Chapter 15
Margaret leaned on Arabella as they took their daily stroll around the grounds. It was always a slow walk, but both parties enjoyed each other’s company.
“The poppies have sprung early!” Margaret croaked as she pointed a trembling finger at the floral divide bordering the path.
Arabella kicked away some trailing plants that could potentially trip the countess.
In previous summers, these borders were neatly maintained and trimmed back, but it seemed that either the gardener had departed, or Marcus had not instructed him to complete such work.
“I think the gardens could do with a little weeding …” Arabella observed. “I should hate you to fall.”
“Many people consider poppies to be weeds, but I enjoy their happy little faces.” Margaret gave a rare smile.
“I rather like them too,” Arabella agreed.
“Look how tall these lupines have grown!” Margaret declared, her eyes sparkling as she appraised the long lilac spires thrusting out from the grasses.
“A beautiful colour,” Arabella observed.
They turned to enter the conservatory to review the plants inside.
“Oh, such shame! These peonies have leaf blotch!” Margaret cried, taking the gentle pink petals between her fingers and demonstrating the red spots to Arabella.
“How has that happened?” Arabella asked, looking around to check if any other plants had been affected.
“They need to be outside in the garden. There is insufficient air circulation in here. And let us remove some of the dead petals to relieve it …” Margaret began pulling at some of the petals.
“You enjoy your gardening.” Arabella smiled, noticing how avidly involved and animated Margaret had become since her difficult walking, only moments before. “Do you miss spending time in the garden?”
“I do. Though I confess there was more joy in it when the garden was maintained well. How beautiful it looked when my husband was alive, God rest his soul. Marcus seems incapable of keeping up …”
It was not said with sympathy, Arabella recognized, but with a more chiding tone.
“He is deteriorating, Arabella. Do you see it?” Margaret turned to Arabella with her eyes wet and fearful. “The secrets he keeps, the pacing I hear late at night …” Margaret plucked some more diseased petals, discarding the bad ones in the hope they would not infect the others.
“I always feared one of my sons might inherit their great uncle’s affliction. In truth, I suppose I always anticipated it would be Marcus.” Margaret eyed Arabella knowingly.
“Alexander was a steady child, level-headed, and astute. Marcus was the sensitive one. Always reacting dramatically, constantly throwing tantrums. He suffered with nightmares, rarely slept as a child, fitful and—dare I say—bedwetting until he was a fully grown boy,” Margaret confessed, whispering this scandalous admission.
Arabella widened her eyes, showing interest. Though Margaret’s voice was weak, her resolve to confide in Arabella was sharp.
As if summoned, Marcus suddenly appeared at the glass door of the conservatory. Arabella felt her face flush with guilt at the conversation they had been almost caught conducting.
The two ladies looked him up and down. It was clear to both of them that he was still wearing his clothes from the day before, and a rank scent of alcohol drifted on his breath as he smiled at them. His hair was dishevelled and his usually handsome face unshaven, with heavy bags under his eyes.
“Marcus! What a pleasure!” Margaret smiled forcibly, then with concern. “Are you feeling quite well, my dear?”
“I’m marvellous, Mother!” Marcus grinned inanely, and with a sudden swipe of his arm, he deadheaded a stunning red rose that stood proudly from a plant pot next to him.
He laughed with joy, as if he were a child doing something naughty. Margaret and Arabella looked on in horror as he began chopping the other roses with swipes of his wrists.
Red rose buds and blooming heads fell to the floor as he laughed maniacally.
As he came to a sudden stop, Arabella noticed his wrist was bleeding where the thorns had caught him. He leaned in a grandiose pose against the doorway, leaving a swipe of blood against the wood.
“Oh … you’ve …” Arabella pointed out his injury.
Marcus looked at it and laughed, wiping the blood all over the front of his white shirt. The two ladies watched him with disdain, realizing the situation was spiralling out of control.
***
Teatime was slightly absurd. It was challenging to sit and have a civilized conversation with Marcus, with blood smeared over his white shirt and now also on his face.
Charlotte had looked quite perturbed upon seeing him enter the dining room, and Arabella had nudged her with an imperceptible shake of the head, indicating she should not mention it.
“What happy news it is for us,” Marcus announced enthusiastically, “that the income tax was abolished in March. We have certainly seen a difference in our crop profits this past month.”
“That is good news,” Margaret agreed.
“Though it is a pity,” Charlotte countered, “that candles and soaps appear to still be taxable, and it is the poor people who sell them …”
“It doesn’t affect us!” Marcus snapped. “They will work it out. Pass the butter, Maid.”
Sally startled, unused to being called by her title, and nervously walked to the edge of the table, picked up the butter, and passed it to Lord Wellwood, though he was perfectly within reaching distance.
Marcus took the butter dish, set it down next to him, and did not use it. Charlotte, Arabella, and Margaret watched him intently, but he seemed oblivious to it, now staring off to a far point in the corner of the room.
When it seemed that Marcus was neither going to speak again nor eat, Margaret appealed for his attention.
“My dear son, I wonder if perhaps you might benefit from a restful spa in Bath city?” She said it with a calm, compassionate tone, but Marcus looked over at her as if she had suggested he jump off a cliff.
A red-hot ferocity overtook his expression. He scowled at his mother, and his face became flushed with rage. His shout, when it came, was loud enough to make all the ladies and the staff jump in alarm.
“You just want to get rid of me! Is it not enough that father has gone, and Alexander has gone, and Edmund has gone! No! You make us all leave! You want me gone, too!”
Arabella looked over at Margaret in fear that this horrific accusation might push the poor lady past her point of tolerance; she was terribly unwell and vulnerable.
Margaret’s face paled in shock, and Arabella was about to leave her chair to go to her when Marcus seemed to come suddenly to his senses.
“Oh, Mother!” he cried in remorse and left his seat in such a hurry that it upturned, landing on the thick pile carpet with a dull thud. “I am so sorry!”
He went to Margaret and bent down next to her. He clutched her hands in his own, and it seemed as though tears might fall down his face as he muttered over and over again, in a strangled voice, “Forgive me, I’m sorry. Forgive me, I’m sorry.”
He lay his head in her lap like a small toddler seeking comfort from their parent.
Margaret sat entirely still, unable to process his strange behaviour and too afraid to speak or act in any way that might trigger Marcus to react disturbingly.
Arabella and Charlotte watched on, stunned by the spectacle.
Eventually, Margaret took a deep breath and released her hand from Marcus’s grasp to pat him gently on the head. “Of course I forgive you, son,” she said, though her face was vacant and her voice without conviction.
Marcus straightened, looked into his mother’s face, and stood abruptly.
“I have some important business to attend to,” he claimed and very quickly left the room.
Margaret dropped her eyes to her plate in shame, and Charlotte whispered to Arabella. “That is exactly the sort of behaviour his great uncle exhibited …”
Arabella bristled that Margaret might hear, but there was no hiding from the reality anymore; the truth of his madness was clear for all to see.