Chapter 22 #2
As they reached the front steps of the house, Arabella caught sight of the coach with the familiar Harcrest coat of arms and felt her heart skip with excitement.
Maybe, just maybe, it was Elizabeth come to call.
It would be extraordinary for her to appear without sending word first, but then Elizabeth was extraordinary.
She had a fearlessness about her that Arabella envied, as if she didn’t care a whit what people said or thought about her.
Arabella would wager a year’s pin money that prior to her disastrous entanglement with James Dinsmore, Elizabeth Harcrest had never left a party distraught with worry that she’d said or done the wrong thing.
Her mother would say Elizabeth was bold because she had the protection of wealth and privilege, but Arabella knew it was something deeper, something Elizabeth had been born with, something—she thought with a deep internal sigh—she’d never have.
A coachman in Harcrest livery stepped forward. “You are Mrs. Frederick Norcroft?”
“I am.”
“And this would be your daughter, Miss Arabella Norcroft?” he inquired.
“She is,” her mother answered for her.
“My mistress, Lady Elizabeth Harcrest, wished me to deliver the following message. Knowing that Miss Norcroft and her sister, Mrs. Rupert Fenwinkle, would be visiting for the duration of Mrs. Fenwinkle’s lying in, she has sent several packages of ladies’ magazines and novels to help pass the time.
Moreover, she has enclosed in these cases several yards of fabric, which she hopes you will be able to use to make clothing for the child. ”
“As if we were charity cases,” her mother muttered under her breath. “Do tell Lady Elizabeth that we find ourselves astonished by her gifts,” she added more loudly for the benefit of the coachman.
“And do express to her how much we appreciate her generosity,” Arabella appended quickly.
Her mother’s mouth twitched with ill-concealed displeasure as the coachman began to unload the carriage.
“You may put the case with the ladies’ magazines and fabric in the parlor.
As for the others”—she waved dismissively—“ask Miss Norcroft.” She turned on her heel and marched up the steps into the house.
Arabella stepped forward, embarrassed by her mother’s brusque response to Elizabeth’s gifts and anxious to have the cases upstairs in her room where she could savor their contents at leisure.
Sharing books was nearly as entertaining as sharing witticisms. And it gave her a glimpse into her friend’s mind—a glimpse, she secretly hoped, that might show her how Elizabeth had learned to dare so much and fear so little.
“If you’ll follow me”—she beckoned to the coachman—“I’ll show you where to put the cases.”
The coachman nodded, but then he hesitated. His eyes flickered uncertainly to the front door of the Norcrofts’ home.
“Is there something more?” she prompted.
He glanced at Arabella, then once more to the front door.
Apparently satisfied that her mother would not be returning, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a packet of letters.
“Lady Elizabeth asked me to give these to you when I was certain there was no one else about. Said to tell you they was of the utmost importance. And that you should make sure to read the one on top”—he pointed at it—“the one addressed to you, in private.” He placed particular emphasis on the last two words.
“I see,” she said. But she didn’t, not at all.
Only the top letter was addressed to her—the rest were addressed to Lord and Lady Moreham and to the Dowager Marchioness, Lady Louisa Moreham of Moreham Hall.
It was with difficulty that she restrained the urge to rip the letter open right there and then.
“Oh, my dear Elizabeth,” she murmured softly to herself as she slipped it into her sleeve, “what have you got up to now?”
Two days later, when the coachman had returned from Hartsdale, Alix burst into Rafe’s study, jubilantly waving an opened letter. “There, you see, I told you everything would turn out just fine.”
“I presume that is a letter from my sister.”
“It is. There is a letter for us and one for Louisa as well. Elizabeth is having a wonderful time, though she misses us all dreadfully, and she begs us to kiss the pug for her.”
“You’ll forgive me if I refrain from passing on that bit of affection. It’s bad enough that the beast has taken to sleeping on my pillow.”
“He likes you.”
“He drools.”
“He does not,” she protested.
“This epistle.” He beckoned with long elegant fingers. “Have you checked to make certain it came from Hartsdale?”
Alix stopped, planting her fists on her hips.
While he knew his wife meant it as a defiant gesture, Rafe couldn’t help thinking that her rounded belly undermined the pose. She looked adorable. He schooled his features to remain attentive to the tirade he knew was coming.
“Of course I did not check the return address,” she stormed, slipping into French. “I refuse to be suspicious of her.”
“Only because you have not known Elizabeth for as long as I have,” he replied in the same language.
She handed him the letter. He immediately turned it over.
“Well?” she demanded.
“It appears to have been sent from Hartsdale.”
“Which proves my point.” She lifted her chin triumphantly.
“Which proves the letter was sent from Hartsdale, not that my sister sent it from there.”
“It is in her hand, is it not?”
He unfolded the letter, his eyes sliding carefully down the page. “So it appears to be.”
“And there is a postscript from Arabella Norcroft, is there not? Thanking us, in a most polite manner, for sending Elizabeth to stay with them.” She cocked her head. “Or perhaps you think that part is a forgery?”
He shook his head. “My sister could never manage a hand so neat.”
“Concede, then, my love.” She came round his desk. “Your sister is precisely where she ought to be.”
Rafe pulled her onto his lap. “I will concede,” he said, kissing the soft curve of her neck. “Only that you are precisely where you should be.”