Ariel recognized the paper and cobalt blue ribbon as belonging to one of the premier booksellers in London; the Ladies’ Reading Society to which she belonged often ordered their materials from them.
Arnold was not an overly demonstrative sibling, so receiving a gift from him once each year was an occasion. Even so, he’d often defer to her “expertise” and simply gift her with additional funds to purchase a special gown or select a piece of jewelry for herself. The fact that he’d gone and purchased something for her was novel and touching.
She’d dropped several none-too-subtle hints about a particular collection of essays she’d been eyeing and, while it certainly was no garment or gem, Ariel didn’t care. The fact that he’d—
Her fingers stilled when she revealed enough of the leather cover to read the embossed title.
“‘A Good and Virtuous Lady’s Guide to Comportment and Marriageability’?” The title alone nearly caused bile to rise in the back of her throat.
“Hemsley recommended it highly. Gave a copy to his sister and she had three offers in a fortnight.”
“Because Amarintha is only eighteen years of age, biddable, and—while sweet—has fewer unique thoughts in her head than the poor pocket-sized dog she drags around.” Ariel’s annoyance rose as reality settled in her gut.
“No need to be unkind or ungrateful, Ari.” Her brother frowned as if she’d stomped all over his gift and then spat upon it for good measure—as if he’d truly believed the book had been a kind and thoughtful gesture.
Ariel took a bracing breath and counted to five before she spoke again. “I appreciate the thought, Arni…but aren’t I well past the stage of trying to reform enough so I might make a match?”
“I suppose three decades is rather long in the tooth…” he began thoughtfully; “however, I choose to remain optimistic. As should you, dear sister.” He sounded almost chastising as ifshewere the one who had just likened herself to a nag fit for nothing but being turned out to pasture.
“This is optimism, then?” She did her best to omit the disdain from her voice as she held up the book, but she doubted she was entirely successful.
“I should think so.”
“And you believe this book will contain anything I have not already been trained, coached, or shamed to do in these past three decades?”
Arnold finally sat up to face her squarely, rather than reclining like a recalcitrant wastrel. “How do you expect me to know? It was a book and you like books. It came recommended, so I purchased it. I see now that I was foolish to believe I might present you with a gift which might also serve to assist you in your predicament.”
Ariel’s fingers tightened on the leather-bound book and every fiber of her being wished she could toss it into the hearth and watch it burn. Leave it to Arni to reduce her existence to merely “liking books.” It wasn’t the first time he’d been dismissive of her enjoyment of the written word. The book she held was about as far removed from Greek mythology and new essays on women’s rights as blancmange was from one of Cook’s raspberry-lemontarts smothered in clotted cream and sugar crystals. Her brother had spent years attempting to water down what he believed were the reasons she was unmarriageable.
At sixteen, she’d gently corrected one of Arnold’s friend’s references to the story of Narcissus and Echo in a poem he had penned and then presented to them. Her brother had then pulled her aside and told her she couldn’t possibly believe anyone would take her seriously, so there was no point in speaking up.
At twenty, she’d merely meant to participate in a dinner conversation being had regarding a current court matter of a woman wishing to retain property after the death of her husband. When she’d finished citing several poignant and highly-relevant cases and essays, the en- tire table was silent. The look in Arnold’s eyes told her everything she knew she would hear later: Men did not enjoy being made to appear uneducated on a topic, nor was it becoming for a woman to appear so knowledgeable.
She could dance as well as any lady of breeding—in fact, she quite enjoyed it—but it didn’t help a man’s ego when his partner was a head taller than he…not that there was anything Ariel could have done aboutthat, but she was still somehow at fault.
These were only a few of what she knew her brother (and Society) viewed as her myriad of sins.
Ariel didn’t doubt that the book in her hand wholeheartedly corroborated Arnold’s stance and she would be, yet again, condemned for having a brain in her head and meat on her bones. How many times had she heard that a woman must be meek, soft-spoken, and defer to a man’s knowledge and guiding hand; she must place her husband and her home before all else, she must take great pains to follow Society’s standard of beauty to the letter? Merely thinking about it made Ariel’s stomach churn like a boiling sea.
“So nice to hear that you view my life as a predicament,” she muttered; a much more muted response than the one she’d wanted to deliver, but she’d long learned when to save her breath. To her surprise, this response elicited some tenderness from Arnold. Her brother rose and crouched down beside her.
“Don’t be so downtrodden, Ari, you know I cannot stomach it.” He took her hands in his and set aside the blasted book. “You’re no burden, you know that? I only want you to have the life you deserve.” His fingers squeezed hers and he placed a quick brotherly peck on her forehead. “I’ll return the book if it bothers you and I’ll buy you twenty in its place if it’ll make you smile. It was not my intention to make you feel this way today, of all days.”
She gave him a tight smile. Arnold could be obtuse, selfish, and too prone to caring about Society’s opinions, but he wasn’t a bad brother. At only eighteen months apart in age, they were closer than most siblings. She knew he loved her, but that didn’t change the fact that his comments and jabs left invisible bruises and sore spots. This book just happened to whack a particularly tender one.
“I have no need of twenty more books,” she said, attempting levity.
“Really?” His brows rose in mock shock and then he glanced around the room. “I think there might still be some room up near the ceiling…way over in that corner.”
Ariel couldn’t resist giggling. She’d amassed quite the collection of books and had gradually filled every shelf in the room. The house may belong to the title and her brother, but these books…these were her treasures.
“Maybe one or two, then,” she conceded and was rewarded with a warm smile and a pat on the hand.
∞∞∞
The rest of Ariel’s birthday went more smoothly. Two of her friends, Alaina, the Duchess of Morton, and Meredith, Viscountess Sommerfeld, surprised her after luncheon and whisked her away for a few hours of shopping on Oxford Street. Together, they traversed the popular area, arm-in-arm, ducking into whichever storefront caught their fancy. In addition to two books intended to replace the atrocity Arni had given her, Ariel wound up with a new pair of fine gloves and allowed the Lady Morton to talk her into purchasing a golden broach in the shape of an owl with emerald eyes so green they appeared to glow
—the symbol of Athena, Ariel’s favorite of the Greek goddesses. She represented wisdom, a wealth of bravery, resourcefulness, and, as a virgin goddess, she had no children of her own so she often formed other bonds in place of a spouse or offspring. Ariel liked to think she had lived her life similarly. Her entire remaining family consisted of her brother, and he would someday need to marry and start a family of his own to carry on the title; she would be relegated to the role of spinster aunt on the periphery. She’d been adopted into a clutch of women and, likewise, she’d adopted them in return. She’d made her own family. And, up until the prior night, she’d also been a virgin.
