Chapter 4
Arabella stood frozen in the doorway, with detritus of the tea service smashed around her feet. Her green eyes wide and unblinking, her lips parted in unspoken questions, and the colour rapidly draining from her complexion.
She had been heading back to Margaret’s sitting room, focusing on balancing the tea tray and on banishing thoughts of Alexander from her mind. There were evenings like this, sometimes, she mused—she would catch a scent that reminded her of him or hear a piece of music they had danced to together.
Evenings where her mind wandered to the beauty of what could have been, marred by the reality of what had materialized. In times such as these, she worked hard to distract herself with the present moment, so as not to wallow.
As she pushed open the heavy oak door, watching that the tea tray did not overbalance, she became instantly aware of a charged atmosphere in the room.
That felt wrong—Margaret often napped, and as she did, a peaceful energy would fall over the room.
Even before looking up from the tray, Arabella sensed there was somebody else in the room.
Then her eyes landed upon him, and her world flipped upside down.
Her mind could not fathom that what she was seeing was reality. Margaret was sitting upright in her armchair, her blanket fallen upon the floor, pooling at her feet. In her confusion, Arabella’s brain told her she must pick up the blanket to ensure that Margaret did not trip on it.
Next to Margaret—Arabella could scarcely comprehend—crouched beside her chair and cradling her with a broad, muscular arm across her shoulders, was the only man Arabella had ever loved. His hair was thicker than she remembered, though just as dark.
His face was in profile as she entered, but she instantly knew the tilt of his chin, the pout of his lips as he listened to something his mother said, the slight furrow of his defined eyebrows.
His eyelashes swept along the curve of his cheekbone, and as he looked up—directly at her—the shocking blue of his eyes struck her like a physical bolt.
Alexander. He was here.
Arabella tried to form the words that resonated in her head: But you’re dead! The words ran through her mind on repeat, but her voice made no sound.
It made no logical sense that Alexander could be alive.
She had grieved him! Marcus had held memorial services, had worn mourning clothes, and had wept publicly for his beloved, older brother.
Everybody knew Alexander to be dead. And everybody had moved through their bereavement, picked up their lives, and advanced onwards … everyone, that was, except Arabella.
And now he was here, in his mother’s sitting room, gazing straight at her with those impossibly blue eyes. They bore into hers with the same intensity that always made her heart gallop, but now those eyes were more lined with hardship and guarded with vigilance.
Arabella wanted to demand how he was here, but no articulation manifested.
Three years of emotional devastation. Three years of noxious guilt that she was married to one man, yet could never give him her heart, because her affections lay loyally with his own cousin. Even worse was that she felt Edmund must have known it.
The regret she carried daily and the shame associated with her undeniable passion for another man threatened to destroy her.
Could it be possible, Arabella panicked, that it was all for nothing? Had Alexander, she thought, been alive the whole time?
She momentarily entertained the idea that she was experiencing a delusion, brought on by the auditory event of his imagined horse whinnying in the wind.
As the soft, evening candlelight hit his skin from a different angle, she noticed that his complexion was more tanned than when she had known him. He had spent time in nature then, luxuriating in sunlight while she hid away in the shrouded shade of bereavement.
She hated how the mere sight of him made her want to weep with love. All that she had repressed, pushed down, and denied feeling, rushed to the surface in a surge of need and overwhelming want.
Only she couldn’t understand. If Alexander were alive, then she had mourned a living man. It made no sense to her that he would allow her to endure such an ordeal. He had loved her. She did not doubt that. What they had shared was so raw and real, there was no plausible space for an alternative.
Why then, her mind demanded to know, had he not reached out to contact her?
She was sure of his innocence, and she knew—though a dark awareness in the pit of her stomach told her it was wrong—that if he’d asked her to run with him, she would have gone without a second thought.
She would have happily lived as a life-long fugitive if it had been with this man.
But he had not asked. He had concealed the truth from her and allowed her to believe he had died a grisly death of starvation, freezing, or possibly even physical attack.
It struck Arabella then—that perhaps it had not only been Alexander who had lied to her.
She wondered frantically how many other people knew?
Had Marcus known, as he’d laid a wreath for his brother?
Had Margaret known this whole time and lived the pretence?
Had his best friend, Thomas, lied to her face to keep her from Alexander?
Perhaps, considered Arabella in horror, everybody around her knew the truth, and they had all watched her grieve for a ghost that did not exist. The deception of it all rendered her body weak, and she felt her knees buckle.
Darkness began to creep in from the edges of her vision, and she saw Alexander rush forward to catch her.
As blackness consumed her world, and her thoughts numbed out, she heard Alexander say her name, and the soft tenderness in his voice was so beautifully familiar to her that it stung.
***
A sharp, acrid scent assaulted Arabella’s senses, and as she came to, she felt her body being cradled by warm, strong arms. Her vision cleared to see Alexander’s face peering down into hers. His blue eyes were narrowed in concern, and his proximity nearly took her back under again.
Margaret stood over both of them, where they were crouched upon the floor, and it was she who dangled the stimulating smelling salts over Arabella’s nose. Arabella batted them away in disgust, and Margaret straightened up, seeming more physically capable than Arabella had seen her in months.
Alexander and Margaret stared at Arabella, cautious to hear her speak, to gauge her reaction.
She blinked between the two of them, and as her eyes stopped stinging from the salts, a new scent overwhelmed her.
The smell of Alexander. That blend of sandalwood and leather that epitomized his presence for her.
She closed her eyes momentarily, permitting herself an indulgent few seconds of feeling him close and losing herself in the comfort of his scent. She felt his arms tighten around her, as though he thought she was losing consciousness again, and this motivated her to open her eyes once more.
Margaret drew back, inhaling a breath of relief. Alexander bent further towards her, his eyes flitting back and forth between hers, consuming her face as if trying to commit it to memory.
Outside the door, a scurrying of feet and worried voices erupted. Arabella could vaguely make out mutterings of questions over whether the countess was hurt and whether she needed any assistance.
Margaret went promptly to the door. Arabella saw her move gracefully, without any limp or breathlessness, and Arabella questioned whether she was still experiencing weird visions due to her fainting. Margaret seemed almost youthful in her agile crossing of the room.
There, she opened the door just a crack, so that the interior of the room was unseen, and she leaned in the gap, supporting herself against the wall, seeming once again frail and vulnerable.
Clutching her chest, she told the servants how she had accidentally knocked the tea tray during a dizzy spell, but that she did not want to bother them. Arabella heard protestations as they insisted they enter the room to help her, but Margaret masterfully dismissed them.
“Arabella is cleaning it up for me. Please, there is really no cause for concern …”
They seemed reluctant to leave, but gradually dispersed at their mistress’s will, and Margaret closed the door, once again adopting her more capable stance. The murmurings of servants’ voices as they moved away suggested the countess’s assurances had not entirely quelled their curiosity.
During this exchange, Alexander’s eyes had not left Arabella’s face. His brow furrowed in anguish.
Now he was concerned. But where had he been, Arabella thought caustically, every night she had cried herself to sleep missing him.
Where had he been as she acquiesced to a proposal she didn’t want?
As she’d endured the guilt of a marriage while she loved another man, had he been there to support her through those years?
He had not. And now he bent above her with love in his eyes, as burning—if not more—as it had been when they had vowed to marry one another.
Arabella wanted to yell questions at him; to demand he provide an explanation for his absence, his lies, and his unjustified, inexplicable return. But language failed her. She could scarcely catch her breath, let alone form words.
Instead, she lifted her hands and pressed against his chest in fury. Though the impact did little to move him, for he was broad and strong beneath her palms. His face looked suddenly hurt and surprised. The audacity of his victimhood helped Arabella to find her voice.
“How could you do this to me?” She beat Alexander’s shoulders with her fists. “You made me love a ghost! Why would you lie to me in such a way?”
Alexander caught her wrists to restrain her from thumping him, though her blows made little difference to his robust posture. Her wrists felt so thin and feeble in his strong, tanned hands, which were warm and slightly calloused, suggestive of physical labour.
Arabella hated that she wondered how he had been working, whether it had been hard for him, and she detested the fact that she noticed the short blond hairs on his wrists, sun-kissed and masculine, which made her want to hold him.
He drew breath to respond to her questions, but she shouted him down.
“No, Alexander! I stood by your cousin’s grave, sobbing with guilt that I did not love him in the way he deserved.
It hurts so much to know that I stole away his opportunity of a true marriage, filled with mutual love, and that his life was cut so short that I never had the chance to repay him for his altruism and generosity of spirit. ”
Arabella pushed him away and stood. Distancing herself from him felt simultaneously essential and excruciating. She had to escape.