The Things We Leave Unfinished Yarros, Rebecca (reading like a writer .TXT) 📖

“Allow me to clarify: I will not marry that monster. I refuse.”

“You what?” Her mother’s jaw dropped. “You are getting married this summer!”

“Well, it won’t be to Henry Wadsworth.” Even the name tasted vile in her mouth.

“You have someone else in mind?” her father quipped sarcastically.

“I do.” She lifted her chin. Birthday be damned, this couldn’t wait. They could not continue to plan her life. “I’m in love with a pilot, an American, and if I choose to marry, it will be him. You will have to find your income infusion elsewhere.”

“A Yank?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely not!” Dishes clanged as her father slammed his hands on the table, but Scarlett didn’t flinch.

Constance did.

“I will do as I please. I am a full-grown woman”—Scarlett stood—“and an officer in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. I am no longer a child for you to order about.”

“You would do this? Ruin us?” Her mother’s voice broke. “Generations of sacrifices have been made, but you will not?”

She knew exactly where to hit her daughters hardest, but Scarlett pushed the guilt aside. Marrying Henry would only delay the inevitable. The way of life her parents clung to was disintegrating. There was nothing she could do to stop that.

“If there is ruining to be done, I’m quite comfortable saying that I am not the cause.” She took a deep breath, hoping there was something she could salvage here, a way to make them see. “I love Jameson. He is a good man. An honorable man—”

“I’ll be damned if I see this title, this family’s legacy, given to the spawn of a bloody Yank!” her father shouted, coming to his feet.

Scarlett kept her head high and her shoulders square, thankful that she’d spent the last year working in the most stressful environment imaginable, perfecting the art of remaining calm during a tempest. “You make the mistake of assuming I want anything to do with your title. I do not aspire to wealth or politics. You cling to something I have no interest in.” Her voice was soft yet steel.

Her father’s face pinkened, then deepened to a purely red hue as his eyes bulged. “So help me God, Scarlett, if you marry without my permission, I will no longer acknowledge you as my daughter.”

“No,” her mother gasped.

“I mean it. You won’t inherit a thing.” He jabbed his finger toward her. “Not Ashby. Not this house. Nothing.”

Her heart didn’t break—that would have been too simple. It ripped, straining, then tearing at the fibers of her soul. She truly meant that little to him. “Then we agree,” she said softly. “I am free to do as I wish, as long as I willingly accept your consequence, which includes not inheriting the very things I do not want.”

“Scarlett!” her mother called out, but Scarlett didn’t lower her gaze or give an inch as her father attempted to stare her down.

“And if I have a son,” she continued, “he, too, will be free of this anchor of obligation you treasure more than your daughter’s happiness.”

Her father’s eyebrows shot up. The only thing he’d ever wanted was a son. She’d never give him hers.

“Scarlett, do not do this. You have to marry the Wadsworth boy,” he demanded. “Any sons that come from that union will be the next Baron Wright.”

He seemed to have forgotten that if Constance, too, had sons, it would not be so cut-and-dried.

“That sounds like an order.” Scarlett pushed in her chair and gripped the back.

“It is. It has to be.”

“I only take orders from my superior officers, and as I recall, you have elected not to serve in a war you have never approved of.” The ice in her veins permeated her tone.

“This visit is over.” He spoke through gritted teeth.

“I agree.” She kissed her mother’s cheek on the way out of the dining room. “Happy birthday, Mother. I’m so sorry I cannot give you what you want.”

Then she removed herself to her room, where she quickly changed into her uniform and packed her dress into her suitcase.

As she came down the stairs, she found Constance waiting for her at the threshold, dressed identically, suitcase in hand.

“Do not do this to us,” her mother begged, coming out of the drawing room.

“I will not marry Henry,” Scarlett repeated. “How can you ask me to? You would see me marry a man I loathe? A known abuser of women, all to keep what?” Scarlett asked, softening her voice.

“It’s what your father wants. What the family needs.” Her mother lifted her chin. “We’ve cut the staff. We’ve sold most of the land at Ashby. We’ve economized the last few years. We all make sacrifices.”

“But in this case, you’d like to sacrifice me, and I’ll not have it. Goodbye, Mother.” She walked out of the townhouse and sucked in a shaky breath.

Constance followed her, shutting the door behind her. “So I guess we’ll need to purchase new train tickets, seeing as ours were for tomorrow.”

She did not deserve her sister, but she hugged her anyway. “How do you feel about applying for a transfer?”

Chapter Eleven

Noah

Scarlett, my Scarlett,

Tonight, I miss you more than my words can possibly convey. I wish I could fly to you, even if just for a few hours. The only thought that keeps me going here is knowing you’ll be with me soon. On nights like tonight, I escape by picturing us in the Rockies, at home and at peace. I’ll teach William how to camp and fish. You’ll be able to write—to do whatever you want. And we’ll be happy. So happy. We’re due a little tranquility, don’t you think? Not that I regret volunteering for this war. After all, it brought me to you…

She slammed the door in my face.

She actually slammed the door in my face.

I sucked in a deep breath, noting the particular burn in my lungs that always accompanied the high altitude. Of all the outcomes I pictured during the flight, this hadn’t been one of them.

The solution had come to me while I’d been rereading Scarlett’s and Jameson’s