The Rogue's Reluctant Rose by Daphne du Bois Page B

Your brother would have been proud of your selfless effort to help us. No, my dear, you are not at fault here, and I wish you would not think that you are. I am Lady Fanshawe, and it is up to me to do what I can. There, too, I feel I owe an apology, for certainly I have been so caught up in my own melancholy that I have not done all I should to rescue us.”
    Araminta’s tears had been threatening again, and Harriet too looked ready to weep. Harriet pressed her sister’s hand across the dining table, and Araminta felt comforted. She was determined, more than ever, because of Harriet’s kindness and love, to do all she could to find the money. She felt that she was no longer alone. It was good to be home.
    ***
    The sky loomed low and grey all of the next morning and Araminta felt oppressed by the heavy clouds which nevertheless failed to bring forth rain. Early in the morning, Harriet had written to Mr Davies, requesting an interview, though Araminta doubted it would do them any good. She did not see how the old solicitor could have anything new to say on the matter, or any new options to offer them. However, Araminta felt it would be unkind to say so, and so she let Harriet continue at her escritoire, while she herself paced anxiously across the morning room floor, mind racing.
    She had been so very determined on Sir Timothy’s offer, and the offer might yet come, she knew, but time was so short. Araminta wondered if it would be possible to redeem the house once it was sold. And of course, once they lost the family Seat, it would be impossible to hide their impoverished state. With such a change of circumstance, Sir Timothy would be in full right to withdraw any offer he made, or he might simply not offer at all. She did not think any gentleman would offer for her then, for what money she had received upon her mother’s passing would not be nearly enough to make a tempting piece without her portion from her father, which had been lost with the rest of the Barrington fortune.
    Both Araminta and Harriet spoke little that day, as if waiting in trepidation, though they both knew that the reply would take at least a day to reach them. Harriet sat with her sewing, though she barely made a stitch, and Araminta attempted to read, but found that she could not focus on a single word of the novel. By lunchtime, she had made little progress, finding that she had been reading and rereading the same few lines for the better part of the morning. It was an exercise in futility, and at last she slammed the book shut and stared angrily out at the miserable sky, which put her in mind of winter.
    Melancholy thoughts of Charles and their looming poverty mingled with thoughts of Chestleton. Her mind kept returning to the many strange encounters they had had since their meeting at the Snowe ball, culminating in his spectacular abduction of her. She remembered the way his eyes had travelled over her figure and the silent promise in his assertion that they would meet again. She recalled how complete had been his control of the horses, and how broad his shoulders had looked in his coat. For a brief moment, she ventured to imagine how they would look without the coat. Such brazenness was most unlike her and she couldn’t fight the blush that coloured her cheeks.
    This only served to make her feel guiltier. What a time to entertain such thoughts, when everyone’s future hung so precariously in the balance! She berated herself sternly. However she tried to distract herself, her thoughts circled around Chestleton and Sir Timothy, Fanshawe Hall, Harriet, and the whole sorry mess.
    The situation was simply intolerable, Araminta decided, and she could not abide it a second longer. They had had no good ideas all day, and she felt the urgent need to be outside. Excusing herself from Harriet, who nodded absently in acknowledgement, she hurried from the room in a flurry of skirts.
    With another defiant look at the weather through a window on the upper