Page 1 of A Lady's Beloved Novelist
Chapter 1
The girl in the large bedroom read with the kind of avidity and engrossment that was admirable by some and overlooked by others. To many, she was just an avid reader, but they never really understood the adventures that could be had by simply sitting and devouring the words in the pages of a book.
Her eyes skimmed the pages, creating an illusion that the words were rushing up to meet her. But Andrea could not slow herself down. She even knew what would happen, what obstacles the adventurer would face, the methods that would lead to his solutions, the near escapes from death, the constant fear of never returning home.
Yet, Andrea absorbed it all as though she were reading the novel for the first time. She was too enraptured by the adventurer, too dependent on the story to reassure her racing heart of what it already knew—that he would make it home safely.
Her nerves were rising as the story reached its climax, her fingers almost tripping over one another whilst turning the page as quickly as she could. Andrea winced slightly at the tear her quick actions had caused; it was only a slight tear, but it was still unnecessary fallout from the adventure she was following along with.
Francis Griffith was fighting through the dense, humid jungles of Asia. The climate was something that Andrea could only fathom. She thought of the heat that came from the kitchen after her father had been hunting and caught game for a Sunday supper.
It would become overbearingly hot down there, made only even more uncomfortable by the stifling steam of roasting vegetables. But it was the only comparison Andrea had to the world within the pages, and as a result, she would spend large amounts of time in the environment, trying to guess how she would fare in the jungle.
She imagined Francis, dark hair dripping in the damp jungle air, his brow fixed and his eyes steady, machete in hand. Andrea could very easily close her eyes and return to the image of him in her mind, it was something she thought about so much that he was as clear as a real person in her imagination.
He set her heart racing and made her feel alive, but he could also deliver a blow to her heart with one easy thought: he was not real. It hurt to even consider it these days. Francis was her escape. He was the man whom she desired to be with, everyone else was inferior in her eyes.
“Lady Andrea.” Her maid cleared her throat after politely knocking on the door.“Lady Andrea?”
Charlotte asked a total of four times before Andrea managed to drag her attention from the book in her hands to the girl standing in her doorway.
“Hmm?”
“Your mother is asking for you downstairs.”
Charlotte was a timid girl who could have only been a few years younger than Andrea. She kept her hands locked together in front of her, and her shoulders remained near her ears. Charlotte’s cheeks appeared hot, as though they had been pinched. Andrea could feel the sense of dread that the girl with mousy hair must have felt upon hearing commands to summon her.
“I will be right down.” Andrea waved her off. Whilst she did not have a bad word to say about the young maid, Andrea found her nervous demeanor quite off-putting. She made a note to herself that it was something she could perhaps mention in passing to the housekeeper.
She waited for her bedroom door to close before returning to her novel.Just a few more pages, she told herself, knowing that whatever her mother wanted could wait. She felt the urge to steal a few more moments alone with Francis, hoping—whilst already knowing—that he would reach his destination unharmed. He was climbing up the side of a mountain now, and she could just imagine the strength in his large arms that would be needed to complete such a task.
In her imagination, Francis’arms bulged under his shirt, and his rough hands would be soft whenever they touched hers. Her skin bristled at the thought of his touch, though she knew it would never happen.
She admired his strength and determination, but it frustrated her that this was the only way she could experience those adventures. Andrea would have given anything to leave the small corner of the Cotswolds she called home. Despite the vast greenery that cushioned her family’s estates, she had only ever felt trapped there.
“Andrea Pitt, if you are reading one of those cheap novels again then I—”
Andrea quickly threw the book away from her and onto the bed, cringing at the pages that creased and folded from her carelessness. She had hoped her plush bed would be enough to prevent any real damage, but it was still enough for Andrea to regret her action.
“Sorry, I was just coming,” Andrea muttered whilst keeping her head down and heading for her now-open bedroom door.
“Do you not see that I get the maid to come up here and get you so that I do not have to? I have had a very busy day, and it should not take two people to make you come downstairs.”
Andrea was nodding along to her mother’s words, but in her mind, she was still thinking about the book she had been dragged away from. She wanted to go back to it now that her eyes were not skimming down the page, but she was sure her mother was going to do everything she could to keep her from reading. Andrea already knew what the topic of conversation would be, and she did not like it at all.
Her mother, Lady Celeste Pitt, wanted only two things from her in order to feel accomplished in raising her daughter: for Andrea to read some classic literature, and for Andrea to achieve an advantageous marriage. These just happened to be two things Andrea had absolutely no interest in, and the only thing that would change her mind was if Francis Griffith was involved with both things.
“Now, have you had any more thoughts about the Earl of Shaftesbury?” her mother asked almost as soon as they were sitting down in the drawing room downstairs.
Andrea tried to busy herself with looking around at the wooden panels on the walls, but she could feel her mother’s gaze burning down on her from across the room. They were in the front drawing room; it was much smaller compared to the other rooms on the ground floor of the stately home. Andrea was almost positive that was why her mother had chosen it to corner her.
“I asked you a question, Andrea.” Her mother clicked her tongue.
“I have not made any decisions yet,” Andrea responded.
“You say that every time we sit down to have this conversation.”
She could sense her mother’s frustrations, but Andrea knew what she wanted, and she was not going to compromise on that.
