Chapter 11
Rowan
Iwoke up with a sick feeling in my gut. I stared at the now familiar burgundy canopy above my bed, squeezing my eyes shut to block out the memories of last night crowding my vision. This wasn’t indigestion. It was much worse. It was guilt. Guilt for being attracted to Arabella in Quillsbury. Guilt for losing my temper when she had acted out of sheer desperation to protect herself from me. Guilt for arguing with her and then thinking she was adorable in her haphazard state last night.
Yesterday had been a colossal mess. It was never good to start an argument when one was tired, for things were always clearer in the morning. Painfully clear, in my case. I was still frustrated with the situation I had found myself in, but I was not livid like I was last night. Nor was I dreaming that Arabella would think fondly on our time in Quillsbury, forget the years of my adolescent teasing, and throw herself in my arms.
Because that would never happen.
Ever.
I flopped the pillow beside me over my head to muffle my audible groan.
Miss First Page was really Arabella. The little string bean from my childhood. How had I missed it? I should have at least recognized those mesmerizing blue eyes! Of course she hadn’t recognized me. I had been a late bloomer, not shooting up until I was nearly sixteen. It wasn’t untilI was nineteen that I had grown my last inch. Around then my baby face had started to thin, and my jawline had taken a definitive shape.
Now Arabella . . . there was a transformation. I tore the pillow off my face, revealing the burgundy canopy once more. There were traces of her youthful self that I could now identify, but she was a butterfly with stunning wings now. If God had wanted me to regret how poorly I had treated her when we were younger, I was certainly getting my comeuppance now.
Not that we had always been enemies. We had been courteous enough toward each other until Mama died. Then I no longer wanted to be nice to the little girl Mama had wanted me to grow up to marry. Arabella had come to see us with her family after the funeral wearing Mama’s gold chain with the single pearl medallion—the one Mama had gifted her on her previous visit. It made me so angry to see it on her neck.
Now I wondered if it was because Mama had not left me something so significant. Regardless, I had needed someone to take my anger out on that day. I still remember that vivid moment as a grieving eight-year-old—the day I yelled at Arabella and changed our relationship forever. She had tried to follow me to a fort my friends and I had built, and I desperately needed to be left alone.
I sat up and swung my legs over the side of my bed, the reasons for my annoyance with the child version of Arabella stacking together like neat blocks. I hadn’t liked her and her sisters visiting after that. Their feminine presence, their sweet smells, their dainty manners. They all reminded me of my missing mother. But no one more than Arabella.
It was generally just Papa and me at the dinner table the rest of the year, until we visited Elmhurst or the Delafield’s visited us. And before I knew it, it had become a habit to argue with that vexing little string bean. Her own role in the situation had not helped. She was no mollycoddle, andI had a list of offenses she had committed back to me. Undoubtedly, I deserved every single one. Though she had certainly earned a few herself.
But that was no excuse now. We weren’t children anymore. We were mature adults capable of reasoning together.
Blast. I was going to have to apologize, wasn’t I?
She had been right to say I was not a gentleman last night. I should have held my tongue instead of lashing out at her without an iota of restraint. But would she listen if I tried to apologize? I didn’t know about this adult version of her, but the string bean I once knew would not be thrilled about having a conversation with me after an argument.
A letter would have to suffice. I would express myself better on paper while avoiding any opportunity for an argument to spring up between us again.
I dug out my writing box from my trunk and fished out a piece of paper. Sitting at the small desk by the window, I tapped my bottom lip with my finger until the right words came.
Dear . . .
I paused. How did I address her? Casually or formally? Should I call her String bean? Would that make her laugh or cry? I had no idea what was offensive or nostalgic between us. Perhaps her full name would be best.
Dear Miss Arabella Delafield,
Please forgive me for being a dunce and not treating you as I should have. I’ve never courted anyone before, and I am botching it terribly. Someone as lovely and refined as you deserves the best. I know I am far from that, but I promise to do right by you if you give me the chance.
I paused, wondering how to sign it. Apologies, Rowan. Yours hopefully, Rowan. Sincerely, Rowan.
Gah! They were all terrible. Forget it. I wouldn’t sign it at all. I had sacrificed enough pride to write as much as I did. I folded the parchment until it was small enough to fit in my hand and sealed it with a wafer. On the back side, I scrawled her name: Miss Delafield.
By the time Hastings arrived at my room, I was already half dressed. He selected a dark cravat and insisted on tying it in a more fashionable knot. After last night, it would take much more than a cravat to keep Arabella’s attention.
On the way to breakfast, I shoved the letter in my waistcoat pocket. A household never woke at the same time, but as a continuation of my poor luck, the entire family filled the breakfast room—including a grim-faced Mr. Clodwick. Arabella would not so much as glance my way, and there was no opportunity to speak to her or secretly pass her my note.
After breakfast, I excused myself first. I waited in the corridor with my back against the wall for the family to come out. If she came out alone, it would be easy to hand her the note, but if she came out with someone else, I would not have the courage to give it to her.
I propped one leg against the wall behind me and strummed my fingers on the wall. Finally, the door opened. Mrs. Delafield stepped out. “Did you eat enough at breakfast?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She reached out and put her hand on my arm. “I know things became a little chaotic yesterday, but I am so glad you’re here. We’re rooting for you.” She gave me a little wink and walked away.
