Archibald was not so chipper that morning. Thus far, his box had been filled with nothing of import. Perhaps there were a few joke replies to his earnest offer for marriage to a complete stranger. Was it because the whole town knew of him? Surely his past wasn't scandelous in the way of the Carrington name; now there was a family who needed to find a different town to haunt, but even one of the daughters would have been welcome to write if it meant he could get an heir before his time on earth was up. Frankly, he was getting old.

His silver streaked hair was rather dashing, he supposed, but would the lines in his once, handsome face be offputting for a younger woman?

He was currently seated alone at a table in the Inn closest to the post office. He had a mug of coffee in one hand and a local paper, a rather outdated one that he'd read a few times. 

At least old stories were amusing enough, he thought dryly as he sipped at the bitter brew. He sighed and set the cup down, settling back in the chair before rubbing his hand over his face.

"A letter for you, sir." A member of his staff announced interrupting their employer's breakfast.

The envelope and paper was of standard quality. Not luxurious, but not written on newspaper or some oher dross. The words were dark blue ink, small and jagged as if written in haste:

Dear Mister Rochester,

I am replying to your recent request for a suitable woman to become your wife. I hereby submit myself for your consideration. My name is Olivia Carrington. As such you may have heard of me. I am 21 years of age with delicate features and long brown hair.

Rest assured I am of good breeding, having received the finest tutaleage in education money can buy, and further instruction in ladylike conduct at my mother's side. I hold myself to the highest standards expected of English womanhood, and am more than willing to do my duty as a wife ought to in establishing a family. It is my fondest wish to find perfect everlasting love.

If this is acceptable to you, please write back as soon as possible.

Hopefully yours,

Miss Olivia Carrington

Archi took hold of the letter, opened it and scanned it. He propped his elbow upon the table and leaned casually on his thumb and forefinger, resting the sharp angle of his cheek while he sprawled one leg under the table as if bored. Hmm, think of a Carrington and one appears. His eyes rolled heavenward and he gave a prayer for patience, for he had heard of the scandals associated with one, Miss Olivia Carrington. Of course, he wasn't one to indulge in such nonsense, but he had no control over the wagging tongues of society. Many a busybody spoke of this family, and Olivia Carrington was far from perfect.

However, he could not argue the fact that she had inherited her mother's looks. He had once shown interest in Anne Carrington but she was much too cunning for his tastes. His interested had faded before he would have asked to court her. He pitied the fool who'd married her. Had she inherited her temper? He'd seen glimpses of that in Anne the day he would have asked, in fact, and he noped out faster than snow in the summertime.

He waved his man over, "I am sure she is nearby," and then he pointed to the letter, "Catch her and tell her she is invited to breakfast. If not, then I will seek her out myself." He had to make some kind of effort. He was too old to be picky, and she would be a means to an end. That left a sour taste in his mouth, but his man bowed and took off in search of the woman. Nobody needed to be told how she looked, for everyone knew who she was.

Olivia Carrington lounged with distress, her body stretched out on the settee to its fullest, willowest extent; her head was thrown back in longing, eyes staring at the ceiling, her arm hanging limply above her head. She was too young to be so vexxed with woe, too pretty to be ignored.

"Why hasn't he written back yet, was it something I wrote?" She asked of no one in particular.

She would soon receive a missive hastily written with the invitation and the place of meeting. "The market, come chaperoned or don't come at all."

He had intercepted the messenger before he left and paid him extra to put that in and make haste to find the woman. Archi nodded to the innkeeper as he set his empty cup on the table, folded the old newspaper, which actually had a picture of the very woman he was to meet with. He would not do something clandestine with a Carrington chit and be trapped in a marriage by circumstance. He would never risk it for that, he did not care that she was lovely to look at.

He tucked the paper under his arm and put his chapeaux on, then headed out and began his walk to the market, which wasn't far. He knew the market was an interesting place to meet, but he wanted to see how her interests drew her toward different stalls. It wasn't a test so much as gaining understanding about her. Of course, he would be talking to her throughout the morning.