Sense and suitability, p.18
Sense and Suitability, page 18
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, his typical smile restored from his previous agitation with her. She loved that about him. He rarely held grudges. It was an excellent characteristic for a clergyman.
“How providential to encounter you this morning, Miss Lockhart,” he teased. “I had imagined you at home, preparing for your grand strawberry-picking adventure.”
Her smile flared. “Lord Ravenscross’s carriage isn’t meant to collect me for a few hours yet, so I thought I’d indulge in a little shopping beforehand.”
“Making wise use of the spoils of your success, no doubt?” He fell into step beside her, his dark hat casting a shadow over his fair hair.
“There’s a certain satisfaction in making purchases with my own money, I must say.” She couldn’t repress her smile. It brimmed to the point of pinching her cheeks. “Not something bestowed upon me as an inheritance, but wholly mine.”
“And there’s much more where that came from, cousin-dearest. You are on your way to becoming an independent woman, should you wish it.”
She stumbled slightly, the words jarring her. Independent? Such a notion required substantial resources. She had dreamed of it in some distant, uncertain future, but surely not yet. “How . . . how much do I have?”
“Ah, so you do wish to know,” he said, his eyes gleaming. For nearly a year, she’d refused to let him tell her, preferring to imagine the modest profits of her books without confronting specifics. It felt less humbling.
“I financed it as I advised, and it has been an excellent investment.” His grin crooked. “You currently have over three thousand pounds in the funds.”
Emme stopped walking altogether. “Three thousand pounds?”
“In the funds, yes.” There was no mistaking the pride in his eyes. She almost hugged him there on the street.
“That’s over one hundred fifty per annum in income, and the principal continues to grow. It’s not enough to live as you are accustomed, but it is certainly a handsome sum.”
Three thousand pounds? What on earth had Thomas done with those investments? Her mind reeled. One hundred fifty pounds a year might not rival her current lifestyle, but it was hers. Hers alone. With careful economizing, she could live on it—and on her own terms.
“And since you haven’t taken the interest as income,” he added, “I’ve reinvested it to increase your holdings. You should be proud, Emme.”
“Proud?” she repeated, a laugh bursting from her lips. “I suppose I am.” She pressed a hand to her cheek, trying to take it all in. “It’s remarkable. This brings my little stories to life in a way I never imagined, more so even than holding the first bound copy in my hands. And yet . . .” She shook her head. “I cannot share this with anyone but you.”
“Which is why I bring my highest enthusiasm.”
That something she had chosen to do for the sheer delight of it could yield such an outcome was extraordinary. Of course the income depended upon her continued writing, but for the first time, her future didn’t seem quite so dim. If she didn’t marry, she had a real prospect of independence.
On her own.
Which meant she had greater freedom to marry for love instead of desperation or expectation. “How ironic,” Emme mused. “That this success, which should be a source of pride, could very well ruin my family’s reputation. What if it jeopardizes Aster’s chances for a suitable marriage? And my father—imagine his reaction to learning that his eldest daughter not only earns a living but does so by writing Gothic romances! He can scarcely endure the contents of the scandal sheets most days.”
“Times are changing,” Thomas said gently. “There are more women—even among the gentry—who are finding their way behind a pen. Perhaps, in time, you won’t need to remain a clandestine authoress.”
She offered him a skeptical look but didn’t argue.
He reached into his coat pocket and drew out an envelope. “But the reason I caught you this morning . . .” He offered her the envelope. “From Danbury and Sons, sending their own praise, I believe.”
She took the envelope with a smile, the flush of pleasure warming her cheeks, and had just opened her mouth to thank Thomas when a third party entered their conversation.
“Good morning to you both.” Miss Selena Hemston’s voice was as sweet as honey, but there was no sweetness in her eyes.
She stepped forward in an exquisitely tailored burgundy walking suit, the fabric shimmering in the sunlight. Her cream spencer jacket, embroidered with burgundy threads up the sleeves, marked her as one of the wealthiest unmarried women in St. Groves. The ensemble was designed for one purpose: to be noticed.
Especially when Emme, in contrast, wore a simple muslin dress and her two-year-old broad-collared pelisse coat. It was a lovely shade of green, Aster had insisted, but even the most charitable would never mistake it for the height of fashion.
“Is it not a lovely day for a stroll in town?” Miss Hemston inquired, as if she hadn’t already decided the answer for herself.
Emme, ever careful not to judge too hastily, nonetheless knew Miss Hemston all too well. They had known each other for years, but not as friends. No, their acquaintance was forged in the social circles of St. Groves—always at a polite distance, as dictated by their differing stations.
“An excellent one, indeed,” Thomas agreed, bowing slightly. “Perfect for a morning stroll.”
“And intimate conversation, it would appear.” Her dark gaze shifted between Emme and Thomas, a serpentine glimmer shining in their depths.
“Pardon?” A warning knot coiled in Emme’s stomach. Miss Hemston had never been one for idle chat with those she deemed beneath her.
“Do not look so surprised, Miss Lockhart,” Selena cooed, her lips curling into something like a smile, though there was little warmth in it. “I couldn’t help but notice how enraptured Miss Lockhart was by your conversation, Mr. Bridges. And exchanging letters? How mysterious. I believe I even overheard the word clandestine?”
Emme’s blood ran cold. The impertinence of the woman knew no bounds. Any person of respectability would know better than to eavesdrop on an unsuspecting conversation. She sighed inwardly, the memory of her own recent eavesdropping experience still fresh.
Why had neither she nor Thomas considered the risks of conversing in public at this hour? Midmorning in St. Groves was prime gossip time, when the eyes and ears of the town were most alert to any new “information.”
Emme glanced at Thomas, who, ever the diplomat, was already smoothing over the situation with a charming smile.
“I do feel as though every personal visit must seem rather clandestine in my new role as rector of Lemmingston,” he said smoothly, but sent Emme a knowing glance. No, Thomas was not fooled by Miss Hemston’s charm. “I am often required to act on others’ schedules, rather than my own, as you can imagine.”
“So you write secret letters to Miss Lockhart, is it?” The sauciness in Miss Hemston’s tone stiffened Emme’s spine for a rebuttal, but Thomas took control.
“Of course not.” He chuckled. “A mutual acquaintance of ours, whom I happened to encounter in London last week, asked me to deliver a letter to my dear cousin. I was simply discharging my duties.”
“None of my cousins have ever inspired such affection in me as I witnessed between the two of you.” Her gazes switched between them, one slim brow slowing rising northward. “Incredibly warm . . . loving.”
“Then I’m sad for you, Miss Hemston. It is a remarkable privilege to find friendship and encouragement in one’s cousins.” Emme took Thomas’s controlled lead. “And I might add that if you wish to benefit from Mr. Bridges’ encouragement, he excels in both wit and words, which are often on display in his sermons. Should you wish to observe them in a more public setting, rather than through the lens of an overheard and private conversation.”
The slight downturn of Miss Hemston’s lips was the only indication that she had caught the reproof.
“I believe you’re right, Miss Lockhart. I’ve neglected a proper study of your cousin.” She bit into the word. “Especially if he brings . . . intrigue along with him.” She waved a gloved hand toward the buildings nearby. “In such a quaint town as this, one is always in search of occupation.”
And with that, she dipped her chin with a coy smile that left Emme’s face cool, then sauntered away.
“I’m sorry for my timing.” Thomas stepped up beside Emme once Miss Hemston retreated. “I should have been more tactful in my choice of when and where to speak with you.”
“Do not worry yourself, Thomas.” Miss Hemston disappeared around the side of Moss’s Apothecary Shop. “I daresay Miss Hemston has little need or desire to bother herself with two people so beneath her.”
“Hmm . . .” His response pulled her attention. “I’ve heard enough about Miss Hemston to not underestimate her desire for information or need for importance. Those who are seeking attention will find ways to obtain it.” He held Emme’s gaze. “There are some people in life who are merely waiting to be baited to become an adversary. Don’t underestimate her.”
Chapter 14
“I appreciate you staying behind from the strawberry patches to assist me, Will.” Simon sent his brother a smile as they rode across the field, the afternoon sun warming them against the slight chill of the wind.
“I’m happy to . . . be of help to you, Simon.” Will gave a small nod, his dark hair tossed beneath his hat as they kept a leisurely pace, allowing room for conversation.
“You’re a great help. Not only is this your home, but I could do with another opinion or two on the matter of tenants.”
