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Chapter Four
Marcella pressed her pen against her lips, thinking. A drop of ink fell onto the creamy page before her, and she only stared at it. She was trying to imagine her heroine’s face and what sort of woman she ought to be. Marcella was of half a mind to make her heroine red-haired with bright, blue eyes. Was thattooobvious if she also meant to make the young woman Irish? It seemed as though it was.
Her heroine seemed like she ought to be Irish, though. Those were always the best heroines, the ones who encountered ghosts and spirits in the collected editions of folktales which Marcella had loved since girlhood.
“Adeline,” Marcella said.
They sat in the garden, enjoying the sunlight and an unusually warm day in late autumn, only a month since her betrothed had returned to haunt her. While Marcella had taken her pen for writing, Adeline had brought nothing. Instead, she busied herself in weaving together grasses, flowers, and colorful leaves into small coronets and necklaces.
“If it’s a question about writing, I haven’t the faintest, but I think you want your hero to be fair-haired with blue eyes that shine like sapphires,” Adeline said.
Marcella scoffed. “Why do I evenneeda hero? Surely, a woman can carry a novel of her own, can’t she?”
Adeline hummed and examined her handiwork, taking a moment to adjust a small, violet blossom. “Of course, she can, but I think the world would be infinitely more boring if it were only ladies.”
“More peaceful, I’d wager,” Marcella said.
“Oh? And what is your philosophy on that because I know—as well as you—that there are women with whom you simply do not agree with. Even women among theton,” Adeline said, lowering her voice into a conspiratorial whisper, “like Lady Jane, for example.”
Marcella narrowed her eyes and wrinkled her nose, drawing a laugh from her friend. “It is not as if I loathe Lady Jane. She is a perfectly lovely lady.”
“So lovely,” Adeline said slyly, “that you quarrel with her every time you’re in the same room.”
“We do not quarrel.”
“Only because Lady Jane is not witty enough to recognize when she is being insulted or contradicted. She seems to be under the impression instead that the entire world exists for her pleasure, and therefore, no unpleasant thing may exist within it.”
“If only we could all believe the world was so perfect,” Marcella said, straightening. “Consider this, my friend. How many of women’s problems would be solved if there were simply no men?”
Certainly,no menwould solve Marcella’s dilemma. It would ensure that she could devote all her time to her craft and not have her attention forever split between her passion and a husband.
“As many problems as would be created,” Adeline replied. “You might be content with marrying your pen and your prose, but some of us will be content only if we’re married. And I am one of them.”
“When I publish my first novel,” Marcella said, “I will certainly dedicate it to you.”
“How kind!”
“I shall say, ‘For my dearest Adeline, the Baron of West Avon’s daughter, who desires a dashing man.’ You’ll be met with all manner of suitors.”
Adeline nodded, as if the fantasy was entirely reasonable. “I do appreciate your inclusion ofdashing. I wouldn’t want any other sort of man to send me letters. But perhaps you ought to add a few more attributes? Courageous.”
“Of course.”
“Witty, handsome, eloquent in speech,” Adeline added.
“Are you hoping to marry Sir Gawain?” Marcella asked. “I’m quite sure that no real man could be all those things.”
“I thought you despised fictional men,” Adeline replied.
Marcella shook her head. “No, not at all. Well, I don’t know. I suppose I find that men are always either too perfect or else they are scoundrels. There does not seem to exist any man who is not one of the two, and there do seem to be very few ladies who have stories which do not involve men or desiring men in some way.”
One of the maids—Frances—approached them. She was young and willowy, built like a tree sapling. Marcella pursed her lips together and tried to think of a more elegant phrase to describe the young woman’s hair, which was the quite common shade of brown. If she likened it to polished wood, it would sound more beautiful on the page.
“My Lady,” Frances said, bobbing into a quick curtsey. “You’ve received a letter from Lord Reginald and I was told to deliver it to you directly.”
Marcella took the offered missive, and the maid hurried away. For a long moment, Marcella studied the fine paper and the ribbon tied around it. If she didn’t open it, the letter couldn’t hurt her. It was a childish way of thinking to be sure, but…
But neither Father nor Stepmother have mentioned my engagement since we had that dreadful argument. I’d almost dared to hope that they’d forgotten it.
