Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“You would not want to,” said his mother, distressed. “I wish you wouldn’t go so far away from us, not over this.”
His father’s lips formed a tight line. “Five years will be too long. Two years will do.”
He meant that in two years’ time, Rosalind would likely be married to someone else, perhaps even settled with a babe, and the messiness of the “delicate situation” passed. Perhaps that was so. He didn’t want to think about it, and the best way to not think about it was to go sailing across the sea to wild, exotic locations. There was no use in staying and fighting, and if he couldn’t fight, he must be away from this place. For he wished to fight. In his present state, he felt livid enough to tear apart the whole world.
“There are dangers in India,” his mother said, pushing away her tea.
“Monsoons? Wild animals? Tigers?” he scoffed.
“Yes, tigers. You may believe it is a wild place. If you must go to these Eastern nations, stay among the English so they will understand you. Or go to the Continent instead. When Townsend went to France, it calmed his mind.”
“Did it? He came home and immediately bungled into a mistaken marriage.”
His father tsked. “Now, Marlow, Townsend’s marriage does well enough now. These things tend to work out the way they should.” He stood and approached him with a mien of sympathy. “If India calls to you, go there. Think about things. Consider what you wish to accomplish with your life.”
I don’t know that I am going to India to consider anything. I think I am only running away. He didn’t say it aloud, for his mama already looked troubled. He went to sit by her and took her hand.
“I will take care,” he promised.
“You’ll miss our ball at the end of the season.” She pouted, then tried to smile. “But you must follow your heart, I suppose. If you’re set on this adventure, I’ll tell you what I know of India so you can be prepared before you go.”
She cupped his face, a tender gesture that made his chest ache and feel heavy. Following his heart had gotten him nowhere.
So he would go somewhere, anywhere, to escape.
*
Rosalind kept to her room in the days after Marlow’s unsuccessful proposal and refused to take more than a bite or two from the trays her mother sent up. She had no appetite. She put away her light, pretty gowns and dressed in black, using the mourning gowns she’d been fitted for after her grandpa had died. The jet bombazine made her look pallid and wan, which suited her perfectly. She wanted to look as mournful as she felt.
And she was mourning. She mourned the loss of her happiness, the loss of her choice to make a love match. She pored over romantic poems, works by Keats, Shelley, and the enigmatic Lord Byron, crying over the pages until she suffered a headache. Love was real, and she wanted the poetry and passion of it. Without it, she’d never be fulfilled.
She was not given to bold acts and histrionics, but the situation was desperate. She hoped her parents would notice the depth of her grief and reconsider a match with Lord Marlow. On her fourth day of self-imposed exile her mother knocked and entered her outer bedchamber, taking in her black frock and severe hair style with a frown.
“Rosalind, darling. We must talk.”
Rosalind stayed where she was, curled up in her overstuffed chintz divan, and rearranged her ebony lace-trimmed skirts. She did not meet her mother’s concerned gaze though she could feel its weight upon her. “What is there to talk about?”
“Dearest, please.”
“My opinion is not to be noted, anyway.”
Her mother crossed to join her, sitting beside her with a sigh. “How long will you sulk about this? It’s not proper behavior, especially with Felicity and her family in town.”
“What have they to do with me?”
“She’s your sister and she loves you. They’re your family. We are all a family and we all want what’s best for you.”
“But Mama, Lord Marlow would be best.”
“You believe so, but you’re thinking about the matter with a child’s heart.” She sighed again, taking Rosalind’s tense hand. “We’re not saying you’re to have no choice in the matter of your marriage. But dear, you’ve not even come out yet. There are so many gentlemen you’ve yet to meet.”
“Like Lord Brittingham?” she said bitterly. “I don’t like him at all.”
“You don’t know him yet. I promise he’s all that’s desirable in a husband, and handsome too. But no, it needn’t be Brittingham if you’re so set against him. You’re the daughter of a duke, Rosalind. You’ll have your choice of husbands. It only must be a good, fitting choice.”
Rosalind bit her lip against more recriminations. She knew she was behaving badly but she was heartsick she wasn’t to have her way. Marlow loved her. They’d known one another forever. He was perfection in her eyes: daring, beautiful, exciting, kind, mysterious.