Papa glowered at me. “Then, uncomplicate it.”
I adopted the same carefree tone John Mason, my brother-in-law, often employed. “What I meant to say is though thestoryis complicated, the solution is simple and easy enough to explain. However, before I go into the details, I have to tell you the most exciting news. While in Quillsbury at that darling bookshop we both adore, I discovered a copy of Shakespeare’s first quarto! It was in prime condition with not so much as a bent corner. Of course, I had to buy it for our collection, but I will need an advance in my allowance to repay Tabitha. I think we should have a glass case made for it. I—”
“Arabella,” Papa interrupted. “You said you had a simple solution.”
“Yes, but I thought you would want to hear about the first quarto.”
“Shakespeare is well enough, but my daughter’s future means more to me than any rare book.”
I blew out my breath. So much for an attempt to lighten the atmosphere in this cramped room. Papa would not be as easy to convince as I had thought. I folded my arms across my chest. This was my doing, and I had to hold my ground. “Since I am content writing books and keeping my own company, I really cannot see why marriage is so important at this time. I propose that I marry neither of them.”
“Try again,” Papa said.
I ground my teeth together. It was a wild shot, but I was not surprised I had missed completely. “Then I will marry Mr. Clodwick.”
“Wrong.”
I huffed. If he could be angry, then I could be too. “I cannot marry Mr. Ashworth.” That name again. It flew out like a curse word.
“And why not?”
“Because . . . because I cannot.” How could I explain how horrible all our childhood interactions had been? It would not be substantial evidence to a man as intelligent as Papa that a marriage between Rowan and me was doomed to destroy my spirits for all of eternity. I grasped for the only argument that Papa might understand. “I cannot marry a man who does not share the same taste in literature as I do.”
Papa groaned. “He adores books as much as anyone, and I daresay he likes the very same ones as you. I thought you were a sensible woman, Arabella, but the last quarter hour has made me question if I even know my own daughter. A husband and wife can be perfectly happy without sharing the same passions.”
He was right. It was a silly excuse, but it was the only one I felt comfortable sharing. I gripped the desk’s edge, refusing to back down. “You have read some of his criticisms. He thinks he knows everything there is to know about a book. The man is conceited.”
“My dear, you also do not know all there is to know about a book. Perhaps if you spend time together, your perspective will improve his literary analysis.”
“Perhaps,” I agreed. “But I would rather focus on improving my relationship with Mr. Clodwick.”
Papa rubbed his temples. “You cannot tell me that you care for that imbecilic man out there, for I would not believe you. Why, he’s nearly twice your age.”
“He’s not more than fifteen years my senior. He cannot help that he appears older than he is.”
Papa stared at me. “I believe you have made my point for me.”
His words hurt deeply, but they also prompted me to defend myself. “You can insult him all you want. He is currently the man most capable of bringing me happiness.” No man could ever do that completely, so Iwas not lying. This was a path to gaining my independence in the only way I knew how. Besides, he had not seen Harriet at tea last month. He had no idea how altered she had become. The wrong marriage had power to cripple an otherwise healthy individual.
Papa’s features marginally softened. “Happiness is not a guarantee.”
He was right. And that’s why I wrote stories where I could control the ending. What would I do if that was taken away from me? “Please, Papa. Let me marry him.”
He moved away from his desk to the small window overlooking the side yard and pushed back the blue velvet drapes to gaze upon the green expanse of yard. “Since Mr. Ashworth has earned my approval but has yet to speak to you, and since Mr. Clodwick has yet to gain my approval, I suppose neither engagement is entirely official. I will grant you a portion of your wish. I will give you the chance to convince me that Clodwick is better for you than Ashworth. You have two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” I wanted to balk at the impossibility of my situation. It would be like convincing a cat to prefer cheese over a mouse. Clodwick was decent enough on paper, but he did have a few idiosyncrasies that were hard to explain . . . such as his preoccupation with ghosts. I had not had time to come to terms with it myself.
Papa shook his head. “Two weeks is generous. I do not think I can keep the neighbors from discovering this wretched situation should I extend even a day more.”
Well enough for him to say. Papa was particularly fond of Rowan! “Is my partiality not sufficient?” I pinched myself to keep from admitting to myself that I was actually more attracted to Rowan, because I was weighing qualities that mattered.
His eyes turned to steel. “You raced to your sister’s house the moment you learned Ashworth was coming for you. It does not take muchdiscernment to discover that you lost all your good sense and threw yourself at Mr. Clodwick.”
All my clever planning and Papa had deduced it to be an act of madness in a mere few sentences. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps Rowan brought out the worst in me. If that were the case, then I would not need the entirety of two weeks to convince Papa—Rowan would revert to his vexing self and prove how horrible he was himself.
I left his study seething, my eyes on the wood floor as my feet slapped against it with each fuming step. My shoulder hit someone, and I looked up to see I had bumped into Mr. Ashworth just outside the drawing room.
My heart did a somersault in my chest. Drat! If only I had waited in the study for one measly minute longer.
