TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-EIGHT
Wrapping her arms tightly around her middle, Arabella stared up into the portrait of her parents that hung above the fireplace inside her brother’s study. The early morning was slightly chilled from yesterday’s constant rain, and a small fire flickered in the hearth, but she could feel none of it. The way Henry had ended things between them the day before had cut her most deep. It was almost cruel how one could feel numb and yet ache unbearably all at the same time.
“I do not know what to do,” she whispered to her father’s image. Her chest grew tight, and tears threatened to fall as she struggled with the thought that she wouldn’t be able to keep her last promise to him and marry for love.
What could be done? Henry had said and done everything in his power to push her away, and yet her heart wouldn’t let him go. What he’d said—and how he’d said it—frightened her. She knew little about madness beyond what Dr. Stafford had told her. The rest was speculation and rumor, and that part of it frightened her.
The church claimed it was God’s judgment upon the wicked. But now, faced with the king’s own madness, could that be true when he was chosen by God to rule?
Henry was a good and honorable man who hadn’t harmed a soul. She couldn’t believe God would have cause to strike judgment upon him. It didn’t make sense.
Her mother’s voice outside the study door drew her attention.
“Will you have a tray of drinking chocolate brought up?” her mother said.
“Yes, ma’am,” a footman replied.
Arabella took a steadying breath. She’d finally come out of her room with the intent to speak with her mother. It was time to tell her what had happened. She needed her mother’s wisdom. Her comfort. Her guidance. Anything to make the bleakness of the situation not feel so desolate.
After Henry walked away at the Twickums’ party, her heart had buckled and threatened to take her to her knees. Dr. Stafford had graciously helped her to a nearby gardener’s stool, then left to find her mother.
The gentle but worried look on her mother’s face when she’d appeared told Arabella that she knew what sort of state she would find her daughter in. What Dr. Stafford told her mother Arabella didn’t know, and her mother had yet to ask her anything.
The door to the study opened, and she heard her mother’s graceful footsteps.
“Feeling any better?” her mother asked with a soothing tone. She stopped beside Arabella, her eyes glancing toward the portrait and then away.
“A little,” Arabella lied, her voice faltering.
She wanted to be strong. She needed to be strong, or else she might as well give up.
“Will you tell me what happened?” her mother asked, guiding her toward the nearby wingback chairs.
Arabella took a deep breath and nodded, knowing where she must start. “I told Henry that I loved him.” The pain from his rejection threatened to resurface, but she forced it back down.
Her mother’s head snapped to fully look at Arabella. Her eyes wide, she pressed a hand to her chest. “In front of Dr. Stafford?”
Arabella internally groaned, only now realizing that she’d indeed confessed her love for one man while in front of another whose grandmother was quite determined to see them wed.
“I did.”
“Merciful heavens,” her mother said, taking a seat, her voice barely louder than a whisper.
“Indeed,” Arabella said, dropping into her chair.
She’d need to apologize to Dr. Stafford—if she ever saw him again. Though they’d agreed from the beginning not to feel rushed by Lady Bixbee’s persistent machinations and hadn’t discussed their feelings toward one another since, Arabella felt it was the right thing to do. She only prayed she hadn’t hurt him. He was a good man, and he deserved happiness.
A maid entered the study, carrying a silver tray with a tall, silver pot and two white cups.
Arabella’s mother instructed her to leave it on the small table between their chairs, and they were left alone once again.
Her mother poured both of them a cup and then took a sip, licking the chocolate from her lips. “What happened after you told Lord Northcott that you loved him?”
Arabella took a sip of her chocolate, determined to tell all without crumbling.
A level head, a level course, as her father would say.
Starting with her conversation with Dr. Stafford and his request, she explained how she’d, in way, deceived Henry by omission by bringing him to the waiting doctor.
Her mother looked at her with disappointment.
Arabella then recounted the painful details about how badly Henry had reacted and what he’d said about his family. She left out the part about the voice inside his head. That secret was Henry’s and Henry’s alone.
“So you see,” Arabella managed through a tight throat, “I told Henry that I loved him, and he pushed me away.” Her voice faltered as she fought the burning sensation behind her eyes. It was like feeling her heart break all over again. “He is hurting, and I know he thinks he is doing this to protect me, but I do not feel protected. I feel broken.” She took a shaky breath. “What can I do?”
Her mother didn’t have an immediate response. In fact, she’d barely looked surprised through most of what Arabella had said. Which led Arabella to suspect ...
“Did you already know about Henry’s family?” she asked.
Her mother returned her cup to the table and folded her hands in her lap before meeting Arabella’s eyes. “I have always been aware of the rumors surrounding his uncle’s death. But at the dinner party, his aunt informed me about the truths surrounding his parents’ deaths.”
“Why would she tell you this?” Arabella asked.
“I believe she saw the possibility of an attachment forming between you and her nephew. She said she wanted to ...” Her mother’s words trailed off, uncertainty lingering in her tone. “She wanted to warn me about what you would face should the ton ever discover the full truth about his family.”
A surge of betrayal on Henry’s behalf coursed through her. Why would his aunt warn away someone who cared for him? The night of the dinner party, she’d preached about duty to one’s family, yet, clearly, she didn’t care about family at all. She only cared about herself.
“And now, knowing more of Henry’s family’s past, do you wish for me to avoid such a connection?” Arabella asked. Her heart pounded in her chest. She feared not having her mother’s support.
Her mother took hold of Arabella’s hand. “I said this to your brother when he returned with Olivia all battered and bruised by her father, and I shall say it to you. I cannot fault you for whom your heart loves.” She rubbed her thumb gently over Arabella’s knuckles. “Do his family’s past and present worry me? Of course they do. But I also feel that I have come to know Lord Northcott, and nothing he has ever done has given me a moment’s hesitation about his goodness.” She squeezed Arabella’s hand. “But my sweet, spirited, stubborn girl, if he wants to spare you from his past, you cannot force him to change.”
Arabella made to argue. Deep down, she knew he loved her. She didn’t need to change his mind. She needed him to trust her. To trust that their love would see them through anything.
Her mother held up her hand. “I do not say this because I doubt his feelings for you. I am saying this because, for once in your life, you are going to have to use patience.”
Her mother’s advice was sound, but that didn’t mean Arabella wanted to follow it.
“I know you want to jump in and fix this,” her mother continued. “But what he needs from you is time. He needs to find his way through what life has dealt him, and when he does, he will find you there waiting for him.”
“But he is alone,” she argued, her chest growing tight with worry.
“He is not alone,” her mother said, placing her hands on Arabella’s cheeks, her eyes staring hard into hers. “He will have Mr. Bradbury, and when your brother returns in a few days, he shall have Emerson as well.” She dropped her hands. “Give him time.”
Arabella reluctantly nodded. Time was too fickle for her. What was endless to some was ripped short from others. But her mother was wise, and, besides, what other choice did she have?
Though patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” Smith said from the doorway. “Dr. Stafford is asking to see you and Miss Latham.”
“What? He is here?” Arabella asked, jumping to her feet. “Yes, of course I will see him.” She moved to collect him herself, but her mother caught her by the arm and stopped her.
“Bring him to the parlor, Smith,” her mother said. Then to Arabella she said in a low, teasing tone, “What did we just discuss about patience?”
Arabella offered her mother an apologetic smile before following her to the parlor.
Dr. Stafford walked in and stiffly bowed, hesitating before meeting her eyes. “Forgive the early intrusion; I—I thought to see how Miss Latham was faring.”
“I am a little better,” Arabella said. She offered him a friendly smile, but he still looked uncomfortable. She worried her confession to Henry had hurt him. “I am relieved you called.”
His wide eyes snapped to hers in shock. “You are?”
“I am,” she replied.
“You are,” Dr. Stafford repeated, glancing to her mother as if he expected her to protest his visit.
Arabella couldn’t help but awkwardly laugh. He was acting so nervous it was making her nervous. “Yes, I am.”
“You are,” Dr. Stafford said slowly, as if he were finally coming around to believe it.
“I wonder, Dr. Stafford,” her mother cut in, which was good, as they were getting nowhere, “if I might ask something of you?” Her choice of words hinted toward what he’d asked of Arabella the previous evening. The way she tilted her head and raised one rebuking brow told the rest.
Dr. Stafford was getting a mother’s warning.
He nodded, a penitent look upon his somber face.
“I promised Arabella a walk in the back garden, but I just remembered something I need to write to Mr. Bradbury. Would you be so kind as to go in my stead? I always find the air so ... restorative after it rains.”
Arabella could have kissed her mother on the cheek. With one simple request, she’d orchestrated a means by which Arabella might find some relief from two of her greatest worries. Arabella would apologize to Dr. Stafford during their walk in the garden, while her mother would write to Mr. Bradbury to make certain Henry wasn’t left alone.
“I would be happy to,” Dr. Stafford said, looking to Arabella. “If Miss Latham would not be opposed to my company?”
“Of course not,” Arabella replied.
Leaving her mother at a writing table near the window overlooking the back garden, Arabella led the way onto the terrace and down the steps to the same gravel path she and Dr. Stafford had taken before.
Waiting to speak until they reached the bench beneath the plum tree, Arabella took a seat, and gestured for Dr. Stafford to join her. But he hesitated.
“I must admit,” he said, looking down at her, one hand on his hip while the other rubbed at the back of his neck, “I thought, after what happened yesterday, you would not want to see me ever again.”
“Why would you think that?” she asked, patting the bench next to her, inviting him to sit down. “Truly, you did nothing as terrible as what I did.”
He sat but looked at her as if she’d grown a second head. “You? No, I—”
She held up her hand. “Please, allow me to explain.” His argument halted, though his confusion remained. She took a fortifying breath. “I wanted to apologize if—that is, if what I said to Henry about how I—” Heat ran up her neck and into her cheeks, and for a moment she had to look away. It was quite uncomfortable talking to a man about your feelings for another man. She wished she could say it in a way that didn’t fully embarrass the both of them. “I need to apologize to you if what I said to Henry about my feelings for him ... hurt you, in any way ...”
They sat in silence for two solid heartbeats before realization flashed in his eyes. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and cleared his throat. She struggled not to do the same.
“Yes, uh ... allow me to assure you, Miss Latham, that no offense has been taken. Though I know my grandmother has been in earnest for a union between us, I have come to look upon you as a cherished friend.”
Relief flooded through her, and before she could think better of it, she grabbed both his hands with hers. “Oh, thank goodness.”
He chuckled. “Had it been any other time, my pride might not have survived seeing such relief on a woman’s face when being freed from my affections.”
Her entire body burned with the force of her embarrassment, and her hands flew to cover her cheeks. “I am so sorry—that did not come out right.”
Dr. Stafford laughed and reached up to pull her hands down. “It is all right. In a way, I understand how you feel.”
“What?” she gasped, an excited smile bursting across her lips. “Are you saying you are in love with someone else?”
He looked down into his lap and shook his head. “I would not call it love. It is ... complicated.”
“Because of Lady Bixbee?”
He let out a breath and leaned forward until his elbows rested upon his knees. “Unfortunately, my grandmother’s displeasure is the least of my problems.”
Arabella studied him, the look of forlorn hope evident in the dip of his head and shoulders. She hated feeling that way herself. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked, placing a supportive hand on his shoulder.
He turned to look up at her. “You have helped more than you know. I just seem doomed to failure.”
She blinked, certain she must’ve misheard him. “I beg your pardon. I have helped you? How?”
He looked away and rubbed his forehead. “I guess I owe you an explanation, considering everything that has happened.”
Arabella stared at him, even more confused.
Sitting up straighter, he turned until they could look one another in the eye. “Have you never wondered why I practically begged you to orchestrate my talk with Lord Northcott?”
“Because you treat his sister,” Arabella replied, and then it hit her. “His sister! You care for his sister!”
He hesitated. “I care for her well-being ... I can admit nothing more than that,” he replied, looking almost ashamed of his feelings. “She should not be a patient at the hospital, but no matter how many ways I have tried, I cannot get her out.”
“How many ways?” Arabella asked.
“I have tried everything from relentlessly contacting Lord Northcott to the Home Office.”
“The Home Office?”
He nodded. “I should not tell you this, but I believe Lord Northcott’s sister was part of a group of old Bedlam patients who were admitted under false pretenses.”
An icy chill settled over Arabella’s skin. “False pretenses?”
“Bribes.”
Arabella felt as if she might be ill. “Does Lord Northcott know this?”
“He knows, and I hoped he would do something. But after what happened with his aunt, I cannot get him to face the situation.”
But I could, the thought instantly flew through her mind. This was more than just about Henry; this was about saving what was left of his family.
But would Henry see her? He’d made it very clear that he wanted nothing more to do with her. She needed a way to make him come to her. To face this and not hide himself away. But how?
“Will you and your mother be attending my grandmother’s card party this evening?” Dr. Stafford asked, no doubt trying to lighten their conversation.
“I–I am not certain,” she said. “Though I know my mother has accepted the invitation.”
“I hope that you do. A distraction would be good for the both of us.” He offered her a half-hearted smile.
A distraction ...
Instantly, a reckless plan began to formulate in her mind. One that was worthy of a Shakespearean play.
If Bedlam was what haunted Henry’s family, then that is where she needed to go. She would show him that she wasn’t afraid of his past and that she would risk everything for him and his sister to have a future.
All she needed was for her mother to be occupied at Lady Bixbee’s party—and a bribe.