Chapter 9
The morning room was peaceful, and the light of the spring day glided in columns past the grand piano and rested upon the thick-pile rug that furnished the centre of the room.
Arabella watched the dust motes as they danced in the sunlight, before blinking back her thoughts and attending once more to the embroidery in her lap.
Charlotte sat across from her on a small loveseat, engaged with heavy focus on reading her book. Adjacent to them both was Lady Wellwood, with a thin blanket hanging over her knees to warm her feet, which she consistently noted were cold.
Arabella completed a few stitches before her mind interrupted her concentration once again, and her eyes slipped upwards to watch a fluffy white cloud pass through the blue sky she could see from the window.
How shall I help Alexander? her thoughts asked her. Where could I possibly begin?
She knew that Alexander had advised that he and Thomas were initiating the first steps of investigation and that he would send word once there was a clear strategy on how they might go about proving his innocence, but Arabella felt compelled to be proactive.
Sitting in the morning room, embroidering felt unproductive and frivolous when she considered she could instead be actively researching the damning situation that had stolen Alexander away from her.
Previously, she had been content to settle with this life of peaceful domesticity, believing her love to be dead and her loyal husband had followed soon after. There seemed not to be much point in applying her efforts to anything much but to quietly accept the mundane days of widowhood.
Now, however, her lethargy was banished, and her brain had been stimulated by the alarming concept that not only was Alexander still alive, but that a world existed where a murderer was still at large among them, and the man she had loved for so many years might have the possibility of regaining his rightful place as Earl of Wellwood.
Here, Arabella had purpose and a responsibility to do the right thing. Her very being felt invigorated at the potential work she could be doing towards this cause, only she must pause until Thomas reached out with instructions.
It was no wonder, she concluded, that embroidery today felt tedious and frustrating.
Charlotte looked up from her book.
“Is everything quite satisfactory, Arabella?”
This awoke Arabella from her reverie, and she prepared a smile for her sister.
“Quite acceptable, thank you.”
“You have a rather distant look about you today. At breakfast, you were positively absent!”
Margaret opened her eyes at this observation, and her eyes flicked keenly to Arabella, who feigned a laugh. “I admit I have a distracted mind just now. I don’t seem able to invest much focus in my embroidery project, but I am determined I will not allow this complex pattern to defeat me!”
Charlotte narrowed her eyes at Arabella doubtfully and then looked over to Margaret, who closed her eyes once again, tipping her head back against a cushion.
Arabella forced her attention back to the task at hand so that her sister would not interrogate her. She wondered absent-mindedly whether there might be pertinent questions to ask Margaret that may provide insight into who may have accessed the study that frightful day to murder her husband.
Before she knew it, she was again looking up at the sky, and it attracted Charlotte’s attention. Arabella sensed her sister drawing breath to speak to her when, suddenly, there was a commotion from the hallway outside.
“Good day! Good day to all!” Marcus’s voice sang out, and the heavy, fast approaching footsteps that accompanied his high-pitched greeting suggested he was heading directly to the morning room.
Margaret’s eyes flew open in alarm, and she sat herself promptly up straighter.
Arabella noticed how the woman’s eyes betrayed something that looked a little like fear.
Perhaps his raucous entrance startled her, Arabella wondered.
But even as she looked, Margaret settled back into her weak, fatigued composure.
Marcus flew through the door, which banged back against the wall. His enthusiasm was palpable.
“Ladies! Ladies! Good day to you all!” He flung his arms wide as though he were presenting a play on the stage. All three ladies prepared smiles for him, but nobody spoke.
“Mother! Are you quite well today?” Marcus’s energy was at odds with the peace of the morning room. He bounded over to Margaret and took her hand with rough affection. Margaret blinked up at him.
“I am not well enough to walk in the garden, but neither am I sick enough to remain in my bed,” Margaret advised pragmatically.
Marcus laughed heartily, which struck Arabella as an odd reaction. A frown briefly bothered her forehead; only for a slight moment, but Marcus caught it.
“What is the matter?” he demanded, suddenly full of fear.
“Nothing at all, Lord Wellwood.” Arabella smiled sweetly.
Marcus’s eyes zipped over to Charlotte.
“And you? Miss Charlotte, I trust you are not suffering from any illness?”
Charlotte looked a little confused.
“No, Lord Wellwood. Thank you for your enquiry. I profess I am quite well.”
“Then what is it?” Marcus turned to all of them, addressing anybody who might care to answer.
Arabella took this moment of quiet to look him over. How different he now seemed from his brother. There had been some chaos about Marcus for some time, but each day she now saw him, he seemed slightly more dishevelled.
Considering Alexander was the man living in a hovel whilst on the run, he seemed more vibrant and healthier than his brother, who was kept in a life of absolute luxury. She felt suddenly sad for Marcus; how his father’s death and brother’s deaths must have affected him.
“Why do you all seem so troubled on this beautiful morning of sunshine and blue skies?” Marcus leaned his arm up against the wooden doorframe and tapped his fingers rhythmically.
The three ladies looked at each other in bewilderment, for there was no problem they could easily report upon.
“Have you hurt yourself?” Charlotte enquired, and as Arabella followed her sister’s eyes, she, too, saw upon Marcus’s waistcoat that there was a small smudge of dark brownish-red that looked very much like dried blood.
Marcus looked alarmed at the question and looked down at his blue silk waistcoat, where the sister’s focus was applied. He pulled at it as though inspecting it for the first time.
“Oh, I had not realized my waistcoat was marked!” He laughed demonstrably. “I accidentally cut myself this morning whilst shaving. How remiss of me!”
The sisters smiled and nodded, though Arabella thought how the blood did not look fresh, and neither did his face, which had clearly not been shaven that very morning.
***
Arabella innately understood that she should navigate the corridor with soft, quiet footsteps as she approached the library.
Margaret had not explicitly stated that their discussion should be private, but her request to meet that evening was not as casually inferred as their daily evening read in her sitting room, and so Arabella intimated it should be treated with discretion.
As she entered the library, she was instantly warmed by the glow from the open fire and approached Margaret, who sat in an armchair next to the hearth.
Arabella loved the atmosphere of the library; the dusty, leathery smell of the books, the papery stillness of the space. It was a calm haven and felt cossetted away like a little world of its own.
The Wellwood library had leather-bound books in every shade of brown, grey, and green, on all four walls, stacked in neat lines along wooden shelves that reached way above her head.
The very sight of them excited her: the prospect of all the stories, knowledge, and adventures hidden within their pages.
Arabella turned her attention to Margaret; she looked younger somehow—more alert and vital than she had in months.
Her back was straight and her eyes bright when she turned to Arabella with a smile and gestured for her to sit in the armchair opposite.
“Arabella,” she began, and her voice was no longer husky with lethargy. “Thank you for attending to speak with me.”
“But of course,” Arabella nodded, keen to understand why her presence had been requested.
“I am fearful for my son …”
“For Alexander?” Even saying his name aloud and being able to speak of him provoked a flush upon Arabella’s chest and a juddering of erratic heartbeats.
“No!” Margaret’s eyes darted towards the door. “Ssshhh …!”
Arabella’s eyes went immediately to the door, frightened that a servant might have overheard, but there was nobody there.
“We must not speak of my older son.” Margaret held a finger to her lips and blinked kindly.
Arabella repressed a sensation of disappointment that she had considered Margaret was eager to speak of Alexander and how they might extricate him from his ghastly predicament. Surely that was the only relevant conversation between them just now, she thought with frustration.
“It is my youngest, Marcus, who is my greatest concern,” Margaret whispered and waited for Arabella’s response.
“Marcus?” Arabella thought of his enthusiastic, dramatic nature and wondered which element of it caused Margaret concern.
“You have noticed, I know. He is erratic—one moment, jovial and chaotic with enthusiasm, and the next, exploding with anger.”
Arabella nodded slowly, agreeing with this summary.
“I am aware he was always the more sensitive, dramatic child. But I worry now that he is falling foul of the same disease that killed his Uncle …”
“You mean–?”
“Yes. My dear husband’s late Uncle Ernest. Did Alexander ever tell you about him?”
In truth, Arabella had heard rumours of Ernest throughout her childhood; his bursts of insanity at social occasions her parents and their circle of friends had frequented. Alexander confirmed it when they were courting.
“He was committed to an asylum, was he not?”