took a deliberate step closer, his frustration rising. “And what of character, Aunt? Or intellect? Or kindness? Do those
virtues hold no value to you?” He drew a measured breath. “Miss Lockhart is more than her title of authoress, just as I am
more than my father’s son. I will not have her degraded in my presence.”
Her brows lifted at his tone, but she recovered swiftly. “And yet you persist? You will stand by her? Even now? Even when
the world would call you a fool for bringing such a shadow onto an already stained family name?”
He tightened his grip on the manuscript tucked beneath his arm. “I would not only stand by her, but if circumstances permitted,
I would marry her tomorrow and count myself the luckiest man alive.”
“You’re a fool, Simon,” she snapped.
He stepped forward, his body rigid with contained fury. “The sum of a person is far greater than their wealth or name, as
well you know.”
“But both are advantageous—indeed, necessary—in your position. And now, she brings neither.”
The blow only ignited his fury even more. “Are you taunting me, Aunt? I had thought you stern but fair. And yet here you stand,
spouting cruelty as though it were wisdom.”
“Not cruelty. Reality.” She leaned forward, her eyes hard.
“Some choices in life are hard. And you must still make the right ones by putting sentimentality and passion aside for the good of your family. Your father, from the very beginning, chose my sister as his wife for her money alone. And then he proceeded to whittle away at her happiness by moving from whim to whim, disregarding her needs or feelings. Do not follow your passions into ruin, Simon.”
“I am not my father.” His voice rose, startling the sparrows in the hedgerows. “And punishing me for his sins will only lead you to
alienating the only blood relations who truly care for you.” Though his care for her was waning at present. “I love this family
deeply—enough to make sacrifices you cannot imagine. But I will not punish myself—or her—for his sins.”
Something flickered in her expression—recognition, perhaps, or reluctant respect. Before she could respond, a small voice
broke the tension.
“Simon!”
He turned to see Fia sprinting toward him, her dress streaked with mud, her grin wide enough to reveal the fresh gap of a
missing tooth. “Simon!”
His frustration ebbed at the sight of her. “What is it, Fia?”
“I found something,” she called, holding out her fists as she approached.
“Is it—” Aunt Agatha’s voice caught, eyeing the child with visible apprehension. “Is it your little frog?”
Fia blinked over at Aunt Agatha. “He found his family, so I let him go.” She frowned and released a long sigh, looking back
over her shoulder at the creek. “Simon said it was good for frogs to be with their family instead of with humans, and I wanted
Blast to be happy.”
“Then what is that you have in your hand for us?” Aunt Agatha clearly wanted no surprises from her little niece, and with
Fia’s pattern of “rescuing” slimy creatures, it was no wonder. Aunt Aggie was not fond of slimy creatures. In fact, to be
such a strong woman, Simon might even go as far as to say his aunt was a little scared of them.
“Oh.” Fia looked down at her closed fist, and then her face brightened. “This isn’t for you, Aunt Aggie. It’s for Simon.”
Her shoulders relaxed. “Ah, good. Carry on then, darling.”
Something in the woman’s countenance had changed a little. Shifted, but Simon wasn’t certain how to interpret it, and at the
moment, all he wanted to do was leave her alone in the garden with as many slimy creatures as Fia could find. It would serve
her right.
Simon tucked the manuscript beneath his arm and lowered himself to a knee, thankful for the distraction from his aunt’s criticism.
“What have you found, sweetheart?”
She brought her hands closer and turned them over. Simon braced himself for something to jump from her palms as she opened
her fingers to reveal . . . a small pile of muddy quartz in each hand.
“I found two handfuls of diamonds this time, Simon.” Fia placed her two small heaps of muddy quartz into his one open palm.
“That should be enough, don’t you think?”