Chapter 11

“I was hoping you might explain your family’s unique names,” said Mr. Knight, snapping Angelica from her thoughts.

Scowling inwardly, she shook away her distraction and straightened with a chuckle. “Is that all? That is hardly personal. Anyone in my family will gladly expound at length about our given names, as most of my siblings put great stock in their origins and meanings.”

“I can well imagine,” said Mr. Knight. “I recognize the origins of some, such as Guinevere and Ophelia—”

“It is difficult to overlook those two.”

“And I’ve heard mention of a sister named Viviane and a brother named Tristan, both of which clearly owe their names to Arthurian legend.”

“Correct,” said Angelica with a nod. “And Helen is named for the mythic Helen of Troy.”

“But Emily and Thomas seem pedestrian in comparison,” he said with a puzzled frown.

Angelica sighed. “All my siblings’ names come from literature and poetry. Thomas is named after the poet Thomas Gray, who inspired Papa to pursue that profession. Emily and Aloysius were named for two of Mama’s favorite novels, The Mysteries of Udolpho and The Mists of Craven Moor respectively.”

Stopping there, she knew that Mr. Knight wouldn’t allow her silence to stand, but she wasn’t going to offer the information without prodding.

“And Angelica?” he asked with an arched brow. “I don’t know if I’ve ever met a lady with that name before.”

“ Orlando Furioso ,” she said with a grimace. “I cannot tell you how often my parents quoted that epic poem when I was a child. Thank the heavens, they have surrendered their dreams and accepted that I shan’t be kidnapped and tied to a rock as an offering to a sea creature.”

Mr. Knight’s expression brightened. “Ah, the beautiful princess who drove men wild with her allures. Every knight in the kingdom, if I recall correctly.”

The emphasis he placed on that word made it clear he was referencing his surname, and Angelica leaned closer, holding his gaze with an inviting smile. “And yet not a single one of them caught her. She chose a poor soldier because she was not fooled by the knights’ overtures.”

If the gentleman understood the set-down, he didn’t show it beyond a faint spark in his eye that made her think he had and was amused by the challenge.

Leaning back, Angelica turned her attention to the papers. “My parents’ choices reflect their desire for their children to spend their lives surrounded by romance and adventure—fully ignoring how tragically most of those stories end. But I am certain my parents would rather I die a tragic death than remain a loveless spinster. Even a bout of madness would at least give me a little romantic cachet.”

Mr. Knight chuckled at that, and no doubt the fellow thought it an exaggeration.

After a moment, he frowned and said, “Try as I might, I cannot think of any stories or poems that feature your nieces’ and nephews’ names, and they are a rather odd assortment.”

Angelica gave him a wry smile. “Music is my sister’s passion, and she chose names that aligned with that. Carl, Bella, and Gael are named after Emily’s favorite composer and performers. Alegría is a musical term for a happy, joyful melody, and the final three also have Spanish connotations in honor of their father and their time in Spain.”

Mr. Knight nodded. “Your sister has spoken of her time following the drum with her husband. It sounds as though it was quite harrowing.”

Try as she might, Angelica couldn’t help the wry tone that accompanied her words as she spoke. “Emily is always eager to speak of such things, but I warn you that she has my family’s flair for the dramatic. Lieutenant Rawden Fitzherbert was stationed in a garrison in Spain and spent most of his days guarding a stronghold that saw no action. I doubt he ever crossed paths with an enemy soldier.”

Eyes widening, the gentleman stared at her for a heartbeat before bursting out into laughter.

*

Despite having been in Haydon only four days, Mrs. Fitzherbert had already regaled him with stories of her husband’s bravery and her harrowing time “amidst the enemy.” From the lady’s description, one would think Lieutenant Fitzherbert had been a grand hero of the Battle of Salamanca and that she’d spent the majority of her married life living on the front lines, but with her characteristic dryness, Miss Callaghan quickly brushed those beliefs aside.

As the lady continued, Julian’s amusement grew as he recalled the dramatic retellings Mrs. Fitzherbert had subjected him to. One couldn’t help but find it amusing when the greatest danger the fellow had faced was being injured when an inexperienced foot soldier had overturned a supply cart.

Julian couldn’t believe he hadn’t questioned the stories now that he considered the situation; as the war had ended nearly a decade ago, a simple bit of arithmetic made it clear Mrs. Fitzherbert had only spent a year or two in Spain at most.

“If you value your sanity, I beg you not to ask her about Rawden’s passing,” said Miss Callaghan with a blend of genuine sorrow at the loss and frustration at her sister’s antics. “Apparently, falling whilst repairing their cottage roof isn’t glorious enough because Emily will do her utmost to convince you he was felled by a Spanish saber. I genuinely do not think she intends to mislead, but she has a way of improving upon the truth.”

“A characteristic she inherited from her father, I would guess,” replied Julian.

Miss Callaghan turned her eyes to the heavens. “Gracious, yes. My entire family enjoys spinning a tale.”

With a few more prods, he urged her to share more as they turned their attention to their work. Together, they clarified the notes and organized them into something useful, and all the while, Miss Callaghan shared stories that had him laughing, for she was just as gifted at weaving the truth into something more than mere fact—though she managed to do so without twisting it into something unrecognizable.

Despite her clear dislike of poets and romanticism, Miss Callaghan spoke of her family with affection, her expression warming as she shared memories and experiences. Meanwhile, the frenetic notes were slowly falling into place, and as the conversation lulled, Julian studied the instructions he was copying.

“I adore a well-organized checklist,” he said.

Miss Callaghan smiled, though she did not look up from her work. “Are you going to write a heart-rending sonnet about the beauty of orderly records?”

Drawing in a deep breath, Julian spoke with all the feeling in his heart:

“O checklist, keeper of my daily strife,

Thy squares so neatly ticked, my guiding light.

With thee, I conquer chaos, find new life,

And navigate the world with such delight.”

With raised brows, she said, “Bravo, Mr. Knight.”

Returning to his work (and his usual tone of voice), Julian glanced at Miss Callaghan and asked, “Is it truly so unbelievable that I prefer order to chaos?”

“As a lady raised in a household where poetry, literature, music, and art abound, I can say with all certainty that it is.” Miss Callaghan attempted a lighthearted air, but as she spoke, her tone grew grim. “I cannot tell you how many times I have been chastised for limiting and restraining creativity with my attempts to bring order to our home. ‘One cannot attain one’s full potential when one is surrounded by boundaries.’”

The last she said with such a firm tone, as though quoting directly from another, and Julian had heard such sentiment enough over the past few days to suspect it was a family motto of sorts.

“You must forgive me if I disagree,” said Julian. Though Miss Callaghan focused on her work, he set his aside and faced her. “I know that many artistic types espouse such beliefs, but I have never understood it. Utter poppycock.”

Miss Callaghan paused in her writing and glanced at him, her brows knit together.

Leaning on the table, Julian straightened the pages before him. “Creativity doesn’t thrive best without boundaries. The most profoundly innovative moments in my life have been when I was surrounded by restrictions, making it nearly impossible to navigate. The more constraints one has, the more imagination it takes to find a solution. When left to one’s own devices, human nature tends to lead us down the same paths that others have taken dozens of times before, while we blissfully believe ourselves to be blazing new trails.”

Miss Callaghan’s brows arched in disbelief, so he continued, “I have met poets and authors who believe that reading others’ work will taint one’s own, yet without fail, those people write the same poems and books that have been written again and again. By studying what has come before, one can be inspired down new avenues.”

Glancing at the lady’s domain, which was wholly the opposite of her father’s, he added, “I do not think that most genius comes by accident. Being purposeful isn’t the antithesis of imagination any more than being chaotic and undisciplined is required for being creative.”

“Do not say that too loudly, else Papa will cast you into the streets whilst my family burns you in effigy,” she said with a faint smile. “I don’t know if I’ve ever heard a poet espouse such a belief.”

Julian held back a laugh at that. Beyond keeping his parents from giving the game away completely, he hadn’t given Miss Callaghan any reason to think him a published poet, yet the lady was no closer to sorting out the truth than before. Granted, he didn’t know if he would’ve sorted out her identity without her parents giving up the ruse, and Julian supposed it was time to let the game go.

“As I am not a poet, I suppose that would be why I do not sound like one,” he said.

Miss Callaghan didn’t gape or sputter or give any properly delicious utterance of surprise, but Julian supposed that was to be expected. The lady never did as he anticipated.

“But I’ve seen you writing poetry,” she said.

“Yes… I do write it…” he fumbled over his words as she stared at him. “I only mean that I am not a true poet.”

“Is there such a thing as a false poet?”

Julian brushed the corner of one of the pages, straightening it. “I spend my days assisting people with their investments, properties, and the like, and enjoy writing poetry as a pastime, but I am not a poet in any true sense of the word.”

Miss Callaghan huffed. “Do you write poetry?”

“Yes?” he replied, his hesitant statement coming out as more of a question than an answer.

“Then you are a poet,” she said with a tone as though even a simple poet ought to understand. “Publishing your work doesn’t make it any more valid. Painters are painters, whether or not they make a farthing from it. Pianists are pianists, no matter if they never play in a single concert. It is the act that makes you what you are, not the money or attention you garner from it.”

Julian nodded, as the logic was sound enough. “Yes. Well, it doesn’t change the fact that I am more a man of business than a poet, which accounts for my love of orderly records. And can I say that I was hoping for a grander reaction than that when I revealed that the assumption you made about me was incorrect.”

Miss Callaghan raised a brow. “Hoping for a bit of tit-for-tat?”

“And as your guest, I find it monstrously rude that you are not giving it to me.”

With a grave nod, Miss Callaghan sat for a moment before raising her brows with a shocked gasp, and affecting a startled tone, she said, “You are a man of business! Good gracious! What a ninny I’ve been!”

Primly shuffling the papers before him, Julian murmured, “Was that so difficult?”

But when her expression softened again, Miss Callaghan gave him a hint of a grimace, her eyes offering a genuine apology. “I suppose I made some rather big assumptions about you, Mr. Knight.”

“No more than I did about you, Miss Callaghan,” he replied with a shrug. “And I will admit that I let the mistake go on too long, but I was having the tiniest bit of a laugh at your expense. I know you will not begrudge me that.”

Miss Callaghan chuckled, shaking her head at herself. “Not after my having so many laughs at your expense. And turning your mother against you, too.”

Holding out his hand in greeting, Julian took hers. “Then it is a pleasure to finally meet you properly, Miss Callaghan.”

“You are being ridiculous again,” she replied with an arched brow, though she didn’t release her hold on his hand.

Using it to draw her closer, Julian leaned in with a smile and a conspiratorial whisper. “Now that I am not a mere poet but a man of business with a healthy income and comfortable home, will you reconsider going on a drive with me?”

The moment he spoke, Julian knew he’d misstepped again, for Miss Callaghan’s expression fell, her eyes growing stormy as though the worst of winter blizzards had swept in without warning.

“I will not apologize for rejecting the overtures of someone who cares more about his ‘art’ than his responsibility to provide for his wife and children,” she said, gathering up her papers, but Julian moved to slow her progress.

“I meant to tease you, Miss Callaghan, and it came out poorly,” he said, but she yanked her things out of his grasp.

“That it did,” she said, rising to her feet. “And though I do accept your apology, I am done with your games, sir, for I put no stock in romance, reject the notion of love at first sight, and have no intentions of marrying. While I welcome your friendship, I am utterly finished with you playing the part of a courting swain simply because your pride has been pricked.”

Julian rose, his brow creasing. “That is not the case—”

“You are telling me that despite hardly knowing her, you saw a dowdy lady—whom you mistook for a maid—and thought, ‘I must have her!’?” Miss Callaghan leveled a disbelieving stare at him before turning away. “Do you know how many of my father’s protégés have attempted to win my heart simply because I refuse to participate in this farce? I do not think I could tell you, for it has happened far too many times to count, Mr. Knight.”

“Miss Callaghan—”

“I am going for a walk,” she called as she stepped into the corridor.

Glancing at the window, he stared at the gathering clouds now darkening the landscape and the trees that bowed beneath the blustering wind as it kicked up a torrent of snow. In this weather?

And though he knew better, Julian couldn’t help calling after her, “May I join you?”

“No.”