Chapter 6
Arabella took several minutes to butter her toast. Her eyes were transfixed on how the solid yellow melted into an oily slick as it was spread upon the hot, crumbly bread, but her mind was working on how to project some sense of normality when she was jangling from her experience of the previous evening.
“Arabella?” Charlotte’s gentle voice cut into her reverie. “What do you think?”
Arabella raised her eyes and seemed surprised to find her sister sitting across the vast dining table and Margaret sitting to her side.
“Think? About what?”
Charlotte laughed good-naturedly. “Were you not listening?”
“My apologies, I was distracted …” Arabella batted her eyelids as she looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time. The long oak table was adorned with white linen and laden with breakfast items such as jam, pastries, toasted bread, small rolls, marmalade, and pots of tea and coffee.
Above the table sparkled a crystal chandelier, and Arabella cast her eyes around the dado rail that encircled the walls; a mint green paint above the rail and a warm beige below it.
She had sat in this exact chair at this very table on many occasions, but this morning the world felt obscure and unfamiliar.
“Distracted by your toast?” Charlotte laughed again, looking to Margaret to join in with the banter, but Margaret had momentarily closed her eyes against the chatter and leaned her head back to rest.
“No matter,” Charlotte assured her sister. “We were discussing the Wentworth exhibition later this week. You recall Thomas was telling us about that impressive new painter? He is showcasing there! Should you be interested in visiting?”
“Oh …” Arabella placed her buttered toast absent-mindedly on her plate without having eaten any. “Possibly. Yes. Why not?” Arabella forced herself to breathe.
“Are you feeling quite well, sister?” Charlotte frowned with concern.
“Yes, of course,” but Arabella’s smile did not meet her eyes. “Just a little tired.”
Charlotte simply stared at her sister as though she didn’t believe her reasoning.
“We stayed up late reading last night, didn’t we, Lady Wellwood?” Arabella prompted Margaret to support her plight.
Margaret slowly opened her eyes and leaned forward a little. “We certainly did, and I am quite exhausted as a result.”
Arabella’s eyes flicked between her sister and the countess to verify her story had been believed.
“Hmm.” Charlotte frowned. “The two of you should ensure you catch enough sleep. Particularly you, Lady Wellwood. You need to keep up your strength.”
“Yes, dear.” Margaret picked up a small ginger cake and nibbled delicately at its edge.
“What evening is the Portchester ball?” Charlotte asked.
Arabella seemed once again to reawaken from a daydream. “Oh … I believe … perhaps Friday?”
“I must ask Thomas if he is attending.” Charlotte fussed with her napkin in her lap. “We shall choose our dresses together, Arabella. Perhaps this afternoon?”
Arabella’s eyes were hooded by her heavy lids, and she looked up at her sister through absent eyes. “Hmmph?”
“I am dissatisfied with your claim that you are not suffering some malady, Arabella.” Charlotte cocked one eyebrow at her questioningly.
“Be content, sister. I have no ailments.” Arabella smiled to appease her.
“You are pale, and your hands tremble. It is as though you saw a ghost,” Charlotte summarized; her observations falling unsettlingly close to Arabella’s truth.
Arabella looked down at her white hands and noticed the slight tremor Charlotte had identified.
If she had the luxury of being honest, she would confess how her skin still tingled from where Alexander had touched her, as if she were unable to wash his presence from her skin.
She would tell how her eyes still burned at the sight of such betrayal and how her heart danced in perpetual palpitations since she saw him across the room.
She was being pulled apart internally by the want of seeing him and still loving him, conflicted by the agony of his brutal lies and deception. It almost hurt more to know that he had continued to live without her than it did to think that he’d died abandoning her.
On her external facade, though, Arabella prepared another smile for her sister and forced an amiable laugh.
“Merely fatigue, Charlotte. Do not fret. I will rest this afternoon.”
“Very well.” Charlotte lifted her coffee cup to her lips. “Dresses tomorrow, then.”
Arabella smiled weakly and nodded to satisfy her sister.
***
Carriage wheels were heard arriving on the cobbles outside the main entrance. Margaret’s eyes snapped open, suddenly alert and attentive. Her lips murmured, “Marcus …”
“Is he home so soon?” Charlotte enquired. “I had thought it would be later today …”
Some of the household staff bustled out of the room to greet their master, and Arabella dabbed the sides of her mouth with a napkin, despite having eaten nothing.
They heard him enter the hallway before they saw him. His flamboyant greetings as he loudly announced his arrival home in a chaotic sing-song voice. They heard the staff respond in muttered affirmations, more stoic than his own enthusiasm.
“Well, smile, man!” They heard Marcus laugh. “The day is yet young!”
Within moments, he was bursting through the dining room door. In the years since Alexander’s disappearance, Arabella often caught her breath as Marcus would make a certain facial expression or use a particular intonation.
Marcus had a notable physical resemblance to his older brother, except for his light blond hair, and his presence would torture Arabella, as she could see glimpses of the man she lost, knowing that it was not him.
As he entered the room now, with a vibrant energy, Arabella noticed how his usually immaculate appearance had shifted.
Now she had seen Alexander again, on reflection, Marcus did not seem so much like his brother.
Marcus’s eyes were bloodshot, and he had the beginnings of dark circles under his eyes.
His complexion was pale and his hair dishevelled.
He wore a red cravat over his white shirt, which had come slightly untucked from his linen trousers.
As Arabella compared him to her fresher memory of Alexander, she found Marcus somehow looked older, more world-weary than his brother.
“Ladies!” Marcus spread his arms wide, and in his hands were various hothouse flowers. ‘I have returned!”
He paced rapidly around the table towards Margaret. “Mother!” Marcus held out a bright pink camellia, handing it to Margaret with a mock bow, and then turned.
“Miss Charlotte!” He produced a lilac Orchid and flourished it under her smiling face.
“And not to forget Miss Arabella!” Like a dancer, he swooped a white lily in front of her.
“Thank you, My Lord.” Arabella lifted the delicate stem to her nose and breathed in. “It’s beautiful.”
“Such as all the ladies of the Wellwood estate!” Marcus said, his voice a pitch too high and a little too loud.
“How was your trip, Marcus?” Margaret croaked.
Marcus’s smile dropped as he registered his mother’s frailty, and he crossed the room briskly to bend at her side. It seemed he carried a breeze of nervous energy as he swept around the space.
“Mother, it was splendid. But what of your health? How have you been faring in my absence?”
Margaret smiled lightly with considerable effort and patted his hand. “Son, do not despair. I have been coping.”
The relative quiet in the room was broken suddenly by a loud, jarring crash. Everybody turned to the footman, who looked down, devastated at the smashed ceramic of a plate, splintered around his feet.
He looked up at them all with apologetic eyes, but before he could speak, Marcus inhaled sharply and bellowed in an uncharacteristically booming voice, “What in God’s name have you done, you wretch!?”
The footman—just a young man—blushed and stammered the attempt at an answer, but Marcus shouted him back down.
“You will clear that up immediately and pack your bag! Leave my home and never return! You are an utter disgrace!”
Arabella, Charlotte, and Margaret all tensed up and exchanged glances in shock and distress at this unexpected outburst.
Marcus was trembling with anger, his fists white as they clenched at his sides. The remaining household staff around the border of the room dropped their eyes to the floor and stood, servile and respectful, with their hands clasped in front of their bodies, avoiding any eye contact.
“Let that be a warning to all of you!” Marcus pointed at them as the poor dismissed footman bent to his knees and began to scrabble the pieces of crockery together with his bare hands.
Arabella watched him with tears pooling in her eyes. The pity she felt for the man was acute; she felt his shame and embarrassment keenly and wanted to extend some attempt at kindness.
“Perhaps you could fetch him a broom?” Arabella suggested to the housemaid nearest the door. The maid nodded curtly and eagerly exited the room, happy to have a reason to leave the negatively charged atmosphere.
Marcus shot her a look of disdain, but it seemed to dispel his aggravation somewhat. Charlotte had dropped her eyes to the table, avoiding looking at Marcus, not willing to be associated with his terrible temper, and Margaret stared up at him with sad, disappointed eyes.
Marcus looked around at all those assembled, his wild eyes blinking through his fury and calming as they came to rest upon his mother.
“Are you in pain?" Marcus leaned down beside his mother, his voice gentle. From his kneeling position, he looked up into Margaret’s face with genuine concern.
Margaret watched him warily for a moment, unsure of his volatility, then she sighed.
“Constantly, I regret to report,” she confirmed, closing her eyes as if the very statement tired her beyond capability.
“Oh Mother …” Marcus dipped his forehead to rest upon the back of Margaret’s veiny, thin hand.
“I have been taken considerable care of …” she reassured him, indicating the sisters with a gentle nod.
Marcus looked over at Arabella and Charlotte, almost as though he had quite forgotten they were there.
“Oh! How grateful I am that you were able to stay and lend my poor mother some company in my absence!” Marcus returned to his performative etiquette.
He stood abruptly and, in a couple of strides, was uncomfortably close to Arabella.
He took her hand and, holding it, with tears in his eyes, he thanked her profusely.
“Sent to us like an angel! I so appreciate your caring, nurturing nature, Arabella! I know how you nurse my mother and spend compassionate time with her. How fortunate my dear brother, God rest his soul, introduced you to our family, and how blessed my cousin, Edmund—may he rest in peace—was to have a wife such as you, loaded as you are with such kindness!”
Specs of saliva catapulted from Marcus’s mouth as he gushed at Arabella, and she noticed a small ball of spittle gather at the edge of his lip as he spoke. His grip, which was limp and loose to begin with, gradually tightened as he grew more impassioned in his speech.
Arabella smiled up at him politely, but her eyes conveyed discomfort, and as she tried to diplomatically remove her hand from his grasp, she giggled nervously.
“Thank you, Marcus, I assure you it is no trouble at all …”
“Such grace and generosity of spirit!” he continued, seeming not to notice Arabella’s efforts to extricate herself.
“It is a pleasure to spend time here, truly …” Arabella gritted her teeth through a forced smile. “Please, Marcus, you are hurting my hand!”
“Hah!” Marcus belted out a maniacal laugh as he released her hand, and Arabella noticed his hand was trembling.
“Right!’ Marcus declared with a sudden change of direction. ‘Estate Inspections! Now, where is my man?”
Marcus departed the room with a determined and industrious energy. The three women left in the room looked at each other in slight bewilderment.
“He must be tired from his journey …” Margaret suggested, justifying Marcus’s behaviour.
“Yes.’ Arabella smiled thinly. “I must attend to something in my chambers, if you will excuse me.”
As Arabella stood, Charlotte noticed that the toast she had buttered with such commitment remained on her plate, untouched.
A quick glance over at the countess confirmed she was resting again, with her eyes closed, and so when Arabella rose and strode towards the door, Charlotte stood quickly and intercepted her.
Arabella met her with a confused expression, and Charlotte ushered her sister into a small alcove just outside the dining room.
“Whatever is the matter?” Arabella asked.
“My sentiments exactly!” Charlotte shot back. “That is precisely my question for you! Please don’t attempt to fool me with protestations of good health and perfect normality, because I know you, sister, and I insist you are not in your usual good spirits!”
Arabella dropped her eyes to the floor, desperately seeking some reason for her unusual demeanour.
“You are pale and shaking, sister,” Charlotte insisted as she took Arabella’s hand and held it in her own. “You are distracted and ill at ease.”
Arabella nodded. It was clear she would be unable to pretend there was nothing amiss. How she wished she could tell her loyal sister.
But this was not harmless gossip; this was a very dangerous and precarious situation that could feasibly threaten Alexander’s life. She could not risk exposing the truth to anybody, if that meant he would potentially be discovered, arrested, and put to death.
“I must declare I have not seen you in a state such as this since the morning you heard the terrible news …”
Arabella blinked at her sister, awaiting her to continue.
“That morning, oh my sweet sister–” Charlotte gripped Arabella’s arm in comfort. “When we heard of your poor Alexander …”
“You are correct, of course, dear sister,” Arabella, squeezed Charlotte’s hand affectionately. “I cannot hide anything from you! I confess I am suffering a megrim.”
“I knew there was something! Does your head hurt?”
“It does. I ought to rest. I did not wish to disclose my complaint in front of the countess, for her woes are much greater than mine, yet she endures them with such grace.”
“This is true. I understand your concealment. However, I remain unconvinced that this is simply a megrim. Is there nothing else troubling you, Arabella?”
“Please, you must not fret, Charlotte! I do beseech you.”
Charlotte sighed heavily, watching Arabella with narrowed eyes of suspicion.
“Very well, sister. Go to rest. I will check in on you later.”
Arabella fixed her sister with a smile intended to placate her and swiftly climbed the stairs, wanting to be free of company, with space to entertain only her own thoughts.