Page 49 of A Secret Correspondence
Her heart pounded so loudly in her ears, she could hardly hear herself think. She smiled politely, doing her best to keep her shaky hands beneath the counter and out of sight. “Mr. Harding is a friend of mine. I am glad to hear of his impending happiness.”
Mrs. Harding gave her a hard stare. The woman could cut through a chunk of ice with those eyes. She must have deemed her work complete, however, for she gave a slight nod, took her package, and walked out of the shop.
Marguerite lowered herself to the floor, kneeling beside Claude. Her chest hurt, her lungs struggling to expand. “Engaged,” she whispered, her heart pounding feverishly. “I must write him a final letter, darling. It will have to be my last.”
Chapter Seventeen
Tuesday was cold and cloudy, a terrible start to what was meant to be a beautiful day. Samuel had not made any particular plans regarding matrimony, but his father had given him a lecture at dinner last night about the best way to propose to a lady.
Swiftly, and before she was taken by someone else. That was the sum of his arguments.
For once, Samuel did not have a defense prepared. He was in private agreement. His parents were unaware he and Miss Farrow had spent the better part of the year coming to know one another through their letters, of course. Through writing their deepest thoughts and concerns and hopes, Samuel had fallen for her, and coming to know her in the flesh had only confirmed the feelings he believed he’d had when she was mere ink on paper.
It would not occur today, but he believed the engagement would happen soon. After all, there was no reason to wait.
Miss Farrow had no living father, so he ought to speak to her mother to ask for her hand. If there was another male figure in Miss Farrow’s life who expected Samuel to request his blessing, Mrs. Farrow could inform him then.
Samuel stood in the entryway with his mother to welcome the Farrow women to tea as the cloudy sky gave way to the patter of rain.
“Our nice garden tea has died before it was ever given a chance to thrive,” Mother said bitterly, pulling her deep maroon shawl over her shoulders. “Such a pity. The house shows much better from the outside.”
“I’m certain neither Miss Farrow or her mother will care about the state of your drawing room, Mother. It is well-appointed and the tea will be delicious.”
She made a noncommittal noise. “I ought to have asked your Aunt Rose to join us. Another lady is good for the conversation.”
Samuel was glad she had not. He didn’t want Mrs. Farrow to feel outnumbered. He eyed the shawl again. “Is that new?”
“I purchased it from Madame Perreau just Saturday.” Mother looked at him closely. “If you desire a private conversation with Miss Farrow, I can distract her mother well enough.”
“Why should I want that?” Samuel was being difficult. He knew precisely why she was nudging him.
Mother gave a huff. “You care for the girl. She is pretty, amiable, and possessed of a fortune. Why delay?”
Why, indeed? An image of Marguerite in her ballgown popped into his mind, but he chased it away forthwith. That had no business edging its way into his thoughts. She was his friend, and he was only thinking of her more often because he was worried for her safety.
Howe, their butler, noticed the Farrow carriage pull in front of the house. “They are here,” he said before opening the door. One of Samuel’s footmen had an umbrella ready and took it to hold over the women.
Miss Farrow climbed out first, walking swiftly inside. Her cheeks were pink from the chill, giving her a youthful, rosy glow.
Her mother followed, looking pale. Once she reached the house, she leaned on her daughter’s arm. “Forgive me. Carriage rides do not always suit my constitution.”
“A cup of tea will fix you right up,” Mother said, separating Mrs. Farrow deftly from her daughter and assisting her in removing her cloak and bonnet. She handed them to Howe before leading Mrs. Farrow toward the drawing room. Samuel assumed Mother was glad for the illness, if only for the way it would dull Mrs. Farrow’s initial judgment of their house.
“You have a lovely home,” Miss Farrow said after slipping free of her own rain-spotted cloak and bonnet. Her eyes trailed up the staircase and jumped to the windows high in the entryway.
“It needs some work,” he said honestly. “My father has not been in a position to manage it himself.”
She looked at him for a long moment, her dark lashes sweeping slowly as she blinked. “Perhaps when you are married, if you have a healthy settlement,youwill be able to do the things your house needs.”
It was as blunt a conversation as they’d yet had about his situation, and he was glad she had allowed him to broach the topic. “Yes. My mother has always supported my hope to find a love match first, though.”
“She is a kind mother.”
“Indeed.” He offered his bent elbow. “Shall we?”
Miss Farrow wrapped her hand around his arm and stood close to his side as he led her into the drawing room. She sat on the open settee and he took the cushion beside her, noting how the mothers had taken the low-backed chairs and left it open for them.
His final concern had been addressing his lack of funds. Miss Farrow had accepted the situation so easily, Samuel was certain she had already been informed. With the ease at which gossip traveled about Harewood, and how close her cousin was to Harewood society, surely shehadbeenforewarned about the state of Samuel’s finances. His pride smarted at that, but he supposed it was a good thing Miss Farrow had not been surprised by the information.
