To Love the Brooding Baron

EIGHT

EIGHT

It was late in the evening, and all Arabella could do was pace. A low fire flickered in the hearth in her room, warding off the dampness after yet another day of rain. The flames cast a faint, ghostly shadow that followed her across the light-blue patterned wallpaper, while her night rail, loosely tied about her waist, wrapped around her ankles with every abrupt turn.

“Yer goin’ to wear a hole in that floor, pacin’ it like ye are,” Hattie said, eyeing Arabella as she dropped a pile of dirty linens by the door.

“I cannot help it,” Arabella replied, continuing to pace as her nerves twisted into a knot in the pit of her stomach.

She’d waited all day for the knock on the door that would be Lord Northcott coming to tell her mother what she’d done. But it never came.

Henever came.

She didn’t understand it.

“Why does he stay away?” Arabella asked, abruptly stopping mid-turn, one hand on her hip.

Hattie looked at her as if she’d grown a third arm. “And yer upset about this, why? If he doesn’t come, we don’t have to face the consequences of our actions.”

“I know that,” Arabella said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “But I cannot help feeling that if he does not come, it is only because—” She paused, letting out a flustered breath. It was never easy to admit one’s insecurities out loud. “Because he no longer wants anything to do with me.”

Hattie tilted her head. “Do ye want him to want somethin’ to do with ye?”

Arabella had been just as surprised as Hattie when she first had the thought. But there it was, unbidden, and so in earnest she couldn’t deny it no matter how confused she felt. She’d never thought about Lord Northcott in that way throughout the Season, yet something had changed inside Brooks’s.

“I do not know,” she replied, frustrated with herself.

Walking to her bed, she flung herself—a little too dramatically—backward onto the coverlet. She couldn’t seem to let the matter go. He was a dark enigma with a gentle appeal that tugged at her emotions. She couldn’t help but want to know more about him.

“He is nothing like me,” Arabella said more as an argument to herself. Her thoughts and feelings battled one another.

Hattie scoffed. “That’s for certain.”

Arabella shot her a glare.

“What?” Hattie balked. “Ye said it first.”

Arabella sat up. “That does not mean I need you to agree with me.”

Hattie sat down next to her with a look of concern. “What is this really all about, miss?”

Arabella let out a breath. She hadn’t told Hattie everything that had happened inside the gentleman’s club. Lord Northcott’s secret wasn’t hers to tell, but if she was going to understand these new feelings she was having, she needed advice.

“There was a pamphlet,” she blurted out.

“Where?” Hattie asked, confused.

“Inside Brooks’s. It fell out of Lord Northcott’s pocket. It had been tucked inside a book. And I told him I would return it—the pamphlet; I did not keep the book—to him, and that I would leave willingly if he took me to see the betting book.” Her words were coming out fast, but she couldn’t seem to slow them down or make them make much sense. “It had the most frightening title—Lunacy: mastering the animality after the loss of humanity.”

Hattie’s eyes bulged.

“I am sorry I did not tell you about it, but he—Lord Northcott—was very uneasy about me having it, and then I did the horrible thing of using it against him.” She cringed; it hadn’t been her finest moment. “I did give it back, but I also cannot stop thinking about that pamphlet and why he had it and why he was hiding it.” She gulped in her next few breaths, feeling suddenly lightheaded.

Hattie blinked for a moment before meeting Arabella’s gaze. “I’m goin’ to forgive ye for not tellin’ me, because I might know somethin’ that I didn’t tell ye—only because I didn’t feel it was my place to talk about a close friend of the family.”

It was Arabella’s turn to gape.

Lord, how this world is given to lying.

“What do you know?” Arabella asked.

Hattie clasped her hands in her lap and took a deep breath. “I heard from one of the maids in Lady Bixbee’s home that her aunt once worked in the Northcott home, and she says there was a sister.”

“Was a sister?” Arabella repeated, her mind furiously coming up with its own explanations.

Hattie nodded slowly. “As in, she was in the home but was admitted to Bedlam ... like the mother.”

A sudden chill swept through the room, sending shivers up Arabella’s spine. She turned to see which of her windows had been left opened but found all were closed.

A knock firm and clear sounded at her door, causing both girls to jump.

“Arabella?” her mother’s voice called out.

Her already pounding heart continued to pound for an entirely new reason. Had Lord Northcott finally told her mother what she’d done?

Forcing an outward appearance of calm that she did not feel, Arabella stood and smoothed down the front of her night rail. “Co-come in.”

Her mother opened the door and stepped inside the room. Her brown hair, which matched the color of Arabella’s, hung over one shoulder of her dark-blue night rail in a finely woven plait. “I thought I heard talking.” She looked between Arabella and Hattie, who stood beside her.

“Pardon me, mistress. I’m late getting these linens down to the washroom.” Hattie curtsied and shot a quick look of apology to Arabella before gathering up the linens at the door and leaving. The lucky coward was getting out before the situation turned bad.

“Did we wake you?” Arabella asked with a forced smile.

Nothing will come of nothing.She repeated the words of King Lear, praying them to be true.

“No, I was still awake. This was just delivered.” She held up a letter, the wax seal unbroken. “Apparently, it could not wait until morning.”

Arabella was going to be sick. Needing to move, needing to do something to contain the riotous nerves fighting inside her, she returned to her bed. Snatching up one of the pillows, she hopped onto the cream coverlet, pressed her elbows onto the pillow, and clasped her hands in her lap as if everything was perfectly fine.

“Oh? Who is it from?” she asked with far too much nonchalance in her tone. She might as well hold up a bell that clanged out “guil-ty, guil-ty” every time it rang.

Her mother gave her a curious look before joining her on the opposite corner of the bed. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said far too quickly. “It was just a strange day,” she blurted out again, wanting to cover her face with the pillow. Where was the control she’d had when she was inside Brooks’s? If she had acted like this, she never would have made it through the front door.

“At the Foundling Hospital?” her mother asked, one delicate brow raised.

“Yes,” she replied. What else could she say?

“How so?”

Wonderful. Now she would either have to risk making up a lie to add to the growing list of her transgressions or simply ask for her sentencing once the letter was opened.

“It was—that is to say—it felt strange, I guess. Parting with father’s clothing.” There. It was not a lie, nor was it admitting the full truth. Arabella had felt strange handing over the items. She knew her father would never wear them again, but it felt so final. Almost like the day he had been buried. Life was moving on, and once again she had to leave another part of him behind.

Tears glassed over her mother’s eyes, and she forced a smile Arabella knew was for her benefit. “That’s understandable,” she said in a soft tone.

Abandoning the pillow in her lap, Arabella moved to her mother’s side and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. “Forgive me. I was not thinking. I should not have brought it up.”

Her mother sniffled and wiped a stray tear from her cheek. “No, no, I am the one who should be sorry.” She patted Arabella’s clasped hands at her shoulder. “I want you to feel free to talk of him. It is good for me, even though I might not be strong enough yet to do so.” She tilted her head, resting her temple against Arabella’s forehead. “He would have been proud of what you did today.”

Arabella’s stomach clenched. She very much doubted that.

“Who is the letter from?” she asked, letting go of her mother and taking a seat beside her. It was time to face the consequences of her actions.

Her mother lifted the letter from her lap and opened it with painful slowness.

Arabella held her breath.

“It is from Lady Bixbee,” she said, shooting Arabella a teasing glance.

“What?” Arabella exclaimed, lunging for the letter to see for herself. Relief flooded over her, followed swiftly by another rush of nerves.

Her mother scanned the letter’s contents. “She writes to inform us that her grandson will be at the charity musicale, and she wishes for you to play your harp, not the pianoforte as you had previously committed.”

Arabella scoffed in disbelief. “She wishes?”

“Very well, she says you will play your harp so that you may stand out from all the other ladies performing.”

Arabella shook her head and laughed. That sounded much more like Lady Bixbee. “And she had to inform us of this now? The charity musicale is not for two days.”

“She wants to know what song you will play so her grandson might not ‘look a fool’ and learn ahead of time when to turn the pages.” They both giggled. That was just like the heavy-handed Lady Bixbee.

Her mother stood from the bed. “Try to get some sleep.” She leaned forward and kissed Arabella on the forehead. “Tomorrow is a new day.”

Arabella’s smile faded as she nodded, not at all certain what the next few days would bring.