Unhooked fish. At least I hope it will be so.”
“I shall, of course, accompany Suzanne to my sister’s,” Lady Talgarth said pointedly to Lady Ann, ignoring her daughter, whom she would deal with later.
Justin tapped the stem of his wineglass with his fork to gain everyone’s attention. “Let us drink to your visit to Brighton, Miss Talgarth, and to the gentleman who will be so lucky as to pluck such a lovely rose.” As Arabella drained her glass—it was a delicious Bordeaux—she thought how very adept Suzanne had become in her handling of gentlemen. She was certain that the lovely rose could show her thorns most effectively, if crossed the wrong way. Lady Ann cleared her throat and stared at Arabella.
Arabella rose and nodded to the earl and the comte. “If you gentlemen will excuse us, the ladies will now repair to the Velvet Room.” Justin rose also and said pleasantly, “I don’t think we need to linger over our port this evening, my dear. If you ladies do not mind, we would join you now.”
Lady Talgarth said to Lady Ann in a whisper calculated to penetrate even Crupper’s ears, who stood at the far end of the dining room, “It still seems very strange for Arabella to be in your place, my dear Ann.” Arabella pretended not to hear and looked back only when Suzanne tugged on her sleeve. “Goodness, you walk so very quickly. Come, Bella, don’t mind Mama. You must know that she is jealous because you have contracted such an eligible alliance before I have managed even an ineligible one.”
“As if you would ever care.” Arabella gave one blond curl an affectionate pull. “You make it sound like I’ve caught some vile disease, like measles.”
Other blond curls fluttered and bobbed over small shapely ears.
“Certainly not. I think your groom very handsome, not at all like measles. And if you caught an earl, no doubt I shall become a duchess.
Mayhap this wondrous duke will have seven houses scattered all over England. He will throw at least three ropes of diamonds around my white neck.”
Arabella looked at the dimpled laughing face and found herself smiling.
“You will make a perfect duchess, Suz. I just hope you can find a young one.”
“Well, old dukes have to have sons, don’t they? Surely they can’t all be snapped up. You know, it would serve Mama right were I to marry our chinless paunchy viscount. All the money that has been lavished on clothing for my back for the Season—why Papa was livid when the only result he saw was one visit from a gentleman who could not play at whist and the other visit from a gentleman who could talk only of his mistress.” She paused, then turned. “Yes, Mama, it’s true. Don’t look so shocked. No, no one said that in front of me. I, er, was standing just outside Papa’s library and overheard it.” She paused a moment and sat daintily beside Arabella, arranging her lavender skirt in becoming folds about her. “Oh, my, Elsbeth is going to play. I do hope Mama will not insist that I follow such a performance. She is so very talented. It is depressing. It is difficult to keep up pretenses.”
“I know. It’s as if she puts all her passion into her music. If she would speak as she plays, I think she would be an excellent orator.” After a third Bach prelude, Suzanne began to fidget. She put her blond head next to Arabella’s ear and whispered behind her lavender-gloved hand, “How very lucky you are, Bella. The earl is so very handsome and, well, handsome as the devil actually. If I were not a properly brought-up young lady, I should long to be wicked and ask you all about your wedding night. So, how was it?”
The stark memory of pain and bitter humiliation sent bile into Arabella’s throat. She finally said, “I will forget what you asked. Just know that wedding nights aren’t—no, forget that. Be quiet. Listen to Elsbeth.”
“Such a spoilsport you are.”
After Elsbeth’s performance had received its usual loud applause, and Suzanne had complained convincingly to her mama of a sore finger that would render her in horrible pain if she had to strike a single pianoforte key with it, Arabella found herself paired with the comte against the earl and Suzanne in a game of whist.
She soon discovered that the comte’s skill was nearly on a par with hers.
She began to play with the daring and skill that her father had taught her. Without intending it to be so, she found herself engaging in silent battle against her husband, the comte and Suzanne fading out of her thoughts, out of her sight. When Lady Ann halted their game for tea, Arabella and the comte had soundly thrashed their opponents. Suzanne, who was in reality as competitive as Arabella, merely laughed gaily and fanned the deck of cards in colorful profusion about the tabletop.
“You were just like Jeanne d’Arc, strewing her enemy in her path,” the comte said, admiration and something else in his voice. He clasped Arabella’s hand and kissed her wrist.
The earl’s eyes were narrow. He looked ready to kill. She grabbed her hand back and said, “That is nonsense, and you know it. I dislike flattery. We had excellent cards, nothing more. Suzanne is the killer.”
“No, I’m only a killer occasionally. The comte is quite right, Bella,” Suzanne said. “You’re a veritable dragon. Don’t you remember when we were children and you were always trying to drum the strategy of the game into my head?”
“You have far too lovely a head for nonsensical games, Miss Talgarth,” the earl said as he helped her to rise and drew her arm through his.
“I had believed you a man of truth, my lord,” Suzanne said. “Come, admit it, you could most willingly have wrung my neck when I trumped your winning spade in the third game.”
“Very well, I will admit it. Truth is sometimes the very devil, isn’t it, Miss Talgarth?”
“His lordship finds the lovely Miss Talgarth most amusing, is it not so, cousin?”
Arabella raised gray eyes to the comte’s too-handsome face and said, “I daresay, monsieur, but then again, I myself find Suzanne most amusing.
She enlivens any conversation, brightens any party.” When, amid wraps and bonnets, Lady Talgarth and Miss Talgarth took their leave, Arabella quickly excused herself, not meeting the earl’s eyes, and hurried up the stairs. She locked the door to the earl’s bedchamber, and heaved a sigh of relief, only to gasp with surprise as the door to the adjoining dressing room slowly opened. She stood frozen in the middle of the room, as the earl strode toward her.
He saw her eyes fly to the small nightstand, guessed her pistol lay in the drawer, and drew to a halt. He watched her closely as her hands balled into fists and her face paled in the dim candlelight. A picture of Arabella, dancing toward him in her nightgown, smiling confidently and unafraid, darted through his mind. Their wedding night seemed an eternity ago.
He said to her in an even voice, “You will not need your gun tonight, Arabella. I merely came to wish you a good night. You were an excellent hostess. I was pleased. I believe the evening was successful.”
“Thank you. I agree,” she said, nothing more. She stood there unmoving until he had strode from the bedchamber and into the adjoining room, closing the door behind him.
Rain slashed against the windows and cascaded in thick sheets onto the rows of rosebushes, flattening them against the outside wall of the library. Arabella sighed in frustration at her enforced inactivity and hurriedly scanned the dark-paneled shelves for a suitable book to while away the afternoon hours. How very strange it was that she, the Earl of Strafford’s favorite daughter should be roaming furtively about the abbey, purposely avoiding nearly all of its occupants. Even Dr. Branyon, who was expected later in the afternoon for tea, had joined the ranks of those whose penetrating stares made her feel like a guilty intruder in her own home.
“Oh, damn, how absurd it is.” She grabbed the first colorfully bound book that caught her eye. Once in the earl’s bedchamber she realized she had selected a book of plays by the French writer Mirabeau. As her French was as deplorable as her efforts at the pianoforte, deciphering the lines word by word was about as pleasurable as having a splinter in her finger.
After a while she looked up from her sh
adowed corner and rubbed her eyes.
She was struck again by her desire to be alone, be hidden away from everyone. Had she not unconsciously selected the darkest corner of the room to pass the afternoon?
By the time she had forced herself to translate the supposedly witty lines in the first act, the book lay open on her lap and her head fell against her arm.
Arabella was not certain what awakened her, perhaps her fear that the earl had come into the room to find her, but in an instant she was alert, her muscles tensed for action.
She gazed across to the more lighted portion of the room and saw with some confusion the stooped figure of Josette, Elsbeth’s maid. The old woman moved to The Dance of Death panel, looked quickly about her, and began to run her gnarled hands over the carved, uneven figures on the surface.
Arabella rose from her chair and walked from her shadowed corner, a question already framed on her lips. “Josette, whatever are you doing here?”
The old woman jumped back from the panel, her arms flopping to her sides.
She gazed in consternation at the young countess, her throat so dry with fear that only jumbled incoherent sounds erupted from her mouth.
“Come, Josette, whatever is so very interesting about The Dance of Death panel? If you wanted to examine it, you had but to ask me. Surely it is no excuse for you to be sneaking about.” Arabella frowned at Josette, her mind suddenly alert to the trapped, confused look on her face.
“Forgive me, my lady,” Josette finally managed to say in a strangled whisper, “it is just that I . . . that I . . .”
“You what?” Arabella said, her head cocked to one side. Goodness, the old woman looked as if she expected the grim laughing skeleton to reach out from the panel and grab her by the throat. This was all very odd.
The old woman wrung her hands, clasping them over her thin chest. “Oh, my lady, I had no choice. I was forced to do it, forced.” She broke off suddenly, her eyes rolling upward. Before Arabella could question her further, she ran from the bedchamber in a frenzied, loping gait.
Arabella made no move to stop her. She stared at the closed door, wondering what the devil the old woman had meant. After a few moments she walked to The Dance of Death and stood for a long while looking at the bizarre panorama of grotesque carved figures. She moved her fingers lightly over the surface. The skeleton screamed his soundless commands to his demonic hosts. The panel was as it always was. Arabella stood there before the panel a moment longer, then turned with a shrug and returned to her darkened corner.
Arabella quietly slipped through the door of the adjoining dressing room, her wrapper knotted loosely about her waist, her black hair streaming down her back. She ran noiselessly to the earl’s bed. “Justin, Justin, wake up.” She leaned over him and shook his shoulder.
His eyes flew open and he struggled up to a sitting position. “What?
Arabella?” He was at once startled and alert. He could barely make out her pale features in the dim early light of dawn.
Arabella drew a deep breath. “It is Josette, Elsbeth’s maid. She is dead, Justin. I found her but a moment ago at the foot of the main staircase. I think her neck is broken.”
“Good God.” He threw back the bedcovers, insensible to the fact that he was quite naked, and added impatiently, “Come, Bella, hand me my dressing gown.”
As she handed him the rich brocade dressing gown, she looked at him, she couldn’t help it. He was utterly beautiful, all lean muscle, and big, his chest covered with black hair and his groin as well. She stepped back, appalled at herself, wondering if he had seen her staring at him.
The earl appeared quite oblivious of her panic, and said brusquely over his shoulder as he strode toward the door, “Well, don’t just stand there, come along, Bella. You did come to me first, did you not?”
“Of course,” she said simply. “Who else would I have gone to?” And it was the truth. She took a double step to catch up with him. “I couldn’t sleep and I was going to the library to fetch a bit of brandy.”
“Thank the good Lord the servants are not up and about yet.” She stood back as he leaned over the twisted form of the old woman and made a brief examination. He rose after a moment and nodded. “You’re right. Her neck is broken. Also she feels cold and very stiff. She’d been dead for some time.” He was silent then, looking back up the stairs, then back to the shapeless body. A slow frown spread over his smooth brow, drawing his black brows together.
“What are you thinking, Justin?” Arabella asked, her eyes following his up the winding staircase.
“I am really not certain at this moment what I am thinking,” he said slowly. Suddenly efficient, he added briskly, “We must do first things first. Fetch a blanket to cover her while I carry her to the back parlor.
I will send for Dr. Branyon.”
Dr. Branyon arrived within the hour, his face drawn with concern. He had imagined any number of frightful accidents, for the stable boy could tell him nothing.
As he gratefully accepted a cup of steaming coffee from Arabella later in the Velvet Room, he said, “There are several broken bones, but she died, as both of you supposed, from a broken neck in the fall down the stairs.
It’s a pity.” He sighed. “Lord, it is hard to believe that she has been in England for more than twenty years. She was Magdalaine’s maid, you know. She has taken care of Elsbeth all her life. Elsbeth will be quite upset over her death.” He turned to Arabella. “You have waked your mother? I suggest that Ann inform your sister. I will remain and give her a drought to calm her, if necessary. Ah, poor Elsbeth.” Lady Ann remained with Elsbeth for most of the day, emerging only briefly for luncheon.
“I had no idea that my cousin would be so concerned over a servant’s death,” the comte said as he took a goodly bite of baked ham, a hint of incredulity in his voice.
“Josette was like another mother to Elsbeth,” Lady Ann said quietly.
“Elsbeth has been close to her all her life. I would be surprised were she not distraught. But she goes a bit better now, poor child.” Arabella stared at the comte, wondering if he was totally without sensitivity. As if he felt the condemnation of everyone at the luncheon table, the comte spread his hands before him in apology and hastened to say, “Do forgive such an impertinent observation, Lady Ann. It must be that the English take such matters to heart more than we French do. Of course, you are correct. I applaud my cousin’s feelings. An unfortunate accident, to be sure.”
The earl rose abruptly and tossed his napkin over his plate. “Paul, if you would care to join me in the library to make final preparations? The coffin maker will be here shortly.” He nodded to Lady Ann and Arabella and strode without a backward glance from the dining room.
It was late in the afternoon when the coffin maker left bearing Josette’s body. Though Arabella could not explain it, she felt compelled to watch his departure. The earl emerged from the great front doors to stand quietly beside her on the steps.
“God, how I hate death,” she said, her voice raw and hoarse. “But look—” she pointed after the lumbering black coach that carried Josette’s body—“it’s like the very harbinger of death, with those black plumes on the horses’ bridles and the ghastly black-looped curtains in the windows.” She added bitterly, “And look at me, all swathed in the trappings of death. I am a daily reminder that death’s power is supreme.
We are as nothing, all of us. Oh, God, why do those we love have to disappear from our lives?”
The earl brought his eyes to rest upon her pale wstrained face and said gently, “Your question is the plaything of our philosophers. Even they can only propose answers, all of them absurd. Unfortunately, it must always be the living who suffer, for those we loved are beyond pain.” He paused a moment to gaze out at the immaculate perfection of nature’s making. “It is a depressing thought that we are set in the midst of this enduring nature for but a moment in time, but it is true.
“Now it is I who am talking nonsense. Bella, why don’t y
ou donate all your black gowns to the curate? Your love and memories of your father are within you, after all. Why submit yourself to the ridiculous restrictions of society?”
“You know,” she said slowly, “Father always hated black.” As she turned to walk away, she remembered Josette’s strange visit to the earl’s bedchamber the day before, and looked back. “Justin, perhaps it is nonsense and means nothing at all, but Josette was sneaking about The Dance of Death panel yesterday afternoon. She did not see me, for I was dozing in that large chair in the corner of the room. She seemed frightfully upset when I spoke to her. She said nothing that made any sense. When I kept asking her what she wanted, she scampered out as if the devil himself were on her heels.”
“What exactly did she say?”
“Only some vague phrase about her being forced to be in the room. She really made no sense at all, as I said. Her behavior has become quite strange, you know. Perhaps her wits were so addled she believed Magdalaine still to be alive and in the earl’s bedchamber.” She paused and shook her head.
“There is something else?”
“I was just wondering why Josette was wandering about in the middle of the night without a candle to guide her.” For an incredible moment Justin felt himself drawn to a long-ago sweltering night in Portugal. He and several other soldiers were scouting the perimeter of a scrubby wooded area on the outskirts of a small village in search of the elusive guerrillas. There was an almost discernible odor of danger that reached his nostrils. He jerked his companions to their bellies against the rocky ground just as shots rang out above their heads. Now, as then, he scented danger—certainly not in the form of cutthroats lurking about—but danger nonetheless. He felt he could say nothing of his vague feelings to Arabella, and thus turned to her and said lightly, without thought, “Perhaps old Josette was off to meet a secret lover. A candle would surely find her out.” She withdrew from him as if she had suddenly been whisked to another county. Guilt and shame filled her eyes. And bitterness. His belief that she had betrayed him reduced her to dull silence.
Lord Deverill's Heir Page 18
