Page 113 of Sense and Suitability
Simon tightened his grip on the parcel.
Thomas inclined his head and began backing toward the door. “Reading that book won’t change your circumstances.” He paused at the threshold, his hand resting on the frame. “But it might help you understand the woman you love in a way you haven’t yet. And,” he added, his lips twitching with the ghost of a smile, “you may even find yourself within its pages.”
Chapter 24
She’d written him as a hero.
Simon turned the last page of the manuscript, his throat tight and eyes burning. Fia played with Blast in the garden before him as he sat in a chair beneath a nearby tree, her little voice creating a background for his thoughts. The day had turned cold in concert with the aging season as fall bent to winter, but Fia didn’t seem to mind, and Simon had needed to escape the walls of the house.
To breathe in more space and earth and fresh air, as Emme’s story came to life and pierced him through. How could she portray his tortured soul so well and yet still make him out to be a hero?
He shook his head with a chuckle. Only her.
And Emme’s writing—her style, her way of bringing out the subtle nuances and shifts in the stories and characters, matched anything from the previous novel he’d read, except this one, Emme’s book, seemed to be written just for him.
Of course the hero was not fully him. A gentleman of high rank but not aristocracy; caregiver of two siblings instead of, in reality, five; a broken past, partially of his own making instead of his father’s—but the essence of the character was him.
And the way he’d dealt with the heart of the heroine resembled Simon too. A relationship broken because of tragedy that forced the hero into making a choice between his heart and his future.
Yet instead of painting him in the light of a man who’d broken her heart, she’d written about his strengths. His care for his siblings, hiswillingness to sacrifice, his desire to do right for the sake of his family legacy. His lips tipped. She’d even written a scene where the hero saves the heroine from a fall in a pond.
He gripped the manuscript tightly, his emotions warring for release, the torture painfully acute. Was that how she saw him? Truly? Even now?
Not as the failure, the inconsistent Mr. Willoughby, but as the faithful and noble, though fumbling, hero in his own story? Much more Colonel Brandon than he deserved.
The sting in his eyes intensified.
And Mr. Bridges had been right. She was an excellent writer. Penning feelings and relationships with the skilled hand of not only an author but also an observer of her own world. The strangest combination of pride and humility swelled before him, intermingled with a bit of gratitude and a whole lot of longing.
He’d known only one part of this beautiful woman—a wonderful part—but reading her words gave him a much clearer picture of the lady who held his heart.
She was meant for this.
He lowered the pages to his lap and looked out over the garden. Would she be willing to wait for him as long as it took to earn the funds to become independent? Would she allow him the chance, even if it took a while, to be a part of the story they lived, instead of just the one she created on paper?
Perhaps he could talk to her father. Take out a loan from the bank or from Ben. He stood. Surely there had to be a way to change this fate instead of sitting around waiting for something impossible to happen.
Have mercy!Was this what Emme had talked about—the plight of women having to wait for something to happen to them, feeling powerless? He hated it!
“I approve of the new groom.”
Simon jerked his head toward the house entrance to find AuntAgatha stepping out onto the veranda, her navy traveling suit billowing like a storm cloud as she approached. He turned in full, blinking in disbelief. She had barely been gone a week—what on earth was she doing back at Ravenscross already?
As though reading his thoughts, she declared, “Women of a certain age are not meant to travel so often. Such extravagance is for the young—or the foolish.” Her sharp gaze swept over the garden before she strode past him and seated herself in his vacated chair, arranging her skirts with brisk efficiency.
What was she doing here? He’d expected a letter from her, but for her to travel all the way back from London to St. Groves? Was she so concerned about his welfare? Or, he frowned, about scandal?
“I hadn’t expected you to immediately return upon receiving my letter.”
She turned her head sharply, her brows arching into an expression of withering disapproval. “And I hadn’t thought I would learn that my nephew’s intended is the subject of local ridicule. A novelist, Simon? Really? No doubt, she’s the laughingstock of St. Groves.”
Ah, so that was her game. She wanted a fight. Well, she’d picked the right day for it. “The people who matter most are not laughing at her,” Simon countered smoothly. “And you may be surprised how many of the so-called elite find her resourcefulness admirable.”
In fact, he’d been stopped just yesterday by Mrs. Cox and Mrs. Sanderson, two stalwarts of the local social scene, who had confessed their secret delight in Emme’s stories.“How brave she is,”they’d whispered.“How clever.”
Aunt Agatha sniffed. “A blessed few, I should think.” She studied him with an expression that could curdle milk. “You may have inherited your father’s looks, but it seems you’ve acquired your mother’s poor discernment in choosing a spouse, if I must judge by your two current offerings.”
His jaw tightened. “And what precisely do you mean by that?”
