Born of Persuasion by Jessica Dotta Page B

fortnight.” She perched her foot on the bottom step, but instead of going upstairs, she pressed her ear against the door and listened as the women inside continued their dialogue.
    I retreated to the nearest chamber, a small room that held books and a desk where Mrs. Windham replied tocorrespondences. With only the company of a stiff wind rattling the windows, I sank into the chair behind the desk and took stock of my situation. I wasn’t sure whom to direct my choler toward—Mama for forsaking me, Edward for taking orders, or Mrs. Windham for being the first to acknowledge my true status.
    I drew my shawl tighter, wondering if things had always been this way and I was only now waking up to it.
    During my childhood, on summer evenings here, Mrs. Windham often pushed back the furniture in the drawing room so Elizabeth and I could practice dancing. Those nights were amongst the best of my memories. As I sat in the cold office, I recalled how the open windows framed starry skies and laved the room with the scent of roses. Had I been encouraged, I might have become an accomplished dancer. With hands posed femininely in the air, my feet took on a grace of their own as they chasséd back and forth to Elizabeth. Our nightgowns were swirls of white as Mrs. Windham swung her arms in three-counts, baa-baaing a minuet.
    But sometimes between the twirling ribbons and peals of giggles, I’d catch sight of Mama and wish I hadn’t. Her expression reminded me of Sarah’s the time she was forced to drown a sack of unwanted kittens. I’d stumble in my steps, confused by her reaction, but by the time I spun again, she’d be focused on her needlework.
    Miss Pitts’s vulgar laugh pierced through the wall, drawing me back from my memories. I leaned against the chair and wondered what I had done that caused Mama to leave me to fend for myself. I rested my head against the wall and deliberated whether marriage to Edward was still an option. Whether I could allow the church to become my asylum after all.

FOUR LONG DAYS passed after Miss Pitts’s visit—raw, dreary days where cold air permeated every stitch of clothing and seeped into bones. Rain pounded the landscape, delaying the delivery of coal and wood so that Mrs. Windham sanctioned fire for our use only in the morning room, where Elizabeth and I bided our time, sewing with numb fingers.
    Mrs. Windham scarcely seemed to notice the cold, as her mind was full of the possible matches her efforts might secure me. While she sewed, she conjectured aloud which Tom, Dick, or Harry from the village I might find agreeable. I endured without comment, choosing instead to ruminate on the requirements Edward might place upon me.
    I felt fairly certain no vicar could wed William Elliston’s daughter unless she publicly repented and joined the church. But would Edward care if I truly believed? And if so, should I pretend? During those endless hours, I’d often rise and pace the room to stretch my aching muscles. Each time I passed the rain-beaded window, my gaze traced down the dirt path that led beyond Am Meer and into the spinney of birch trees lost in theswirling haze. I’d wonder whether I’d ever truly be free again. In Scotland, would they allow me long solitary rambles? Or if I did manage to marry Edward, what sort of restrictions might he place upon me? The vicar in my village was notorious for making his wife and children spend two hours a day in Scripture reading and another hour in prayer.
    Often, as I wrestled with these thoughts, I’d feel Elizabeth’s sympathetic gaze upon me. I hated that moment worst of all. In those pitying glances, I sensed her thoughts as easily as a gypsy detects a gullible client. It made little difference what Edward’s expectations for his wife were, for thus far, he’d kept his vow and stayed clear of me.
    How things might have eventually concluded, I cannot say. In the end, I slipped through my circumstances in a way I could have never