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Chapter Twelve
“Alady should never wear breeches,” Lord Norton was intoning. “A lady should be seen and not heard.” He was sitting on the settee opposite Arabella, looking for all the world like an egg, dressed in a frock coat and breeches.
“Then you might as well stuff them with batting and line them up on your settee like dolls,” Arabella replied, rolling her eyes.
While Farley Minton, Viscount of Norton, was not himself a lady, he certainly had a lot of opinions on them. He blinked at her in surprise, but unfortunately, recovered.
“It is the province of gentlemen to be stewards of ladies,” he replied, setting his teacup down. “If not to care for you, then why else do we exist?”
“What’s your point, My Lord?” she asked, wondering if he was rubbing in the fact that he was to receive all that should have been hers, were the world a fair place.
“My point, Lady Arabella, is that there’s no reason for you to be parading about in a pair of gentlemen’s pants!” he exclaimed, his round cheeks turning a shocking shade of puce.
“There is, in fact, a reason,” she replied. “It is that skirts are utterly inconvenient. There’s no reason for them.”
“Propriety,” Lord Norton said. Propriety, the sword upon whose point Arabella meant not to fall upon. Yet it was the weapon that every single gentleman of thetonmeant to use against her.
Her father entered the room at that point. From the bemused look on his face, it was obvious that he had heard most of their argument from the sanctuary of the hallway.
“What’s going on in here, then?” he asked. “Are the two of you fighting again?” He had a handful of letters with him. He handed a few to Arabella. “The evening post has arrived, love.”
“Thank you, Pappa,” she said, standing up. She noticed one, which was in an unfamiliar hand, yet appeared from Lady Emily. Her heart pattered excitedly in her chest. It had been almost a full week, with no word from Mr. Conolly. Yet, she had known that a letter would come.
He’s not the sort of man to disappoint the lady that he loves.
She left the room, so that she could peruse Mr. Conolly’s missive in private. She had no doubt that it was going to be worth the six days that she’d anticipated it.
As the door closed behind her, she heard her father say, “My Lord, please do not presume to change my daughter’s mode of dress. She and I have an agreement, one which you shall not endeavor to persuade either of us on otherwise.” The sternness of his tone brooked no argument.
The door closed shut before she got her cousin’s reply. She hurried through the halls of Norton Manor, the estate where Lord Norton lived. It was a simple house—full of dark-colored walls and dark woods. There were a few religious-themed paintings on the walls. Most of them portrayed Christ in agony. She wondered if that was a comment on how her cousin himself felt.
She went to the dark-paneled room where she was staying. Norton Manor was such a gloomy place. She sat down on the bed, which was a massive oak four-poster.
She popped the seal, taking in the simple signet on it, which was an ES, which was rather well done of Mr. Conolly.
My Lady,
I have to admit, I’m not sure of what to say that my housekeeper, Mrs. Osbourne, will permit me to say in her hand. She’s very excited to hear that I am courting, albeit secretly, a lady. She says that it is my good fortune to have met you, and even better that you are amenable to receive my letters. She hopes, as well, that you like her hand. She has spent long years perfecting her letters, for just such an occasion.
Furthermore, it said in Mr. Conolly’s hand at the very bottom, I hope that you are well, and that you are able to write back. I look forward to your letter.
All the best,
CFC.
Arabella exhaled, closing her eyes, and holding the letter to her chest. She missed him. It was the most exquisite sadness that she had ever experienced. At the same time, she was anticipating such a meeting in London, that winter.
For she would turn eighteen less than a week after their arrival, and then, he had promised that if she hadn’t changed her mind, he would ask her father for his permission.
She knew that she would not change her mind, for the world. Opening her eyes and looking down at the letter, she smiled. Mrs. Osbourne sounded like a character. She loved how she had clearly shaped Charles’s missive. She looked forward to meeting Mrs. Osbourne. She had a good hunch that they would get along well. Immediately, she went to her desk to write back.
* * *
Charles was dressed in his double-breasted dress coat, in a midnight blue that was nearly black. Keeping the brim of his top hat low, he glanced about him. He was in a rough part of town. He could feel eyes upon him as he walked. He kept his hands in his pockets, covering his wallet with his hand.
He had no doubt that theft happened here often. The cobblestones were muddy, and there was trash everywhere. His eyes searched the buildings for a number. He paused, glancing at the sign.
Richard R. Gagney, Tanner.
