FOURTEEN
FOURTEEN
Given Lady Bixbee’s talent for dominating the conversation at dinner, Arabella wasn’t surprised to see her reign continue the moment they entered the parlor.
“What do you think of my choice of husband for your daughter, Mrs. Latham?” Lady Bixbee asked with a haughty chuckle as she settled her round bottom on the dark maroon sofa.
Arabella dropped inelegantly next to her mother on the adjacent sofa, growing rather tired of being the center of everyone’s attention.
Her mother placed a hand atop her knee and gave her a look that communicated everything and yet said nothing.
While thou livest, keep a good tongue in thy head.
It wasn’t her favorite Shakespeare line, but it would do. She would practice patience and not inform the old matron exactly what she thought of her heavy-handed machinations.
The evening had gone nothing like Arabella had hoped. Instead of having time with Lord Northcott, she’d been all but forced to give her vows to Dr. Stafford. It was, of course, not Dr. Stafford’s fault. But against Lady Bixbee and, surprisingly, the Dowager Baroness Northcott, who hadn’t paid her any interest until now, it had been impossible to subvert their attentions.
“Any mother would be happy to have such a son-in-law,” her mother said rather diplomatically to Lady Bixbee and the Dowager Baroness Northcott, who sat next to each other. The matrons shared a pleased smile. “But I shall leave the final choice of husband to Arabella.”
Lady Bixbee’s smile dipped into a frown while Arabella felt nothing but relief. Showing patience in this instance might have paid off.
“If I had done that,” Lady Bixbee scoffed, “I would still be waiting on half my children and half of their children to marry. Take my advice—a firm, guiding hand is the better way. They will thank you for it in the end.”
Arabella’s mother nodded politely, but Lady Bixbee didn’t look convinced.
“Tell them, Beatrice,” she said to the Dowager Baroness Northcott.
“In some things, wisdom and experience are needed,” the other woman added.
“Doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love,” Arabella recited for the room.
The Dowager Baroness Northcott pinned her down with a hard stare. “What fiction are you prattling on about now?”
“Hamlet,” Arabella said proudly. “And it means when it comes to marriage, I would much rather follow the love that I know is in my heart than the words of others.”
Lady Bixbee and the Dowager Baroness Northcott both balked at the statement, and Arabella opened her mouth to argue her point further when her mother stepped in.
“Arabella, would you be so kind as to fetch my shawl? With the late spring and this continued rain, I find myself growing chilled at the strangest times.”
Arabella was more than happy to remove herself from the current situation. “Of course, Mother,” she said, standing up with a smile.
She had nearly made it to the door when it opened, and Dr. Stafford walked in.
“Have you come to welcome me to the parlor?” he asked with a teasing smile.
“I have not,” Arabella replied in a hushed tone.
“Is everything all right?” he asked, his smile fading to caution as he glanced toward the others.
“Where is my nephew?” the Dowager Baroness Northcott called out.
Arabella looked past Dr. Stafford. She could have sworn she saw a glimpse of a shadow move across the far wall of the corridor. A footman perhaps?
“He is seeing Mr. Collingsworth to a carriage, my lady,” Dr. Stafford replied before raising a brow at Arabella. He could, no doubt, feel the tension in the room.
Arabella should warn him, but it would do no good. Nothing, it seemed, would stop his grandmother.
Dipping one of the quickest curtsies of her life, she offered “Good luck” and swept out of the door, cringing as she heard Dr. Stafford’s stumbled words.
“Wait. What?”
The moment the door shut behind her, Arabella leaned her back against the wall. Closing her eyes, she let out a frustrated breath.
“Miss?” a man’s voice spoke.
Arabella’s eyes flew open, and she pressed her hand to her throat, her breaths coming out in rapid pants. Thank heavens she’d not screamed and summoned the occupants of the parlor.
“Forgive me,” Arabella said to the footman standing a few feet away. She straightened from the wall and smoothed out her skirts. “I did not see you there.”
“May I be of assistance?” he asked formally.
Arabella resisted the urge to look to the heavens. The footman was just as serious as the Dowager Baroness. “Would you be so kind as to bring me my mother’s shawl?” she asked.
He nodded, stiffly bowed, and left her in the flickering candlelight.
Frustrated, and wanting a moment to herself, she moved aimlessly down the corridor, sliding her fingers along the dark blue—nearly black—wallpaper and trim.
Everything about the house felt somber. From the darker-colored furnishings, polished wood floors, amber-colored carpets, and gold sconces, everything seemed ... haunted. Weighed down by time and memories.
A breeze suddenly whipped past her, making the candles flicker and nearly burn out. Her eyes darted toward the direction it came, looking for a source. All she saw was an empty corridor that grew darker the further it went. There was one sconce lit near the end, which was curious.
Why only light the farthest sconce and none of the others?
Arabella stepped from the light and into the shadows.
The carpet muffled her footsteps, the only sound her slow breaths as she waited to feel another breeze. With the little light, she was able to make out the darker shapes of a few paintings, but no open window. And no breeze.
Could she have imagined it?
Then she heard it: a soft creak followed by the quick rush of a breeze across her skin. The single lit sconce at the end of the corridor flickered, prompting Arabella to hasten her pace. She didn’t know how much time she had before the footman returned.
Stopping before the lit sconce, she scanned her surroundings. Nothing stood out to her, and once again, the breeze seemed to have vanished.
“How odd,” she said to herself, turning in a circle.
Nothing.
And then she heard the creak, followed by a stronger breeze.
A shiver ran up her spine, and her eyes locked on a dark void. A door had been left open, beckoning her to enter.
“But soft, behold!”She whispered the lines of Hamlet, her footsteps guiding her ever closer. “Lo, where it comes again! I’ll cross it though it blast me.”
The breeze came again, but this time it pushed the door forward and then pulled it back again.
She lunged, grabbing the handle before the door could slam closed. “Stay, illusion!” she whispered, resting her head against the chilled wooden door and collecting her breath, her heart racing.
Was something guiding her here?
She waited another moment, listening, and heard nothing.
“If thou hast any sound, or use of voice,” she continued to recite, straightening from the door, and taking a deep breath. “Speak to me.”
She slipped soundlessly through the door and into the darkened room.
Her eyes struggled to adjust, squinting and blinking rapidly to try to make sense of anything. It was noticeably cooler in the room, and there was an earthy taste that settled on her tongue that predicted a coming rain.
Following silver rays of moonlight that cascaded partway across the room, her eyes rested upon two bay windows, their drapes pulled back. A breeze rippled, but her eyes were fixed on a pair of broad shoulders and the tall muscular form standing before the opened window.
Lord Northcott.
The atmosphere in the room became still and charged, as if lightning could strike at any moment.
He didn’t turn, and she doubted he’d heard her come in. His large hands were crossed behind his back, his legs spread shoulder-width apart.
What was he doing in the dark?
For the briefest moment, she thought about leaving, but she’d been wanting to spend time with him, and this might be her only chance.
With slow, anxious steps, she moved toward him.
“Lord Northcott?” she said softly.
His head snapped around, though his stance remained the same. His shadowed eyes watched her, and she felt her breaths grow heavy the longer they stood in silence.
“Is everything all right?” she asked, swallowing.
A breeze rustled the dark strands of hair that hung over his forehead. Her fingers itched to run through his hair to recreate the handsome picture he’d made, all disheveled the night of the musicale.
Slowly he turned to face her. His entire body was in shadow, the moon at his back. “What are you doing here?” he finally asked, his voice deep and husky.
“I felt a breeze,” she said, not certain if he would appreciate her suspicion that his house was haunted. “What are you doing in here?”
“I needed some air,” he said. “To think.”
“Would it help to talk?” she asked, hoping he wouldn’t send her away.
They were pushing the bounds of propriety being alone together, but the door was open—much like it had been in the library while they were in the country during her father’s illness, and no one had said anything then.
He remained silent, which only made her want to talk more just to fill the silence.
“I find talking about things with others—like my mother or Olivia—to be helpful.”
She was met with more silence, but then he finally spoke. “How long have you been acquainted with Dr. Stafford?” he asked, surprising her.
“Not overly long. The musicale was our first introduction.”
He nodded.
“Are you acquainted with him?” she asked, trying to continue the conversation.
“In a way.” He paused, as if rethinking his statement. “Though tonight was our first introduction.”
She waited to see if he would say more, but when didn’t, she took a step closer. “And what is your impression of him? Is he as wonderful as Lady Bixbee claims?” She was trying to lighten the mood, hoping it would help him to open up more.
“Not for you,” he said, his voice gruff.
The air caught in her chest. “I—I beg your pardon?” She wished he wasn’t cast in shadow so she could read his expression.
He met her question with silence, and then he took a step toward her.
And then another.
And another, until she was forced to tip her head back to look at him.
Her nerves prickled with awareness.
His breathing changed, growing deep and then slowing, as if he were trying to regain some inward sense of control. A heat, like a blaze in the hearth in winter, built between them, and though she couldn’t see his eyes clearly, she felt herself being drawn in.
She didn’t move—she couldn’t—but she felt it, the pull. She wanted to place her hand on his chest, feel the rapid beat of his heart to see if it would match her own.
Something was happening between them. Could this be her spark?
Slowly, hesitantly, he reached a hand up and grazed the tips of his fingers across her cheek. They caught a strand of her misbehaving hair that whipped about in the breeze. She sucked in a startled breath when his touch, so soft it might as well have been a caress, slid up and around the back of her ear.
“Lord Northcott?” Her voice trembled.
He swallowed. “Talking with you is dangerous.”
“Why is that?” she asked, not daring to move lest he pull away.
“Because more and more I want to give in ... to you,” he replied, his fingers gently gliding from behind her ear and down her neck.
“You can trust me.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.
Slowly he pulled his hand away, but she could still feel his gaze upon her. “Dr. Stafford is treating my sister. I have a sister. And he says I should go see her.”
Her heart broke for him. The rumors Hattie had heard were true. “I think you should listen to him,” Arabella replied softly, making sure to hold his gaze, though it was still cast in shadow.
“Why?”
“Because from what I have come to know of Dr. Stafford, he is a man who is fighting for humanity.” She emphasized the word, hoping he would know it contradicted his awful pamphlet. “And if he believes you could have a connection with your sister again, then you should fight for it too.”
Silence once again filled the dark room for one heartbeat and then two. She wished she knew what he was thinking.
“I should return you to your mother,” he finally said, though he didn’t move away.
“Before we return, will you promise me something?” she asked, not wanting to lose what they’d started.
He nodded.
“Will you call on me and my mother—soon?”
He was silent for a long moment, making her nervous. He’d kept away after the incident at Brooks’s; she didn’t want that to happen again.
“I will,” he said, his voice gravelly and thick.
“Thank you,” she replied, a sense of relief washing over her. “I’ll go now, and you can follow in a few minutes to avoid suspicion.”
He nodded, and she did the same, a smile cresting her lips. He was a man of few words, but the way he made her feel was overwhelming.