Chapter 2
“Are you quite comfortable?” Arabella asked as she plumped the burgundy silk cushions behind the Countess of Wellwood.
Margaret took a shuddering breath and smiled weakly, patting Arabella affectionately on the back of her hand. “I am content, Arabella. Thank you, sweet girl …”
Arabella returned the smile fondly and busied herself around the room, her silky auburn hair falling over her shoulder like a curtain.
“I do so enjoy these evenings together.” Margaret watched Arabella as her petite form whisked about, lighting candles to prepare for their evening reading.
Margaret closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the cushions. She was looking thinner and frailer by the day; her once rich brown hair now scraped through with dominant streaks of silver, and her eyes hooded, with dark circles beneath.
She still dressed respectably each day and took care of herself, but it was much more of an effort than it had once been.
“Perhaps you and your sister would extend your visit.” Margaret’s lips masticated as she spoke. “Once Marcus returns home, there is no necessity for you and Charlotte to hurry away immediately.”
“I enjoy our time together also.” Arabella smiled as she lit the final candle, catching her reflection in the gilt-framed large mirror above the fireplace. As the candle took to the flame, it illuminated her emerald-green eyes, and her pale complexion became highlighted with warm light.
Arabella seated herself in the armchair opposite Margaret. The heavy red drapes were drawn against the night sky, and they were cossetted away, safe and warm. The open hearth swelled with a comforting fire, which glinted on golden ornaments atop the mantlepiece.
A fabric, upholstered wall added to the warm, sheltered atmosphere. Security was a luxury Arabella never took for granted. Too many times, she had settled into a false sense of safe shelter, only to have it ripped away.
“I do sometimes wonder …” Margaret began and paused to take a laboured breath. Arabella waited patiently; she was accustomed to these prolonged pauses. “How life might have been if Alexander had survived … if the two of you had been joined in holy matrimony and you were my daughter-in-law…”
“Now, now,” Arabella placated Margaret softly. “We are family, regardless. Edmund was your nephew, and he was my husband. Will you be satisfied as my aunt?” Arabella teased.
Beneath the gentle banter, Arabella wished Margaret would not dredge up this topic once again; it seemed to be her favourite to revisit, and Arabella did not have the strength for it.
Whenever Margaret mentioned her son, Arabella was assaulted by visions of Alexander’s intense blue eyes and the way he would sometimes bite his bottom lip to repress a smile if she said something that amused him. It hurt her to think of him.
Thoughts of Alexander Hartwell provoked conflicting feelings deep inside Arabella. She had loved him deeply and believed, wholeheartedly, that they had a certain future together; she still missed him acutely.
But it was insinuated Alexander had some involvement in his father’s murder; Arabella did not believe the accusation for even a moment, yet she could not therefore understand why he had run.
He had escaped without contacting her to explain, and she could not comprehend why he would abandon her void of justification—she was angry at his neglect, despite being completely in love with him.
By the time word had arrived that Alexander was dead, Arabella was already battling so many contrary emotions regarding him, but devastation dominated and assumed the principal role.
A part of her shut down, and she now preferred never to access it.
There was too much pain to even begin processing the whirlpool of emotions.
Each time Margaret mentioned her eldest son in a conversational tone, Arabella felt her heart might explode with unexpressed emotions.
She wanted to cry, scream, run from the room, such was her desperation to see him again; to feel his hand accidentally brush against hers, to listen to him recite poetry as they walked together in the orchard.
Instead, she smiled at his frail mother under the socially acceptable pretence that all was well.
Arabella applied her attention to the pages laid out across her lap when the oak door opened; she turned to see her younger sister entering.
Charlotte had covered her long white night gown with a brown one, but her blonde hair hung long and loose over her shoulders, suggesting she was winding down from the formal dress of the day. She yawned as she approached them both.
“I come to bid you ladies goodnight.” Charlotte approached Margaret and bent low to gently kiss her cheek. “Thank you for another splendid day!”
Arabella appreciated Charlotte’s eternal optimism; when times had been hard, Charlotte helped her through with her joyful demeanour.
“Goodnight, sister,” Arabella mused warmly as Charlotte kissed her cheek and swept out of the room with a beautiful energy.
“Let us not read the usual scriptures this evening, Arabella,” Margaret croaked.
“You do not wish us to read?” Arabella tried to mask her disappointment as she realized an evening empty of shared literature would instil a certain sadness.
“Read, certainly. Please,” Margaret replied. “Poetry. Wordsworth …” Margaret pointed to a leather-bound book on the table beside her.
Arabella’s eyes went to the tome with a feeling of dread. This was the book she would read with Alexander. She wondered if Margaret knew this and wondered if she also knew that whilst reading Wordsworth was a comfort to her, it felt like torture to Arabella.
Her ladyship was the priority, though—she had not long for this Earth, and Arabella was determined to fulfil any wish she had, so she inhaled deeply and reached for the book.
It opened at a well-worn page ‘’Tis said that some have died for love’. There, in the margin, were scribbled notes in Alexander’s own hand. They had annotated the text together; his finger following the lines as she read it aloud. She could not bear to look upon it and moved to turn the page.
“Oh, this one! Please. It was one of Alexander’s favourites. Hearing these poems reminds me of a happier time when both my sons were home!”
Arabella looked up questioningly at Margaret, who seemed suddenly rather spirited; her eyes were bright, and she engaged with vigour. As Arabella rested her eyes upon Margaret, however, the lady seemed to surrender once again to a wave of fatigue, against the cushions once more.
“'Tis said, that some have died for love:
And here and there a churchyard grave is found …” Arabella began, trying to numb herself from feeling the emotions that came up when she spoke those words. Her mind haunted her with how Alexander would form his lips around those very same phrases. They now felt so desolately valid.
She closed her eyes momentarily, blocking the surge of fury, sadness, and passion that had become enmeshed within her chest. It was acceptable for her to take her time—it seemed that Margaret might nap as she read; she often did so.
As she continued, Arabella whispered, “In the cold north's unhallowed ground, Because the wretched man himself had slain.” Her voice caught on this part because it resonated too personally with her own experience.
Margaret might have sensed Arabella’s struggle, as her eyes opened and, though initially milky and wandering, they found Arabella as she croaked.
“Arabella, dear, I am thirsty …”
Arabella eagerly snapped the book shut and stood, declaring, “I shall make us some tea.”
“I am sure Helen would oblige–” Margaret suggested, referring to a maid.
“Helen left, do you recall? Marcus mentioned her departure from her post, shortly before he left …”
“Ah,” Margaret seemed to remember, resting her head back against the cushion. “Another one gone …”
Arabella headed towards the door. “Besides, it can be a pleasant distraction to make tea. Quite therapeutic.”
“That’s fortunate,” Margaret mused sleepily and closed her eyes once again.
***
The wooden corridors through to the kitchen were echoing and cold, and Arabella had hurried through them briskly to reach the warmth of the kitchen.
The flagstone kitchen was vast and mostly in the dark, save for the red glow of the fire, with its pots and pans hung above on a metal pole.
Usually a bustling space of staff, chopping vegetables from the gardens, bubbling stews in heavy metal pots, by night it was notably quiet and empty except for the scullery maid who tended the fire at the hearth throughout the night.
Sally stood, flustered, adjusting her white, lacy frilled pinafore, as Arabella entered, unaccustomed to family members visiting the kitchen late in the evening.
“Oh, Sally, hello there! Please—sit down. There is no need for me to bother you. I was hoping to make some tea.”
“I can make tea for you, Ma’am.” Sally was eager to assist.
“No, no, it’s quite alright, thank you, Sally. Is there a pot of water already boiled?”
“Certainly there is, Ma’am. I shall bring it over …”
Sally clothed her hands in thick linens to bring over the pot from where it hung on a metal pole above the lit fire. She poured boiling water into the teapot, and Arabella thanked her, assuring her that she could continue from this point on.
Arabella walked over to the part of the kitchen where the fine china was stored. She gathered two ornate cups and saucers that she recognized as Margaret’s favourite style and looked out the window into the darkness.
The wind was strong, and the climbing roses scratched against the window pane, making Arabella shiver despite the warmth of the fire at her back.
As Arabella turned, she heard a faint and strangely familiar sound. It sounded like the whinnying of a horse. Arabella stopped and squinted out into the gardens. She knew that the bridle path ran along the stretch of the kitchen, on the other side of the hedgerow.