Chapter 2
"We must be strategic," Lady Honoria announced, having summoned Arabella from her bath before her hair was properly dry. "The situation, while dire, is not entirely without hope. I've sent word to your Aunt Prudence as well."
The evening descended upon Marchwood House with the weight of impending doom, or at least that was how Lady Honoria described it while pacing the drawing room like a general planning a particularly hopeless campaign.
"Oh, Mama, no," Arabella sank back against the settee, her expression one of weary resignation. "Not Aunt Prudence."
"Your Aunt Prudence," her mother continued, undeterred, "has connections. She knows everyone who matters and, more importantly, everyone who thinks they matter. If anyone can help us navigate this disaster, it's her."
Arabella pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, though the evening was warm. Her hair, still damp from the bath, hung in loose waves down her back; a style that would have been scandalous in public but seemed appropriate for what was essentially a council of war.
"Perhaps," she suggested tentatively, "we're overreacting. Perhaps people will be more understanding than we think."
Her mother stopped pacing long enough to give her a look that suggested Arabella had taken leave of her senses.
"Understanding? My dear child, society is many things, but understanding is not among them.
By now, Lady Nottington has undoubtedly told her particular friend Mrs. Worthington, who will have told her daughter, who is betrothed to Sir Reginald's nephew, who will mention it at his club, where it will be overheard by. .."
"I understand the general principle of gossip, Mama."
"Do you?" Her mother resumed her pacing. "Because if you did, you would never have..." She stopped herself, pressing her fingers to her temples. "No, that's unfair. You were trying to save Thistle. It was... noble, in its way."
"Papa would have done the same thing," Arabella said quietly.
Her mother's expression softened. "Indeed, he would have. Your father never met a creature in distress he didn't feel compelled to rescue. It's where you get it from, I suppose. That insufferable need to help."
They sat in silence for a moment, both lost in memories of a man whose absence still felt like a wound that would not close—constantly noticed, impossible to ignore.
"The question now," Lady Honoria said, with admirable determination, "is how we proceed. Lord Nottington is certainly out of the question."
"Was he ever really in the question?" Arabella asked. "He's perfectly pleasant, but he seems to believe that discussing the weather constitutes intellectual discourse."
"He has four thousand a year and a lovely estate in Kent."
"He also has a mother who believes that vegetables cause moral decay and insists on reading improving sermons aloud after dinner."
"You could have reformed him," her mother suggested without much conviction.
"I could have died of boredom first."
A knock at the door interrupted what was promising to become a familiar argument. Their butler, Jameson, entered bearing a silver salver.
"A letter has arrived, my lady," he announced with the gravity of one delivering news from the battlefield. "From Blackthorn Manor."
The words hung in the air like an accusation. Or possibly a promise. Arabella couldn't quite decide which.
Her mother snatched the letter with a speed that suggested she'd been expecting it, though her expression indicated she hadn't quite decided whether it was salvation or damnation. The seal, black wax with an elaborate 'B', broke with a crack that sounded unnecessarily ominous.
"Well?" Arabella demanded when her mother had been silent for several seconds too long.
"He's coming to call," Lady Honoria said faintly. "Tomorrow. At three o'clock."
"That's... good, isn't it?"
"I honestly haven't the faintest idea." Her mother handed her the letter with the air of one passing along a potentially explosive device. "His handwriting is appalling."
The Earl's script was indeed difficult; bold slashes of ink that suggested the writer had been in a considerable hurry or possibly a temper. But the message itself was brief and formally correct:
Lady March,
I trust Lady Arabella has suffered no ill effects from today’s unfortunate incident. With your permission, I shall call tomorrow at three o'clock to assure myself of her continued good health.
Blackthorn
"It's perfectly proper," Arabella observed, though something about the curt phrasing made her suspect the Earl had written it through gritted teeth.
"Perfectly proper and perfectly vague," her mother corrected. "Is he calling out of duty? Guilt? Or..." She paused, clearly wrestling with a thought too dangerous to voice.
"Or what, Mama?"
"Nothing. It's impossible." But Lady Honoria was looking at her daughter with that calculating expression again, the one that suggested she was revising battle plans in light of new intelligence.
"Mama," Arabella said in a warning tone. "Whatever you're thinking..."
"I'm thinking that the Earl of Blackthorn is unmarried, wealthy, and has just compromised you in front of half the county."
"He rescued me!"
"The distinction, I fear, will be lost on the gossips." Her mother stood, decision apparently made. "Tomorrow, you will wear your blue morning gown. It brings out your eyes and suggests innocence without appearing to try too hard."
"I rather think that ship has sailed," Arabella muttered. "Possibly drowned."
"Nonsense. We shall be perfectly charming, perfectly proper, and perfectly vague about the entire incident. If Lord Blackthorn mentions it, we shall be grateful for his assistance. If he doesn't, we shall discuss the weather."
"The weather," Arabella repeated flatly.
"The weather is a perfectly acceptable topic of conversation. Safe, neutral, and unlikely to result in anyone throwing themselves into any bodies of water."
Before Arabella could formulate a response to this piece of maternal wisdom, another knock came at the door. Jameson reappeared, this time bearing an expression of deep disapproval.
"Forgive the continued interruptions, my lady, but there appears to be a... situation in the kitchen."
"A situation?" Lady Honoria's voice suggested she'd had quite enough situations for one day.
"The dog, my lady. He has... that is to say, he appears to have... liberated a joint of beef that the Cook was preparing for tomorrow's dinner."
"Liberated," Arabella repeated, already rising. "You mean stolen."
"I prefer to think of it as a redistribution of resources," Jameson said with the faintest hint of a smile. "Though the Cook is using rather more colorful terminology."
The sounds now emanating from the kitchen seemed to support this assessment. Arabella could hear the Cook's voice rising in volume and creativity, punctuated by Thistle's enthusiastic barking.
"I shall handle it," she sighed, moving toward the door.
"The blue gown," her mother called after her. "And for heaven's sake, do something about that dog before tomorrow. The last thing we need is for him to steal something from Lord Blackthorn."
The kitchen, when Arabella arrived, resembled a battlefield where the casualties were primarily dignity and several pounds of excellent beef.
Thistle sat in the corner, tail wagging despite the fact that he was clearly in disgrace, while the Cook stood in the center of the room wielding a rolling pin like a weapon of war.
"That beast," the Cook declared upon seeing Arabella, "is a threat to civilized society and decent kitchens everywhere."
"I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Winters," Arabella said, though she had to suppress a smile at the sight of Thistle, who had somehow managed to get gravy on his ears. "He's had rather an exciting day."
"Exciting?" Cook's voice rose to new heights. "That's what we're calling theft and destruction now, is it? Exciting?"
"He did nearly drown," Arabella offered weakly.
"Pity he didn't," the Cook muttered, though Arabella knew she didn't mean it. Just last week, she'd seen the woman giving Thistle food when she thought no one was looking.
"I'll make it up to you," Arabella promised. "I'll help with tomorrow's dinner myself if necessary."
"You?" The Cook looked scandalized. "In my kitchen? After what happened the last time you tried to help?"
The last time had involved an incident with a soup that they'd all agreed never to discuss again.
"Fair point," Arabella conceded. "But I'll find some way to make amends. Perhaps I could go to the village tomorrow morning and..."
"You'll do no such thing," her mother's voice came from behind her.
Apparently, the situation had warranted personal intervention from the general herself.
"Tomorrow, you will do nothing that might generate additional gossip.
You will stay home, you will prepare for Lord Blackthorn's visit, and you will not, under any circumstances, allow that dog anywhere near him. "
Thistle, as if understanding he was being discussed, barked helpfully.
"He's expressing his opinions," Arabella said.
"His opinions are not required," her mother replied firmly. "Mrs. Winters, I apologise for the disruption. We'll manage with a simple roast fowl for tomorrow if necessary."
"No need, my lady," the Cook said, though she continued to eye Thistle with deep suspicion. "I've got a ham in the larder that will do nicely. Though I'll be locking it up tighter than the crown jewels."
The crisis was over, or at least postponed and Arabella was ushered back to the drawing room where her mother resumed her strategic planning.