Sense and suitability, p.3
Sense and Suitability, page 3
“How gracious of you.” Simon reached for his drink, letting the sharp tang dull his sarcasm. Desperation was an unsavory word—one he loathed to apply to himself. Yet here he was, neck-deep in it.
God help him. That prayer had become his refrain of late. No one else could help him. Not if he wished to save the estate and marry a woman who would accept his family. It would take a miracle, and he wasn’t too certain God had any left to spare for him and his brood.
Simon stood, grateful at least that where Ben bettered him in height, Simon excelled in breadth of shoulders.
“Take heart.” Ben failed to control his grin. “Your somewhat . . . colorful past and current predicament lend you an air of mystery. Ladies will find you a vast deal more alluring. Work up a brooding scowl or two, and you’re nigh irresistible.”
Simon snorted. A scowl? That he could manage. What with a strong-willed brother off fighting the French, a runaway sister, and his three youngest siblings, who were one step shy of feral.
“See, that expression will do quite well.” Ben gestured toward Simon’s face. “The ladies will swoon.”
Simon pinned Ben with a look. “Why are we friends?”
Ben’s laugh echoed off the parlor walls and offered a momentary levity, but the respite was short lived.
The library door creaked open, just wide enough to allow twelve-year-old William space to slip into the room. Pale and thin, the boy’s pallor had the matrons at church constantly murmuring over his health, but since the sun rarely touched the boy’s face, there was no other tint he could possess.
He offered Ben a tentative nod—a small but significant improvement from the last time Ben had visited—before fixing his gaze on Simon.
Simon’s chest tightened. “What is it, Will?”
The boy flinched, shrinking under Simon’s scrutiny. Simon silently cursed himself. Had he been too sharp? Or was William simply that skittish? Perhaps both. He’d been gone far too long, chasing the faintest traces of Arianna while his youngest siblings grieved and floundered without the proper guidance of their eldest brother. Another failure to add to his growing ledger.
“Lottie’s gone missing,” he stammered, his words barely audible. “Mrs. Patterson sent me to fetch you.”
“Not again,” Ben groaned. “Didn’t this happen on my last visit?”
Simon refrained from admitting that Charlotte’s disappearances were a near-daily occurrence. “Which direction did she go?”
William looked away and shrugged. “I w-wasn’t outside.”
Of course not. The boy likely had been sitting by one of the upstairs windows reading or painting. Simon placed a hand on William’s shoulder. “Thank you for letting me know, Will.”
William’s body eased under the touch, and he offered the faintest of smiles. It was enough to cement Simon’s resolve. He’d failed these children before, but no more. In the absence of their parents, he would do whatever it took to protect them. To be a better man.
He had to. There was nothing else for it.
Simon dashed from the room and down the hall, bypassing the grand staircase to his left, the unused ballroom on his right, and the dining room, which now rarely hosted family members, let alone guests. Ben followed on his heels.
At the main back door, Mrs. Patterson awaited them, her apron streaked with mud and her expression one of weary exasperation.
Oh, dear Lord, Simon inwardly prayed. Please don’t let her leave us.
Mrs. Patterson was the linchpin holding their fraying household together, especially in Aunt Agatha’s absence. She’d been steadfast for years, even when Simon’s selfishness before his parents’ deaths might have driven her away. Surely the kindly housekeeper could see his efforts to atone for those past failings, even if they didn’t always manifest in his siblings’ behavior.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Patterson. If I’d been here more regularly—”
“Charlotte had her tendencies before you left, sir.” She sighed and studied Simon for a moment, those clear eyes softening around the edges. “But it’s good you’re here now because the more eyes on this brood, the better.”
Her ready kindness humbled him all the more. She deserved sainthood, without a doubt. “I’m here to stay,” he whispered—the words as much a promise to himself as to her—then stepped back, clearing his throat. “Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”
“I haven’t the foggiest, sir.” Mrs. Patterson wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, glancing down at the muddy smears on her apron without so much as a sigh. “But let us hope it’s not back to Mr. Dean’s stables. Last time she went there, they nearly shot her for trying to ‘rescue’ one of his horses she claimed was being mistreated.”
Simon drew in a breath and cast a glance to Ben from his periphery. His friend’s look of confusion twisted into a slight hue of horror. A legitimate assessment for someone who hadn’t lived through the last few months learning the idiosyncrasies of the lot.
Lottie had gone positively wild since their mother’s death, and Arianna’s disappearance had only exacerbated her defiance. It was as though Lottie aimed to challenge the entire world.
Beyond the back door, the late-morning skyline stretched before Simon—a pine forest to the left, pastures rolling out to the right, and the Hemston property abutting their land at the far edge. Somewhere past these familiar boundaries lay St. Groves, quiet and indifferent to his mounting struggles.
“Miss Sophia is in the water puddles with the dogs again.” Mrs. Patterson looked up at him, holding his gaze. “This time, she’s catching frogs and refuses to come inside to be bathed.”
Ben’s horror must have worn off because he chuckled . . . fueling Simon’s growing headache.
“I believe Miss Sophia knows exactly where her sister went and is disinclined to share the information, my lord.”
Simon’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Is she?” He eyed the overgrown garden, already suspecting the answer.
“But you have a way with her, sir.” Mrs. Patterson’s voice gentled. “She wants to please you.”
The statement warmed a knotted spot in Simon’s chest. Could he have some good influence on these children yet? It wasn’t too late to redirect whatever path they currently were careening down, was it?
He gave Mrs. Patterson a grateful nod and strode into the garden, a tangled expanse of greenery that once flourished under his mother’s loving care. The scene was too much like his own life at the moment to linger on the view.
As Simon reached the nearest bend in the garden path, his gaze fell upon the central fountain, a pair of stone swans poised in eternal embrace. Beyond it, a familiar cascade of wild curls peeked out from behind a cluster of flowering shrubs. Fair hair. Sophia was the only child with such a hue, so like their mother’s.
A sudden pang tightened his chest. Grief had an uncanny way of rising at the most inconvenient moments. He refused to succumb to the pull and stepped toward the shrubs. “Fia?” His tone of voice wasn’t as gentle as he’d hoped, so he tried again. “Fia, love?”
Perhaps adding the “love” helped a little. Mother always seemed to respond with a smile on the rare occasions Father used it.
Rounding the fountain, Simon found the five-year-old crouched beside the stream, a wriggling frog clutched triumphantly in one mud-streaked hand while the other absently patted Dodger, the ever-loyal hound. Fia had practically lived outside all summer, and even as the season waned, his fairy-sister kept to her routine of earth and sky. Her focus remained fixed on the frog as though the rest of the world had simply melted away.
“Fia,” he repeated, and this time she looked up at him, her round face lighting with a toothless grin.
Variations of plant life stuck from the little girl’s curls, giving off the appearance of Medusa’s snakes. Mud smudged her cheeks, her neck, and the once-white pinafore over her dress.
Perhaps William’s look of terror was founded, especially with such sisters.
In fact, the longer Simon lived, the more terrifying women became.
“Simon, I found diamonds.” The sweet voice doused some of his ire—the toothless grin probably helped too. “Come see.”
The exasperation knotting his chest unraveled slightly. He counted to ten in the steps it took to make it to her side. How could he blame her? She barely remembered their parents, so the fault for her behavior lay completely on his shoulders.
He was beginning to think his shoulders were not so broad after all.
He knelt beside her. “Show me, lamb.”
The endearment somehow had her edging nearer, or perhaps it was the fact she wanted him there. Close?
“Do you see?” She pointed eagerly to a cluster of quartz glinting beneath the water’s surface. “Aren’t they lovely?”
“They are quite lovely.”
“Do you think they can help us pay for the blasted repairs?” She blinked those piercing brown eyes up at him.
The mixture of her repeating his “blasted repairs” sentiment paired with the desire to find a way to help mend their home took all words from his mind. In fact, his throat closed with more emotion than he cared to contemplate.
He lowered his head and swallowed—gathering himself—and then gentled a palm against her shoulder while ignoring the frog, which appeared to be wrestling for its life. “You are so kind and clever, but I’m afraid these particular types of diamonds will not be able to help us.”
A frown pulled at her bottom lip.
“But,” he added quickly, somehow finding his smile, “they’d make a fine addition to the library table. What do you say I help you collect them after we’ve found Charlotte?”
Her eyes brightened. “You would help me?”
His mind reared against the request. He didn’t have time. Not with all he needed to do, but the hope in her eyes proved his undoing. “Yes, but only after we find your sister.”
Sigh. Yet another sister to find.
She rewarded him with a double-dimpled grin. “She went that way on her pony.” Fia pointed toward the north fields. “But the pony wasn’t behaving, so she was fussing at him. Blasted ponies!”
A snort of laughter erupted from behind him, but Simon resolutely ignored Ben’s amusement.
“Thank you, Fia.” Simon gave the girl a kiss on the one clean spot on her forehead and stood, turning to Ben. “You really don’t have to stay.”
Ben didn’t take the hint. “I’ve grown accustomed to looking for lost people when I visit you, Ravenscross.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Besides, it’s the most adventure I’ve had all week.”
And to think Simon used to grow bored on nice, quiet days.
Foolish man. Quiet, uneventful days sounded positively divine.
Simon shot Ben a glare before setting off at a clipped pace in the direction Fia had indicated. Fortunately, not a half hour into the walk, Charlotte and her pony came into view as the thirteen-year-old rode back toward home.
With a great deal of effort, Simon curbed his inner fury.
“Did you really have to come looking for me?” she called out as they approached. “I wasn’t even a mile away.”
Her unrepentant response did little to assist his self-control. “How many times have I told you that you cannot leave the house without alerting someone to your whereabouts?”
Her chin came up, those fiery brown eyes narrowing. “I told Fia.”
“Fia is five,” Simon retorted, stepping forward to meet her and the pony. “You must inform an adult, Charlotte. I am responsible for your safety.”
“No one’s safe here,” she shot back. “And I’ve been doing fine on my own while you’ve been away. Someone needed to look after the younger children.”
Her words struck a nerve, their truth undeniable. She had been forced to grow up too quickly. Even with Aunt Agatha’s guidance, the weight of responsibility had fallen far too heavily on Lottie’s young shoulders.
He shouldn’t have gone after Arianna—certainly not for so long. The youngest three had needed him. But well, to be honest, he hadn’t known what to do. Perhaps he’d run away as much out of cowardice in facing his impossible future as to find his ruined sister.
“I am here now,” Simon replied, his tone firm. “And I expect you to inform an adult when you leave the house.”
“I am not a prisoner,” she snapped. “You don’t ask William or Teddy to report their whereabouts.”
“William never leaves the house and Teddy is a grown man,” Simon countered, though not certain if the military had reformed or exacerbated his younger brother’s rambunctious ways. “I’ve already failed by losing one sister, Lottie. Do you wish to cause me to lose a second?”
He hadn’t meant to voice the words. They’d slipped out before he’d even thought them. But he felt them. Every single day he felt them. Arianna’s disappearance haunted him, like so many of the other failings flashing before him.
Charlotte’s defiance faltered, her expression softening just enough to show she’d understood. She was too perceptive by half, her awareness far beyond any other thirteen-year-old’s. He had to be more controlled. More careful. The burden was his. Not hers.
Simon shook his head, needing to shift the subject. “Where were you headed anyway?”
Her chin tilted once more, though the fire in her eyes dimmed slightly. “Lord Hemston’s son has archery lessons on Tuesday afternoons. I’ve watched every one.”
“You ride your pony to watch Lord Hemston’s son’s archery lessons every Tuesday?”
Ben feigned a cough to cover his laugh.
“How else am I to learn? You won’t teach me,” she said with a pointed look.
“I promised to teach you when you got older.” However, he inwardly winced at the unfulfilled pledge.
“You always say that,” she replied coolly, nudging her pony forward. “But it never happens. Someday I shall dress as a boy and join a hunt myself. Then I’ll learn.”
She rode past as if she hadn’t heightened Simon’s concern to near implosion.
“By the way, the sheep are getting out over the back fence into Lord Hemston’s pasture.” She tossed a haughty smile over her shoulder, her dark hair fluttering loose in the breeze. “I thought you’d want to know.”
Lord, help me. He wanted to throttle her.
If Simon’s shoulders could have descended any farther while he stood upright, they would have. He couldn’t continue living life like this—for his own sake as well as for his siblings’.
As if reading his internal thoughts, Ben stepped up beside him and exhaled audibly. “You need a wife, Simon.” Ben shook his head and studied Lottie’s retreating frame as if the girl had taken on terrifying qualities. “Or her money, at the very least.” He met Simon’s gaze. “You really have no choice.”
Chapter 3
Simon was back?
Emmeline’s throat squeezed in a breath as she ushered all her strength to maintain a neutral expression. Simon.
Her heart pitched again. Perhaps if she stopped referring to him as Simon, it would help. “Lord Ravenscross” felt suitably distant—less personal, less capable of conjuring a roguish smile or tender look. She had thought herself well on the path to conquering her feelings, of moving beyond him, but the mere prospect, after all this time, of seeing him across a ballroom or theater sent her composure to tatters.
Her fingers pinched around her book to the cramping point.
“I have already encouraged your father to purchase a subscription to the season, particularly to the fancy balls.” Aunt Bean smiled, or so Emme thought, but Aunt Bean’s smiles never seemed to understand the full intention. “Eighteen this year.”
Eighteen? Emme wrenched her thoughts from striking blue eyes and shattering humiliation to focus on her aunt’s words. Eighteen fancy balls? She had barely survived the ten she’d attended last year, and that had been when Simon wasn’t even present. The thought of enduring such a parade of insipid introductions, relentless chatter, and suffocating crowds—this time with Simon likely among them—was enough to wither her to the floor.
Surely there weren’t even enough eligible men in St. Groves to warrant so many balls.
Perhaps if she managed to offend everyone by the fifth ball, she could graciously bow out of the rest, leaving Aster to secure the next family wedding.
“We will succeed, Emmeline Lockhart, if it is the last thing I do.” Aunt Bean’s penetrating gaze locked onto hers, as if the sheer force of her will could extract all resistance. And despite the chill running up Emme’s arms at the sight, she realized she’d just uncovered marvelous inspiration for a new character in her latest novel.
The readers would be duly terrified.
Thomas, bless him, stepped forward as if to intervene in the hypnotic moment. But a noise from behind turned everyone’s attention toward the hall, where Emme’s father attempted to disappear into his study through the back stair.
“John, is that you?” Aunt Bean’s voice sliced through the air with the precision of an expert arrow, freezing Father mid-step.
Father turned, eyes as wide as a barn owl’s, brown brows quivering upward. He paused, sent a longing look toward his study door, and then, with a deep breath that straightened his entire body, he turned.
“Bina, you’ve come already?” He failed to add any surprise in his tone.
“Of course I’ve come.” Aunt Bean also failed to notice. “How could I not, given your evident desperation?”
Desperation? Even Emme, whose situation could be charitably described as precarious, found the word overly dramatic, but the drama appeared to work wonders to encourage a deepening of the wrinkles around Father’s eyes. He blinked behind his spectacles, and Aunt Bean took that as her cue for clarification.
“We have no time to lose. Emme has already endured two failed seasons, complete with public humiliation at the hands of a rake, and she is nearly twenty with no prospects in sight.”
