Page 30 of Miss Devon’s Choice

After her knock, the door opened to reveal her aunt’s maid. The servant always looked as though she’d eaten something disagreeable, but given she was attending such a difficult mistress, Rebecca had a smile for her.

“Rebecca,” her aunt’s voice called imperiously.

Aunt Jacqueline sat at her writing desk.

“Here I am, Aunt.” Rebecca went to stand beside the desk and performed her usual curtsy. “How may I assist you?”

“I am writing your father. It occurred to me that as startling as I found your viscount’s invitation to the party to be, your father is likely unaware of it altogether. Unless you saw fit to inform him?” Her blue eyes had a knowing glint to them. Hettie would’ve told her aunt of any letters sent.

“I did not, Aunt.” Her freedom from her father’s grasp neared with every day. Leaving him uninformed of Christian’s presence was a small act of rebellion. What could it matter to her father if Christian was present at the house party? If anything, he should be pleased.

“I see.” Aunt Jacqueline pursed her lips. Today she wore a deep red gown, trimmed in black lace. The colors were dark for a day dress, with only a white fichu at her aunt’s throat providing any relief from their severity.

That was the benefit of being old and powerful, Rebecca supposed. You could get away with a myriad of things society would never tolerate in a younger person.

Rebecca tucked her hands behind her to avoid fiddling with her fingers. Her aunt had the air she frequently adopted just before pronouncing some great deficiency in Rebecca’s character. Perhaps if she spoke quickly enough she could defer some of that lecture for another time.

“I have taken a walk this morning with Lord Easton.” She tried to keep her tone light.

Her aunt arched one gray eyebrow at her. “Really. What was the outcome of that little endeavor?”

“We went searching for the treasure together. We didn’t find it, but we are to resume our search after the picnic luncheon. He will be fishing with the gentlemen this morning.”

“Hm.” Her aunt turned back to her letter. “Very well. You are dismissed.”

Rebecca’s mouth popped open in her surprise, but she hastily closed it again to avoid a rebuke. “Thank you, Aunt.” She curtsied and made a hasty escape. There was no reason to prolong exposure to someone willing to mete out punishment for slight infractions.

I at least expected some sort of instruction on proper behavior during a picnic. She closed the door behind her and released a sigh. And now I have a few hours of freedom. Rebecca didn’t bother to hold back her smile. She fairly skipped across the hall to her room to retrieve several items. She moved with haste, lest her aunt change her mind or Hettie appear.

At the last moment, Rebecca added a bonnet to her armful of supplies, then rushed from the room, and the house, to the gardens.

Settling beneath a tree, Rebecca noted there was enough shade that she could forgo the bonnet. Aunt Jacqueline would be scandalized if she saw her out of doors without a head covering, but since Rebecca’s chosen spot was hidden from the house by various shrubs and trellises, she wasn’t too concerned.

First, she took out her journal and a pencil. Ideally, she would write in ink, but it wasn’t practical to carry all the supplies necessary for that out of doors. She could always copy over the pencil later. It took her nearly half an hour to write out her observations regarding Christian Hundley, Lord Easton. She still had more questions than answers about his character.

He didn’t seem to want to talk about his mother. Or Italy. She tapped the pencil to her lips in thought. He must miss her. And his home.

Or perhaps she took too much liberty in assigning her own feelings to him.

Putting her notes aside, she took up her novel instead.

Mansfield Park, by the author of Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice. Every time she read the author’s crediting line, she wondered who the writer must be. Could it be some fine lady of society, afraid of what would be said were she found out? Or was it not a woman at all? She doubted a man could write such insightful things about a woman’s mind, though she’d heard the speculation before. Whatever the case, she wished she knew if only to send the author a note full of thanks, praise, and a question or two.

She opened the book and leaned back against the tree, curling her legs up close and pulling the pages nearer. The poor heroine, Fanny Price, seemed to fall into one painfully awkward situation after another, all while her heart crumbled piece by piece every time her cousin overlooked her devotion.

Rebecca’s aunt would call the novel ridiculous drivel, but Rebecca knew it was so much more. The book was a love story, yes, but it was also a reflection of society. And not a very flattering one. Perhaps that was why the novel did not have the same popularity as the first by the anonymous lady author? The flaws of clergymen, of those who lived for society’s notice, of the wealthy, were brought up again and again.

It took a special talent to tell a story and teach morals at the same time. As she read, Rebecca grew more and more absorbed in the words.

…But there is nobleness in the name Edmund. It is a name of heroism and renown; of kings, princes, and knights; and seems to breathe the spirit of chivalry and warm affections.

Fanny was in love with Edmund Bertram. How could no one else in the novel see it?

“Here you are.”

Rebecca jumped, clutching the novel to her chest, her eyes leaping upward. And up more. Christian stood before her, his imposing form all the more so from her position on the ground.

Was it her imagination, or did he look almost happy? He certainly wasn’t smiling, but something about the lines near his eyes suggested he might be on the verge of such an expression.