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But one simple request: might I meet my future wife first?

Charles

Charles lowered the letter, then looked at Mother. “This was not obvious enough to be taken in jest?”

“You were so convincing,” Mother said defensively. “And seemed so serious.”

“When have I ever been serious in my life?”

“Calm down, son,” Father said reprovingly. “I also read the letter and was convinced of your earnestness.”

“As was I,” Mr. Oakley stated.

“And I,” Mrs. Oakley agreed.

“That’s wonderful,” Charles said with a shake of his head. “I’m relieved to hear my personal correspondence with my mother is being shared for all to partake.”

“It did pertain to them, son,” Mother said with a sigh, as if Charles was the one being unreasonable.

He looked at Miss Oakley, expecting her to be embarrassed. Humiliated, even. He knew he would be, if he were in her position—ready to sign his life away to a person, only to find out that person had to be tricked into agreeing to the marriage.

But to his surprise, she remained stoic, still, and watchful.

“Did you read the letter?” he asked.

“I did.”

“And…”

“And, what?”

Heavens, she was the least forthcoming person he had ever spoken to. “And did you think I was serious?”

“I did not have any reason to believe otherwise.”

He studied her, still unable to read her. Why did she appear so unruffled with this whole matter? Was she not embarrassed, surprised, or disappointed?

Or had she been forced into this arrangement as much as he had and was now relieved there might be a way out of it?

“There, you see, son?” Mother said. “Your letter was so very convincing. Furthermore, you did not respond in the contrary to any of my other letters I sent, apart from the very last one.”

“What other letters? I received nothing after I sent this, apart from the one that set the date. The date”—he swiftly added before she could speak—“that I thought was for my meeting Miss Oakley, not marrying her.”

“Heavens,” Mother said, shaking her head. “I am certain I sent them.”

“They’re not hidden somewhere in that reticule of yours?” Charles asked.

She gave him a very unimpressed look, the same he’d received countless times as a boy when he spoke out of turn or tracked muddied footprints across her newly remodeled parlor carpet.

“No,” she said. “I sent them directly to Leonard Stanton’s house, I’m sure of it.”

“Whose?” he asked, leaning forward with his ear toward her.

“Leonard Stanton.”

He closed his eyes. “Mother, I was not staying with him at the time. I was staying with Rowan Ashworth in Penwick.”

She blinked. “Oh.”