Page 64 of Sense and Suitability
“We shall be sure to avoid anyone with ambition or moral integrity,” Emme offered, turning the direction away from Aster’s outrageous independent thinking.
“See that you do,” Aunt Bean replied, unamused.
Emme decided it was best to end the conversation before Aster’s wit tipped the balance. Rising from her seat, she offered a placating smile. “Thank you, Aunt. Your lessons are always enlightening.”
“Indeed, almost like... poetry to my ears,” Aster added, her tone as sweet as honey. “I feel quite transformed already.”
As Aunt Bean swept from the room, Emme turned to Aster.
“Well, that narrows our options considerably. Perhaps we should take holy vows and live as nuns.”
“Or poets,” Aster said, grinning.
Chapter 13
Simon sat at his desk, his attention flitting between scattered papers and the small stack of unopened letters that still demanded his notice. It had taken longer than usual to settle Fia for the night. The promise of strawberries tomorrow had fueled her endless stream of questions long after the storybook had closed.
She had insisted, as she had for the past month, that he be the one to tuck her in. To his own surprise, he’d grown to welcome the ritual. Somehow, it fed a flicker of hope that he hadn’t entirely ruined every life under his care.
His gaze landed on a note from Mr. Tarleton, the first payment for timber harvested from the estate. The sight buoyed his spirits. Something about earning the sum through his own ingenuity—however modest the amount—stirred a sense of accomplishment.
It was a beginning.
And beginnings, he reminded himself, often led to better ends.
His smile widened as he opened a letter from Mr. Douglas Arden. A chance conversation in the streets of St. Groves had birthed a promising connection. If all went as planned, Mr. Arden would lease a set of stone storage buildings on the town-side edge of Simon’s land to expand his cotton mill operations. Combined with the prospect of leasing several acres for sheep, it promised a consistent income—a step closer to the stability he so desperately sought.
And the tenants only offered another. Mr. Bridges had sent a list of at least ten family names of those who may be possible prospects.
None of the ideas drastically changed current matters, but altogether? Over time?
Certainly.
There was also progress with his aunt’s stipulations. He’d written to Mrs. Lane and another governess recommended by Ben. If either candidate proved appropriate, it would be the first and simplest of her demands checked off the list.
His gaze fell on a neatly stacked set of gray-bound books at the edge of his desk. The title along the beige spines caught his attention:Sense and Sensibility. He rested his chin on his folded hands, eyeing the volumes with suspicion. The three-volume novels he’d perused in the past had often indulged in wild sentimentality and gothic absurdities—vampires, pirates, ghosts, and fainting heroines in flimsy gowns.
He released a sigh as he rolled his gaze to the ceiling and then focused back on the books. But this title didn’t fit the usual mysterious nonsense.Sensewas in the title, after all—a clear attempt to entice more rational readers, or perhaps a clever trick disguising yet another ludicrous tale.
Opening the first volume, he skimmed the initial sentences. A humorless laugh burst from him. The passage about owning an estate resonated—uncomfortably so. But living in “so respectable a manner as to secure the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance”? That was another matter entirely. Certainly not with the mess the patriarchs of his family had left behind, compounded by the incessant whispers regarding himself, Teddy, his mother, and of course, Arianna.
“The cheerfulness of the children added a relish to his existence.” Simon paused, considering the sentiment. Fia brought her fair share of cheer—along with a generous helping of exasperation—but poor Will and Lottie? Their cheerfulness had been in short supply, at least until today. Emme’s invitation to take them to the Sutherlands’ strawberry patch had been a rare bright spot.
He read on, gripped by the tale of an older brother whose foppish nature rendered him deaf to decency as his scheming wife persuaded him to abandon his stepmother and sisters with barely enough to live on. Simon frowned, his jaw clenching. What sort of man did such a thing? A selfish, cotton-headed brute!
But the narrative soothed him with Edward Ferrars—a sensible, amiable sort with a clear appreciation for the refined and composed Elinor Dashwood. It provided a glimpse into what could very well be an average day for a family within his acquaintance. No vampires or captured damsels. No ghosts or mad monks. But clever dialogue, wit, and well-drawn characters such as the Dashwood sisters, the genial Sir John, the meddling but good-hearted Mrs. Jennings, and the quietly noble Colonel Brandon. He’d just been introduced to the buck Mr. Willoughby when a sharp knock at his study door startled him.
Glancing at the clock, Simon blinked. Had he truly been reading for two hours?
The knock sounded again, firm and insistent. He turned toward the door. Who could possibly be awake at this hour? “Yes?”
The door creaked open to reveal the one person he least expected: Aunt Agatha. She looked less formidable than usual in her dressing gown, her dark hair threaded with silver and still pinned back. Had she been reading too?
Her expression held a gentleness that Simon hadn’t seen in months, possibly years—curiosity, rather than her usual imperiousness. He rose, gesturing toward a chair near the hearth. “I saw your light beneath the door.”
“Only answering a few letters and indulging in a book.” He gestured toward his desk. “How may I assist you?”
She wore a cautious expression—not a hard-edged one, but as if weighing her thoughts before they spun into words. “I amforyou, Simon.” She paused, holding his gaze. “Or at least for the man I believe you can become.”
