“You can only start where you are.” He put a challenge in his voice.
“It is easy for you, Soren. You are male.”
He feigned concern. “Did no one tell Maria Edgeworth only males should write? Perhaps we should notify her. She must cease. And are there not a half-dozen women penning novels?”
“Not even that number. See what I mean? You challenge me to do something that is not easy.”
“Ah, so, it is the easy life you wish?”
She released her breath in a huff. “You are impossible. Look, the driver is signaling we are ready to go.” She spun on her heel and started back. He fell in step beside her. She braced herself for more of his “encouragement.”
He wisely kept his counsel to himself.
However, once they were back on the road, she touched the book beside her on the seat as if just the cover could give her insight.
She’d never considered writing herself. Important people wrote books.
Furthermore, now was not the time to start. Who would want to read anything written in Cornwall? London was the center of the world, and yet, Miss Edgeworth wasn’t from London. Neither were several other female writers.
Had it been Soren’s purpose to make her question herself? If so, he had succeeded.
And, yes, it would be lovely to accomplish as important a task as writing something that could make people’s hearts feel or their minds think.
She looked to her husband. He studied the view outside the window. “I’ve never seen Pentreath Castle,” she admitted.
“Ever? It’s a landmark.”
“Not to a Holwell.”
“Oh, yes, the dreaded feud.” He shook his head as he did whenever he thought she’d been overly sheltered.
“That and because I haven’t been back to Cornwall in years.”
“Fortunately, little of it has changed,” he assured her. “I was gone longer than you were and all was right as I’d left it. Especially Pentreath. Parts of it haven’t changed since the days when it was the guardian of the moors against invaders from the east and the north. I believe you will be well pleased with the house.”
“Do you think your mother will be pleased with our marriage?”
“I couldn’t say.”
When she was younger, Cassandra had often seen the Dowager Lady Dewsberry out and about, although they had never spoken. “I rarely saw you and your mother together. Are you close?”
“My mother is...” He paused, shrugged, and obviously changed his mind over what he’d been about to say. “Her family is from Hertfordshire. She doesn’t like Cornwall, either. The two of you will have something in common.”
She leaned against her corner. “Because we don’t embrace whatever you wish us to?”
“Cass—” he started, but she cut him off.
“Soren, be fair.”
“About?”
She made an impatient noise. “You are a survivor. You do whatever must be done whether it was going to Canada, giving up your commission, or marrying for money.”
“What does this happen to do with my mother?”
“It means that you may not be able to understand a person’s resistance to an idea.”
“Such as being trundled off to Cornwall?”
