Born of Persuasion Read Free Page B

faithfully sent her yearly invitation, andpain creased Mama’s face as she read each missive. Not even a stranger would have mistaken Tantalus’s hunger in her eyes. To this day I ache when I consider the cruelty she endured to keep me from Edward—the drunken rages, the swift, savage hand of my father. She could have escaped, spent her summer afternoons sewing in peace amongst Mrs. Windham’s roses. But Mama held firm to her belief that Edward would devastate my life. Of all people, Mama should have known that we have no control over fate, not even our own.
    Her efforts were vain, regardless. For despite her keeping me under lock and key during our last visit to Am Meer, Edward had managed to find me.
    My faith in Edward had been so strong that even the afternoon I learned I had a guardian, I scarcely listened to his terms. That afternoon, I still had not been able to weep over Mama’s death, as it was self-inflicted. I walked in a blur. Thus when Mr. Graves, my solicitor, informed me I had a guardian who intended to send me to Scotland as a widow’s companion, I sat expressionless as he read my guardian’s instructions.
    My calm must have disturbed him, for when he finished he looked over the page and frowned. “Did you understand any of what I just read?”
    “I understood.” I kept my hands folded on my lap, refusing to change expression.
    He clearly hadn’t expected this, for he paused, looking annoyed.
    I swallowed hard, wondering what a normal response was. Did he expect me to object to my lower status? Was I supposed to weep and wail? Or was he waiting for me to thank my guardian profusely for overseeing my future?
    Twice Mr. Graves cleared his throat, an indicant he wished me to speak. Tugging his cravat, he stared, waiting. “Well, haven’t you anything to say?” he finally demanded.
    A slow smirk crept over my lips as I fought the urge to shriekwith laughter. Say? I mused. When had it ever mattered what I said? My words were as empty as air. No one consulted me about concealing Mama’s suicide, addressed the cost of the funeral, or even bothered to tell me that should my parents die, I’d have a guardian. No, I would not speak. I’d learned early that women did not escape their bonds. But neither would I thank my guardian. I would do nothing except sit here, hands folded.
    Mr. Graves was not a particularly insightful personality. Instead of recognizing someone worn down from grief, he saw a girl who smirked when he didn’t want her to. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Well—” he stood, stuffing papers back in his bag—“I’ll take my leave, then.”
    I remained motionless until his footsteps died. Even as fear slowly curled through my body, a ray of sun sliced through the dust and landed near my feet. It was as warm and shining as my last hope—Edward.
    The smattering of rain on the panes recalled me to Am Meer. I shook off the shawl and pattered to the bed, where my satchel lay. Stashed within the first compartment was the portrait of the life Mama had left me.
    The page had come to me during the last meeting with Mr. Graves. When he stood to leave, it fluttered unnoticed to the floor. It had taken all my effort not to stare at it as he turned and walked from the room.
    I opened the paper that I had folded and refolded so often the words had rubbed clean in the creases and could only be read from memory.
    As far as I could tell, the letter was written to my guardian and discussed the conditions of my going to Scotland. It read:
. . . for if she’s unused to Scotland’s damp air, I daresay, she’ll suffer without proper wool, boots, and cape.
Also, it is imperative the girl remains in full mourning. Mother and I are most severe upon this point. Your charge likely expects to make the transition into second mourning before her arrival. But such frivolity will little suit her life with us.
You wrote that you are concerned about whom the girl associates with. Allow me to assure you,