Chapter 17
Dinner at the Wellwood residence had become an occasion laden with tension, and as they headed for the dining room, Charlotte whispered to Arabella.
“Do you think we should return home soon, sister?”
Arabella could tell this was a request, as opposed to a casual query.
“We cannot, Charlotte,” Arabella asserted.
Ahead of them, Marcus danced into the dining room, seemingly oblivious to their presence and as though he were waltzing with an invisible person, humming to himself as he did so. The sisters watched him and exchanged a worried glance.
“We cannot leave Lady Wellwood alone with him …” Arabella whispered urgently as she linked arms with her sister. Charlotte nodded her agreement, and the two made their way in for dinner.
The meal was fraught as Marcus held the stage.
“He fell out of the club onto the pavement! All the crowd erupted in hilarity! Can you believe it, Mother!?” Marcus ended another chaotic anecdote.
The three ladies politely laughed, though Marcus’s laugh was raucous.
“Did you hear of the riots yesterday?” His tone was clipped and serious, suddenly, such a stark contrast from his previous celebration.
“A terrible business …” It seemed he was poised to say more but instead stuffed a large portion of beef into his mouth and focused exclusively on his plate for several moments.
Nobody else dared speak as they would not want to pitch a conversation in the wrong mood, which could provoke a strong reaction from Marcus.
Suddenly, he began to laugh loudly as though something hilarious had occurred to him.
“What is it, Marcus?” Margaret engaged with a forced smile.
All three ladies paused in their eating, expecting him to elaborate on the humorous memory, but he did not, and so, after a few moments, they all flicked glances at each other before resuming their meal.
Later that evening, Arabella sought out Margaret in the library.
She tiptoed stealthily along the corridor’s hardwood floor, which was furnished with a carpet runner, but did not reduce the creaks from the floorboards. Cautiously, she opened the heavy wooden door and closed it quietly behind her.
Margaret was sitting beside the fire, with a broad ledger spread across her lap. She visibly startled as Arabella entered.
“It is only I, Lady Wellwood,” Arabella assured her in a hushed voice as she entered.
Margaret breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed back into her chair, rubbing her eyes with a trembling hand.
Arabella took a seat opposite Margaret, curiously peering over the large book, which appeared to be populated with numbers drawn out in grids.
“Whatever is that?” Arabella asked, conversationally.
Margaret lifted her gaze, her eyes darting towards the door before she mustered the strength to lean forward a little. The warm glow from the fire highlighted the stressed lines on her face as she emerged from the dim light. Arabella leaned forward to meet her in confidence.
“These are the accounting books for the Wellwood estate,” Margaret confided. “I have taken to looking over the family finances. There have been some … irregularities … since Marcus took over the estate. I worry that his mind is not operating in a methodical, reliable way, and so I try …”
“You are not well, Lady Wellwood. Such a burden should not be placed upon your shoulders.”
“Who else is there to oversee?” Margaret seemed to have risen in her chair, looking stronger and more vital than in recent days. As she saw Arabella notice it, she shrank back down in her chair and stifled a low moan, betraying some pain she was enduring.
“I fear …” Margaret muttered, but broke off and shook her head, unable to continue.
“You fear … what?” Arabella reached out to console Margaret. “Have you seen something alarming in the accounts?”
“The money, truly, is the least of my worries …” Margaret looked down at the ledger pitifully.
“Are you worried for Alexander? I know that you begged me not to speak of him, but I confess I can think of little else–” Arabella urged.
“I understand, dear girl. This revelation has been a shock for you. And yes, I am concerned for Alexander, greatly so. But there is something I must confess–’
“What is it?”
“I saw something terrible the night my husband died …” Margaret fixed Arabella with sharp, frightened eyes. Arabella drew back slightly, afraid of what she might hear.
“My son, Marcus. In his bedroom, I found bloodied clothes …” Margaret snapped her eyes shut as if trying to unsee it. Arabella’s hand flew to her mouth in shock.
“He had been hunting!” Margaret promptly justified. “Sometimes blood from the animal could appear upon the hunter’s garments …” Her words faded away. “This is what I told myself.” Margaret allowed a sob to escape her lips as her head bowed.
“I could not bear to consider the alternative!” Margaret told Arabella in a desperate whisper.
“I have never told anybody! I should have done! My weakness in sheltering myself from such a horrific deed has meant that I have essentially lost both my sons! I did not protect either of them in the way I should have done!”
Arabella scrambled to hold Margaret’s hand in comfort.
“In avoiding Marcus’s potential involvement, I was inadvertently supporting Alexander’s exile, and now Marcus is losing his mind. I must bear the culpability for both their downfalls,” Margaret muttered.
“Lady Wellwood, I must contest. You have not exhibited weakness. Both your sons love and respect you. If you believe Marcus to be responsible for some unthinkable crime, the liability sits with him and not you!”
Margaret blinked gratefully at Arabella for a few moments before moving to dislodge something that sat on her lap, below the heavy ledger. She slowly revealed a small, leather-bound notebook and, upon opening it, revealed pages of handwriting that Arabella recognized as Margaret’s hand.
As Margaret flicked through the pages, it was clear to see that whilst the beginning of the book was neat and clearly maintained, the later pages were chaotic, scrawled with a feeble hand.
“I have been keeping a journal,” Margaret whispered, “documenting Marcus’s strange behaviours.”
“Oh,” Arabella responded, unsure how else to receive this news.
Margaret turned her attention to the journal and picked a page at random. Pointing a finger at a paragraph, she read. “Today, Marcus threw a stick at Jasmine, our oldest horse. I saw him as I watched from the window.”
She sighed and turned another page, pointing out some more text. “Potter, our longest-serving, most loyal butler, has reported that he is stepping down from his post because Marcus insists upon watching him work and insults him constantly as he goes about his duties.”
Margaret was fuelled as she quickly flicked through to find another entry.
“Look here—Marcus has been absent from the estate for five days and four nights now. He did not announce his departure, and I am beginning to worry he may never return. And then an update: When Marcus did return, he stayed up all night, pacing the floor and talking to himself in agitated tones.”
She turned again, pointing. “Marcus met with a man on the lawn at midnight. The man was tall and adorned in a thick cloak, which enrobed his head so I could not identify him. Parcels were exchanged between the two men, and they briskly parted after only a few words.”
Margaret looked up, and as her eyes met Arabella’s, she shuddered.
***
Arabella’s head spun with Margaret’s revelation, as she trotted down the hallway, headed for her bedchamber, hoping Marcus would not be stalking the halls.
She jumped as she passed the kitchen door, and it flew open. Arabella’s hand flew to her chest in surprise, but she was relieved to see it was only Sally, the kitchen maid.
“Lady Spencer!” Sally whispered urgently. “Please!” She beckoned Arabella into the kitchen, and Arabella’s curiosity caused her to follow.
Entering the stone kitchen, where the orange glow of the fire illuminated the far end of the large room, Arabella shivered as her body reacted to the change in atmosphere from the draughty dark corridor.
Sally looked nervous and took a small envelope from her pocket, passing it to Arabella with a shaky hand. “Lady Spencer, I have been requested to pass this on to you.”
Arabella took it keenly, assuming it must certainly be word from Thomas advising where and when she should next meet with Alexander. She hoped fervently that it would be tonight; she was desperate to be close to him once more.
But as her fingers slipped beneath the envelope fold to reveal the letter beneath, Sally told her in a panicked whisper, “It was sent by the parish, at the request of a dying man at the workhouse. His name is Joseph Evans, and he wishes to speak with you before the consumption claims him.”
Arabella was quite perplexed. “But I remember the name Joseph Evans …” She lowered her eyes to read the weak, spidery handwriting.
Mi Spencer.
I was the valet to Mr Edmund Spencer, esquire. Your former husband left me with something I wish to bequeath to you before I pass. I have secrets I wish to share to free my conscience. Please attend presently, as I have not long left in this world.
Your most humble and obedient servant,
Joseph Evans.
Arabella’s eyes hungrily read the short note a second time, covering her lips with one hand, quite exasperated by the message.
“He grows weaker by the hour, Your Ladyship,” Sally added apologetically. “They say he may not survive many more days …”
Arabella looked up at Sally with wild, frightened eyes, incentivized into action. She realized this could potentially be the revelation Alexander had been looking for.
“Thank you, Sally. I must prepare a note for Lord Thomas Carrington. Please will you deliver it?”
Sally nodded, and Arabella ran to the study to write to Thomas requesting Alexander’s presence as a matter of urgency.