Page 13 of A Spinster to Reform the Duke
Lord Armstrong had asked to court her in the most romantic way, turning up at her door with an arm full of the finest roses, begging a minute alone with her. Once they were secluded together in the summerhouse with a maid for a chaperone, he had descended to one knee and asked for a courtship.
That romance was empty. Paper thin. Remember that.
“Rebecca? Is it not thrilling?” Eliza asked, calling Rebecca’s attention back to the moment.
“Thrilling? Yes,” Rebecca struggled to say, her mouth dry. It was as if she was reliving the past, and with fear, she watched her sister’s happiness. Terrified Eliza would have to go through the same pain she had suffered. “Eliza, wait one minute.”
She hastened forward and took her sister’s hands, urging her to pause in her dancing.
“What is it?” Eliza asked, her smile never fading.
“It is just I…” Rebecca hesitated and swallowed. She did not want to dampen her sister’s happiness, nor be cruel, she only wished to protect her.
“Are you not happy for me?” Eliza asked, her brow crinkling a little at last.
“Of course, I am, I am truly delighted,” Rebecca said hurriedly. “It is just that I wish to urge caution.”
“Caution? Whatever for?” Eliza asked, disentangling their hands as she stepped back. She was clearly determined to be happy, smiling again as she looked to the path Lord Herberton had just taken to go back to the house. “I care for a man who wishes for a courtship. He is so eager that he goes to our father now. If I’m not mistaken, I think I will soon find myself at risk of falling in love with him.”
“Already?” Rebecca scoffed at the idea. Yet her sister’s frown made that scoff vanish. “That is both wonderful and worrying news, sister. Pray, do not look at me like that. I only wish to protect you.”
“From what?”
“From what happened to me,” Rebecca laid her heart open, placing her palms to her chest. The simple words seemed to take the wind out of Eliza, prompting her to look back at her sister, the smile gone, and the fair hair whipping round her ears in the wind.
Rebecca hung her head a little, embarrassed to be looked at so piercingly. She felt her own darker blonde hair cascading in front of her face, the curls that had escaped the updo helping to hide her expression.
“I would not be a good sister if I did not urge caution now, Eliza. I beg of you, if you are to fall in love with Lord Herberton, let it be slow and measured, not fast and head-over-heels. In such matters, one is likely to fall and injure themselves.” Rebecca looked up as Eliza stepped back toward her, taking her hand in hers. “Just… be careful, sister. That is all I ask.”
“As you wish.” Eliza smiled. “I promise I will, but there is one aspect of this you and I must discuss. I will be cautious, but I am determined to be happy with my life. I will not tiptoe round in fear of being hurt, Rebecca. I still want to live my life to the fullest.”
Rebecca had no words. Was that what she was doing with her life now? Tiptoeing through it all? She nodded, unable to say anything at all.
“Now, I must go tell our mother of the good news. She’ll be so happy; I rather think she will dance as much as I am!” Eliza laughed as she hurried down the path toward the house again.
Rebecca watched her go, unable to move for another minute as Eliza’s words settled on her.
Tiptoeing…The word suggested she was afraid.
“I am afraid.” Rebecca’s words urged her into action again. She followed her sister’s path up to the house, walking through the back door flanked by white pillars in the Palladian-style, yet she couldn’t follow Eliza to see her mother. She could already hear those particular squeals of delight coming from the sitting room, and she found her heart couldn’t bear that sound.
Instead, her feet took her up the stairs where she retreated to her bedchamber. Once locked safely inside, she did something she hadn’t done for months. She pushed a chair to the wardrobe and retrieved a box that she kept so far back, and covered in old swatches of embroidery, it was difficult for her lady’s maid to ever find it.
Once she had the rosewood box in her grasp, carved with golden roses across the top, she pulled it out onto her bed and tipped the contents out. Inside she kept the letters Lord Armstrong had sent to her. She had no wish to read them. She had done that enough, crying over the false words he had written to her, professing a love that he had never felt.
She gathered the letters in a fumble, merging them into a bundle before turning to the fireplace. There were just the barest embers of a fire in the hearth, but it would be enough to accomplish what she wanted.
“Why do I keep them?” she asked herself as she knelt down in front of the fireplace and added the letters to the fire. The first letter took light easily enough, but the others were more difficult. She prodded them with the poker, forcing them into the embers until one great yellow flame took hold of the papers, burning them to blackened ash.
Once they were burned beyond recognition, disappearing completely, Rebecca scrambled back to her bed and looked at the rosewood box. It was empty. There was something very symbolic about that empty box, showing exactly how she felt, empty.
It gave her the perfect idea for a poem, comparing the two in her mind. As the words began to take shape, she lifted the lid of the box and closed it tight, the sound heavy in the empty room. Returning the box to its hiding place in the top of the wardrobe, she turned back to the burnt letters, feeling a little freer than she did before.
“I must be free of the memory of him.”
* * *
“What is it, Mama?” Rebecca called from the top of the stairs. In the corridor she could hear fumbling sounds, suggesting there was something of a commotion in the doorway.
