Page 111 of Sense and Suitability
She nodded, offering the manuscript to him. “I want you to readit first, as you always do, and tell me if you think it’s fit to send to the publisher.”
He took the package with the same reverence he always showed for her stories, as if she were handing him some sacred text. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
She drew in a deep breath, her focus on the manuscript in his hands. “Because it’s not like the other books. It’s... more of what you suggested.”
“And?”
Her gaze lifted to meet his, a small, tremulous smile breaking through. “I’ve never been prouder of anything I’ve written. There’s more ofmein there than I ever thought possible to pen—so many loves and joys and characters and... life.”
His grin stretched wide, and he tucked the manuscript against his chest as though guarding a treasure. “Then it’s bound to be a success.”
A soft laugh escaped her, though it was tinged with the ache of parting. How was it possible for the human heart to hold such heartache and satisfaction all at once? “It already is—for me.”
“And that, my dear cousin, is what truly matters.”
She nodded, drawing in a deep breath. “Thomas—if the publishers like it... I want to publish it under my own name.”
His smile faltered, replaced by something deeper—respect, pride, and no small measure of admiration. “Do you?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice steady, despite the weight of her confession. “I’m tired of hiding. If it fails, so be it. But if it succeeds, I want it to succeed asme.”
Simon recalculated the sums for the twentieth time.
Still impossible.
For two days, he had reworked the figures, consulted his steward, and renegotiated terms with the more pliable businessmen in town. He had pursued every avenue, exhausted every possibility to improve the financial outlook for Ravenscross and his family. Yet no matter how he twisted the numbers, without Aunt Agatha’s allowance, it all crumbled.
Of course, if Emme could wait a year—or two—then the business ventures he’d painstakingly begun might bear fruit, giving him the freedom to live without financial dependence. But a year? Two? After everything he’d put her through already?
No, perhaps the best course of action was for Emme to marry someone more deserving.
The thought twisted his insides into knots.
He should be magnanimous, like Emme herself—hope for her to find happiness in the arms of a good, faithful man. Even if that man were the rector.
Simon winced at the very idea.
Magnanimity, it seemed, did not suit him. The only man who should romance Emmeline Lockhart was himself.
Was he selfish? Undoubtedly.
Did he regret it? Many things, yes. Loving her? Never.
He had written to Aunt Agatha, explaining everything—before the news could reach her ears from less sympathetic mouths—but what would she do? Her views on scandal were as rigid as her stays, and an authoress fit her definition of impropriety all too well.
Simon ran a hand through his hair and began pacing the room—for the ninetieth time by his own count. Heaven above, was there no other way?
Charlotte and William had tried to help, of course. Charlotte’s suggestion of piracy had been rejected, though not without a moment’s genuine consideration on Simon’s part. William’s equallyludicrous ideas of bank robbery or kidnapping Emme outright had been met with alarm—and, from Charlotte, a highly inappropriate snort of laughter.
Quiet people were sometimes the most unnerving if one found out what all they were really thinking.
Prayer, they had all agreed, was the best—and most legal—course of action.
And Simon made a mental note to inquire with Mrs. Patterson about what, precisely, the children were reading these days.
A sharp knock interrupted his pacing.
“Come in,” he called, turning to face the door.
