If nothing else, I feel sure after tonight that Roger is NOT in love with Hetta, and will not venture to speak to her on the subject of courtship. For if he were, the young lady would have made his choice clear–and I feel he would not have spoken of such matters if his heart was already decided.
For when we danced, he spoke in such a way that I am convinced he might be at the crossroads of love, but still safely on the side of caution. Perhaps he is aware of her faithless attachments in the past, and this is the last evening in which I must endeavor to draw his company away.
Then we can go back to the way we were before. Plain, clever Miss Stuart who pens her books in secret; wealthy Lord Easton who is much preoccupied with his father's income and his sister's future.
I wonder if he would have confided in me first last night, had I not caught his attention from the moment I entered the room. Would the sake of our long friendship have been enough for him to seek me out otherwise? I wonder if I had been my ordinary self, with a plain flock and outspoken ideas, if he would he have danced with her first–and spoken words he would regret later. Perhaps he would have pursued the lady without questioning her motives.
My heart cautions me to believe that it was all the little book's doing that he chose me. A skillful concentration of feminine arts, so to speak, that overruled Hetta's natural charms. I should read nothing else into his companionship last evening, not even our past as friends.
Rules for commanding a gentleman's attention, yes. Rules for engagements? No.
My little book might be successful, but with cruel consequences indeed! The white dress and elegant hairstyle were a campaign designed to draw him to my charms without touching his heart. His admiration, like everyone else's, was merely a memory at the end of the evening.
She laid aside her pen and cast her eyes in the direction of the star necklace dangling from her keepsake box. As successful as she should feel after Roger's compliments last night, she had no heart for rejoicing, given her inevitable heartache. A gloom had settled over her, clouds gathering for a storm of emotion that she could ill afford.
She did her best to dispel it with busy work and a carefree smile. Their reverend had promised to drink tea with them during the morning, so she spent the after-breakfast hours consulting with Madge on the details.
"Now, Miss Marianne, have you learned your creed by heart?" Reverend Stanhope quizzed his youngest congregant from the Stuart family. He was a kind-hearted gentleman, but his presence had the profound effect of silence on Marianne.
Since her sister's tongue was tied, Flora smiled as she served him his cup of tea.
"Just before you called this morning, she was quite absorbed in her prayer book," Flora answered. "She reads it quite often; even when she is supposed to be sleeping." This, with a teasing glance in Marianne‘s direction, as her sister’s expression turned guilty.
"She sounds a great deal like you, Miss Stuart," said the reverend. "Was there ever a young lady to give me more trouble! Your mother was quite worried you should never grow out of your fondness for rowdy games and tumbling about."
The thought of childhood games tied Flora's tongue momentarily. The reverend interpreted her silence as a demure response to her embarrassment.
"Now, there's no reason to feel ashamed, for you've not disappointed her," he said. "She would be quite proud to see what you've become." He laughed softly. "I believe that you are as incapable of scandal as your younger sister is of keeping her frock clean."
She was not quite as certain that scandal avoided her path. She dreaded the thought that it might be following her, given her recent actions with her book and with Roger’s romantic interests.
"Have you spoken to Mrs. Phillips since the betrothal of her daughter, Reverend?" inquired Mrs. Fitzwilliam. The lady occupied a great portion of the reverend's sofa, where she pressed him often to take a little more sugar and cream with his tea.
"A happy occasion," he answered. "There is nothing greater than the subject of matrimony, unless it be the entrance of a child into the world."
"I am sure that Miss Phillips is happy to be married?" Flora ventured, sipping her tea.
"Married is married, my dear," laughed Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "As such, I think she would be happy to get anyone, given her age. Twenty-four!"
Her aunt's shocking statement might have provoked anyone but the reverend, who showed every sign of being accustomed to such remarks from the gentlewoman.
"They seem very happy," he answered Flora. "I hope for both their sakes that the attachment is sincere and that they may be much blessed in their union. Both are believers, which means they already have the foundation which is required for such happiness."
"Of course," Flora answered. She dropped her gaze to her teacup, her thoughts suddenly bleaker than before. The reverend's words were true and kindly meant; but with them came the bitter realization of her position. And the circumstances she conspired so recently to control.
When tea was finished and the reverend gone, she donned her cloak and departed for the park, longing to be alone, even with her painful thoughts. Raindrops drifted onto her shoulders in the cool mists as she wrapped the folds more closely around her to protect her thin dress from the weather.
She had no possibility of a future with Roger, yet her actions were those of a young lady in pursuit of a proposal. She had assured herself that Hetta was entirely without feelings for Roger; but if Hetta truly loved Roger–or had at least the possibility of doing so–did she not do wrong by interfering?
Perhaps the rising success of the Harwick name, paired with the fortune of the Eastons, would be a match both prudent and practical in the eyes of society.
As for herself, she believed it was likely that her heart would end up broken before this affair was done. She could not complain, for it was willingly surrendered. Had she not promised herself after her careless actions in the countryside that she would do everything in her power to follow the rules?
Pushing her thoughts aside, she permitted the cool mist to bathe her worried brow. A little regret was no doubt natural, given the nature of her recent endeavors. She would have to be satisfied with a little dullness and pain until the love ache passed.
Ahead was a figure in the pathway, reviewing an open letter as he stood with his back to the hedge. The sound of her footfall made him raise his face, revealing the countenance of Roger Easton.
They stared at each other in surprise for a moment, before he spoke.
"Miss Stuart," he said, his voice flustered. "A pleasure to see you."
"Likewise, sir," she answered. Her voice was all confusion, her manner awkward. Why did he have to be here at the moment she wished most to see no one?
He folded his letter and crammed it in the pocket of his coat. "Allow me to escort you," he said, offering her his arm. "For I believe we are going the same way–if you were planning upon taking a turn about the park."
"Thank you," she said. She took his arm, for there was no excuse for refusing him. They strolled along side by side, exchanging occasional glances which forced her to form a pleasant smile.
"I see you have a letter from a friend," she ventured. "One of your acquaintances from abroad, I hope?"
"It was from my solicitor," he answered. "He believes my father's property may require further attention abroad. It is a tedious matter, I'm afraid."
This subject seemed to explain his subdued face. She switched to another, more cheerful topic.
"I hope you will not be away from us long," she said. "There shall be nothing to amuse Miss Lucy while you are gone. Except for books, of course, and music; but those are not the same as her brother."
"She will have other matters to occupy her mind, I am sure," he said. "No doubt a suitor shall claim her hand; among the many, I hope at least one will not be a fortune hunter." His walking stick struck against the hedges in a gesture of irritation.
"Not all ladies and gentleman pursue matrimony for profit," she ventured. "We do not practice the arts of Advice for Young Ladies for purely mercenary purposes."
He groaned. "For once, I wish never to hear anything more of that little book," he declared. "Is it not enough to toy with hearts, but one must write a whole volume on the subject? I cannot tell you how many young women I have encountered who think of nothing but the advice in that book–who do nothing but think of how best to conquer a gentleman's heart!"
Heat rose in her cheeks. "It is not written for the purpose of playing with hearts, as you believe," she argued. "It is meant to help those who cannot achieve their heart's desire find an easier means of expressing themselves. Being charming is a skill, no different from learning to paint or play the pianoforte."
"For the sake of a fortunate marriage, no doubt," he scoffed. "Even you, Flora, a woman regarded for her intelligence, cannot escape the insipid designs of its pages. The need for every young lady to lower her eyes or wear expensive gowns or fill her hair with feathers–"
She withdrew her arm from his and faced him, her anger too strong to ignore any longer. "Are you implying that I am somehow duped into practicing the book's arts?" she asked. "That I conduct myself in the active pursuit of a gentleman's heart?"
"You are not the only one who believes in its advice," he answered, as if to excuse her. "I am not accusing you of wrongdoing, Miss Stuart–"
"Yes you are," she snapped, "since I am its author!"
The words escaped her so quickly, she had no opportunity to stop them. He stared at her in shock.
"You are its author?" he repeated. A gradual flush creeping into his face. "I did not–" he began. "Had I realized, Miss Stuart–" He stammered, an incredulous expression growing on his face. She could not bear to hear what he would say next.
"Had you realized," she finished, "you would have scorned me already for doing what you find so distasteful. That is what you mean to say." She raised her chin, allowing her anger to flash in her eyes.
He said nothing in reply, but the look on his face spoke volumes to her on the subject.
Her voice was cold as she spoke again. "Good day, Lord Easton.” She turned and walked towards home before he could respond.