Page 33 of A Foreign Crown
They were quiet for a moment, Aribella leaving the Queen to her thoughts.
Then Her Majesty said, “Of course, we have George. We have a lovely daughter Sophia. She, Elizabeth, Mary, and Amelia are close as can be.”
The Queen’s talk of her family and their struggles washed over Aribella in a heavy sadness she found difficult to bear. While the Queen’s sorrow was her own sorrow, she also felt a greater sense of belonging and duty. She would help this good woman for a time and then return to her own family of two. And that thought brought her great comfort. She longed for word from her father. And if perhaps, someday, she were able to have a family, to surround herself with children, she might find her joy complete. But if not, she could find herself satisfied with her service to others and with the love of her father.
A bitterness in her stomach rose and reminded her that the estate would no longer be hers, that she would be alone in the world when Father was gone, that he hadn’t been feeling healthy when she’d left. So many worries clouded her mind that she could no longer sit. “Might I write a letter to my father?”
Queen Charlotte straightened in her chair. “Why, yes, of course, and that reminds me. You have two letters on the tray.”
“Oh, lovely.” Aribella curtsied. “When will you need me next?”
“I’ll send someone.”
“Thank you.” She hurried into the house as quickly as decorum allowed. Two letters! From her father, she assumed; who else would be sending her any form of correspondence?
The servants held the door upon her approach. She nodded, feeling as though such a thing were hardly necessary. How odd to go without a full staff for long enough that being waited on felt like such a frivolity.
But her thoughts pushed her with great urgency through the myriad of rooms and spaces in the home until she was at last in the front room and moved quickly to the tray on the table at the entry.
One was in her father’s hand, and the other was in a hand she did not recognize. She turned it over and studied the seal with curiosity. Hurrying through the front rooms of the house, she went in search of the library she knew was on that side.
After a few wrong turns and a growing impatience, she at last pushed open a set of thick wood double doors and entered a room stuffed with books. She grinned. From floor to ceiling, in every open and waiting surface, on rows and rows of shelves, books filled the space with a delicious promise of knowledge.
She made her way to the soft chairs sitting in front of a fireplace. The fire was, thankfully, not lit, and the room had a comfortable coolness to it. The windows on the far wall were covered with curtains, thick and dark, but the room was well lit with a smaller chandelier, wall sconces, and two candles on the mantel and on the table to her front.
The letters felt heavy in her hands. She broke the seal on the letter from her father.
She drank in his voice, the sound of it filling her mind as she read his words.
Dear daughter,
I write to tell you I am well. Do not fret for my health. Almost as soon as you left, I began to recover and am now fully restored. There. I have set your mind at ease.
We received your letters with great joy. I read them to all the servants, and all rejoice in your great success.
Now I write on another matter entirely, for another person rejoices in your happiness: one Lord Bartholomew.
Aribella sucked in her breath. She’d all but forgotten him.
I suspect you’ve all but forgotten him.
She smiled.
He has stayed on with us even after his mother and sister have departed. And I must say, the more I know him, the more he endears himself to me. He is not at all bothered by the general dilapidation of the place and has excellent plans to begin restoring our grand estate to its ancient splendor.
That was encouraging.
I understand from him that a most important conversation between the two of you was interrupted, and your subsequent departure to London has prevented its continuance. He had, of course, asked my permission to court you. As I found the prospect very generous of him and I know him to be a genuinely good man, I encouraged him, with the understanding that your heart as well as your head must be won.
I do hope both align where he is concerned. I am comfortable leaving our precious estate in his hands, and—if you were to choose him—my infinitely more precious daughter as well.
Well, of course she must accept him. The only way to keep her family’s estate was to accept him. And her father so obviously approved. She’d thought Lord Bartholomew pleasant enough, nice to look upon. Nothing else needed to be decided. She nodded and then read through her father’s words again, running her finger along his closing.
I love you, my daughter. I know your mother would be most pleased.
But as she sat pondering her father’s words, she could not feel at ease. With a sigh, she turned to her other letter. Breaking the seal, she was surprised to notice that the writing looked to be that of a man.Her gaze drifted to the signature. Lord Bartholomew.
Dear Lady Aribella,
