But Mr Philip Merivale was no gentleman.
Arabella blushed as the image of his tanned, sweaty arms invaded her memory. Followed by a feeling of deeply burning shame. What was it he’d said?
That she was the last person he’d hire.
She felt an ice-cold stab deep down. For he’d confirmed what she’d feared her entire life. That besides her lofty, noble status, she had nothing to offer to this world.
Arabella, the duke’s daughter, was pretty, had a good figure, a fair head with curls that curled in the proper places, the aristocratic Ashmore nose and forehead, a pleasant smile, and graceful demeanour. Thetonconsidered her to be a diamond of the first water. She could wear a hemp sack, and it would look perfect on her. She was accomplished in all the arts that a duke’s daughter was expected to be accomplished in.
She was, in one word: boring.
One warm summer afternoon, as she was having tea with her friend and sister-in-law Lucy on the veranda, Arabella had realised what was the matter. She’d opened an éclair and stared at the sugary, hard shell. It was empty inside.
This is my life.The thought jolted through her.This is me. A hard-sugar shell. And inside: nothing.
She crumbled the éclair between her fingers to fine dust. A gust of wind puffed the sugar dust away. There was nothing left.
Beads of sweat had formed on her upper lip. There was Lucy, chattering on and on about London and the theatre, while she was experiencing the deepest existential dilemma.
Me. What about me?
Then, even more terrifying was the question:Who am I?
Arabella felt a black mass stir inside her. It made her want to scream. Like so often in life, she’d ignored it and swallowed her feelings.
When her eyes had fallen on the newspaper advertisement announcing a position as governess in faraway Cornwall, Arabella thought that that would save her.
Run away. Reinvent yourself.
Find yourself.
Prove to herself and the world that she was more than an empty sugar shell.
And that was why she’d taken the stagecoach to Cornwall.
A fat raindropsplattering on her nose tore her out of her reveries. Where had those rain clouds come from? Where was she? She had to return to the village inn to catch the stagecoach to Launceston. Then on to Bath. Back to Miss Hilversham. Beg her to take her in and to help her obtain a proper position as a governess. Maybe she could teach there. Like Birdie, who, after a short stint as a governess, had returned to teach at the seminary. The thought of seeing her old friend again made her quicken her pace.
A tremendous boom of thunder rolled through the sky, making her jump.
And then the rain came.
Chapter 5
Philip Merivale prided himself on being a cheerful, even-tempered man who acted fairly towards his fellow human beings. He also liked to think that he was capable of maintaining his cool in even the most challenging circumstances.
Had he panicked when the two hundred fifty cannons of Napoleon’s Grand Battery spewed fire, death, and destruction right at them?
He had not.
Philip had stood his ground, gnashed his teeth and stuffed cotton wads into his ears before he charged with his Baker rifle. The rest of the slaughter was a blur of mud, smoke, blood, and scorched flesh. He’d served in Captain Eversleigh’s Light Company of the 2ndBattalion, Coldstream Guards. Miraculously, he’d survived the blasted war. His comrades, including the captain, did not. He’d never gotten over the guilt of being the only survivor in his company. If it hadn’t been for his rambunctious three children, he would’ve gone mad with guilt and grief. As a freshly widowed father, he had no time to dwell on the war. He had a family to care for. So, he’d pushed the memory of war aside as best as he could and focused on the present. Which worked, most of the time.
His time with the Guards led him to think of himself as a man who never made any unreasonable decision born out of a choleric disposition.
Ergo, it bothered him considerably that he’d just cast out a young woman in a fit of unreasonable temper, simply because she was of noble stock.
That wasn’t like him.
Philip moodily stirred the pot of blackberry jam. He should be working on his newest invention instead of hiding away in the kitchen, but he couldn’t focus. He’d discovered that making jam usually helped him get his mind back to what was essential. As a result, they had more jars of blackberry jam in their pantry than they could possibly eat.
