Page 31 of War of the Wedding Wagers
Amelia frowned. What had Sir Frederick truly thought? she wondered.
“Did you discuss it with him?” asked Lady Townsend. “He’s such an agreeable gentleman, I’m sure you both learned much about each other, as well as about Lady Pernilla.” Leaning forward, she added, “We missed you at charades this afternoon.”
Amelia shuddered. “I do not like to bring attention to myself.”
“Ah, my dear! Don’t be guilty of what too many earnest young ladies are,” Lady Townsend warned. “We are all so self-conscious of how we project our inner selves until those dried up feelings become the extent of who we are.”
The unrestrained giggling of the three Miss Ps cut short her words and Amelia smiled. “Not all young ladies are at such risk,” she remarked.
“But the serious ones are.” Lady Townsend looked a little sad. “The serious ones are at risk of never revealing their inner selves and what is in their hearts. As a result, happiness passes them by and they may spend decades regretting their inaction.”
“I think our three vivacious young ladies are at no risk.”
“Perhaps. You’d know better than I being so much closer in age in a different era and having spent time with Miss Playford yesterday. I thought she seemed quite taken with Sir Frederick, but he regards her in a brotherly light. He is a very charming gentleman, don’t you think?”
Amelia shifted uncomfortably. “A touch taciturn,” she said, and Lady Townsend’s eyebrows rose.
“Why, I thought he looked at you with singular regard. You’re obviously a very clever young woman. I think he was greatly impressed by your abilities in untangling the clues of Lady Pendleton’s diverting little game.”
“It was only diverting when we truly thought Lady Pernilla’s tragic story was true.” Indignation rose in Amelia’s chest. “I am not entertained by make-believe.”
“I’ve already explained what happened to the real Lady Pernilla,” said Lady Townsend. “So what if our hostess embellished some of the facts? Remember, the best stories are based on truth.”
It was these last words that ran circles around Amelia’s head as she lay in bed, unable to sleep, later that night.
The best stories are based on truth.
When the clock chimed 3 a.m., Amelia bolted upright. Maybe she’d dozed, though she’d felt she’d done nothing but toss and turn since she crawled under the covers after she’d left the conversation with Lady Townsend, pleading a headache as an excuse to miss dinner.
What if Lady Pendleton had found one of Pernilla’s letters and then concocted the rest?
What if Lady Pendleton had seen the letter from Pernilla that gave the impression that William was nothing more than a lowly groom? After all, the corresponding letter from William that had given the lie to that was within the pages ofPride and Prejudicewhich had not been part of the real trail of clues.
If that were the case, thought Amelia, she needed to go down to the library right now and leaf through all those romance books—for that was where Pernilla had secreted her letters perhaps being the only truly secret hiding place if the other members of the household did not read romance books.
Wrapping a shawl about her and slipping her feet into a pair of embroidered slippers, Amelia hurried down the passage,along the gallery, down a flight of stairs, and successfully navigated her way to the library with the help of the candle sconces upon the walls and her own candle stick.
Perhaps some of the guests had voiced fears about ghosts and requested that the castle not be in complete darkness.
Sweeping into the library, Amelia made her way directly to wherePride and Prejudicewas shelved, whereupon she began to carefully go through all the pages once again. But of course, that book had been thoroughly perused, so she pulled outMansfield Park, and again searched through each leaf until a thought hit her.
Lady Pernilla had died many decades before these books had been published. This was where Lady Pendleton had planted the fake clue.
So what books would have been in the library when Pernilla lived in the castle?
Carefully, she ran her fingers along the spines of some of the other books they’d pulled out; books which she recalled Sir Frederick had seen fit to snatch quite quickly from Miss Playford’s hands, implying, without saying, that they were not books for ladies’ eyes.
An uncharacteristic surge of prurient interest made her scan the titles once more. There wasTales by a Lady of Pleasure. That was not a title for ladies’ eyes but it was here, in her hands, and perhaps it’s where another of Pernilla’s or William’s letters could be found.
At least, that’s how she justified opening the book.
But, no, this was not why she was here! She was here to discover if Pernilla had written more letters and Pernilla certainly would not have opened the pages of such a work.
But as Amelia flipped open a page—a page which no lady should read, she realized after a quick perusal—there was a letter. The handwriting was familiar, the paper the same creamand the penmanship showing an elegant looping of the lower letters as in the initial letter from Pernilla: clearly an original.
Once again, innocent Pernilla was spilling out her heart. This letter pre-dated the other and showed a girl whose heart had been captured during a ball at the local Assembly Hall. William had attended and from reading, Amelia gathered that his family, once wealthy, were suffering great financial hardship, but a generous aunt had funded him the cost of his entry ticket and vouched for him.
With his family well known in the area, the inference was that he had the respectability of a centuries-old name to confer upon a bride who would hopefully bring with her a sizeable dowry.
