Dark Side of the Sun

by Addison Cain

  Stonewall Grove was an impressive estate, far finer than Crescent Barrows. It boasted a large staff to see to its keeping. There were gardens and orchards, beautiful old trees and multitudes of flowers. Yet it lacked the wild grandeur of the surrounding country, acting as an oasis of civility necessary for the timid things that lived there.

  There was no question. Arabella preferred her dreary old stones to the light drenched rooms and artfully arranged furniture.

  Their ride marked her second visit in the month of June. Unlike her first call, she had not arrived by carriage. She’d trotted up dressed in a deep green riding habit, proud on her mount. Mrs. Jenkins had been wide-eyed, her son stoic and confused, Lilly disgusted, and Lizzy absolutely envious. Their mixed expressions at finding her atop her great black beast with no groom in attendance were laughable.

  Ladies did not ride alone, and they certainly did not ride a horse that the family’s stable boy had been reasonably frightened to tend. Still, Arabella had had her way. Two of the Jenkins siblings had joined her, and now the pleasant outing had come to an end. Trio dismounting, they entered the manor. A maid unpinned the fashionable top hat from Arabella’s curls and buttoned up the side of her skirt, preparing her for the more mundane exercise of British ladies—pointless lounging.

  Moving toward the sitting room and out of view of the servants, Edmund gently admonished the wayward baroness. “Your ladyship, you are flushed from the wildness of the ride. It is not healthy for your delicate constitution to race about.”

  Lizzy teased, following him into the parlor. “Come now, Edmund. Don’t be cross because she keeps a better seat than you do.”

  Oblivious to the new member of the party, all three spoke freely until a deep timbre rang out, dreadfully indifferent. “I have it on good authority that the Lady Iliffe keeps a better seat than even I do.”

  Mr. Harrow was there. In the sundrenched room with its carved white paneling, silk settees, and fine plush chairs, he lounged like a panther on the divan nearest the highly polished pianoforte.

  Something about her landlord’s tone brought a biting smirk to her lips. “True. A far better seat.”

  They did not properly greet one another, only stared—Arabella weighing why he would be there after having claimed to dislike the family, Mr. Harrow allowing his disgust at finding her amongst the Jenkins household to show in the sneer of his lip.

  The lovely Lilly, sitting with the air of a queen at her instrument, broke the silence. The notes of a particularly demanding piece halting any chance conversation might progress between the two scowling guests.

  Tugging the baroness over to the damask striped window seat, Lizzy whispered in her ear, “Come. Let us leave Lilly to her music before her glares turn us to stone.” When they were almost to the sunny alcove, Lizzy gossiped in a hushed whisper, “After all, Mr. Harrow has come to call again and she is determined to have him for a husband.”

  As if it was the funniest jest, the youngest Jenkins fell back upon the seat, wracked with laughter that spoiled her sister’s performance.

  Arabella did not find it so funny, cutting her gaze toward the potential couple.

  Lilly was the local beauty and Mr. Harrow, who by all accounts possessed a great deal of land, was rich and handsome, despite his acerbic character and less savory background. Taking a measure of her brooding landlord, Arabella saw how fine his clothes were today, knew the tall collar of his russet cutaway and the high shine of the boots encasing tan pantaloons had been chosen for a purpose.

  Mr. Harrow had dressed himself looking to impress.

  But there was something in his eyes as he watched the songstress, a cold indifference Arabella recognized. Mr. Harrow had no esteem for the beautiful woman doing her best to flaunt her skills and earn his regard. Instead, he wanted something, and it was no doubt something unscrupulous.

  Concern weighing her brow, Arabella found familiar black eyes had glanced her way. He even presumed to smirk.

  She wanted to shout at him, to approach and demand he leave the girl alone—to force him to reveal whatever despicable plot he was up to. Instead she took a seat, and turned her nose away.

  Lizzy came to sit at her side, reading aloud from a book of fairy stories she adored. All the while, Arabella felt the weight of Gregory’s unwelcome glower boring into her back, daring her to turn toward him, to speak up.

  Caught up in her needlepoint, Mrs. Jenkins was oblivious to anything but her youngest’s competent attempts to engage the noblewoman and her eldest daughter’s success in drawing Mr. Harrow to their parlor twice. Proud, she smiled to herself, unaware of just how ill-suited the pair of interlopers was for her children.

  Lilly’s song ended with a beautiful flourish of skill, but when she looked up in triumph from a practically flawless performance, she pouted to see Mr. Harrow’s attention was no longer on her.

  When he should have been content and half in love with her, he was sneering—glaring at the baroness, almost venomous in his appraisal. That would not do.

  Lilly called to Lizzy, asking the youngest to lend her voice to the next piece. Edmund helped his sister rise, watching carefully as she managed her gown away from the hearth, and led her toward the pianoforte.

  While the Jenkins siblings began their song, Mr. Harrow did the opposite of what Lilly desired. He crossed over the carpet, taking the seat at Arabella’s side. “It is almost preposterous to see you lounging like one of these vapid females... Are you not bored? Or is this game of pretend amusing?”

  It was several more breaths before her eyes left the fire to land heavy and mean on the unwelcome presence beside her.

  Arrogant, Mr. Harrow continued. “Why did you come here?”

  Arabella let her actions answer for her. She said nothing.

  “Come now, Imp. No need to glare.” He controlled his features to fit into the propriety of the room, but his eyes were nothing but evil. “Are we not friends?”

  Her lips thinned. Arabella mouthed the words, go to hell.

  Chuckling meanly, Mr. Harrow rose, smiling beautifully at the eldest Jenkins sister as he drew closer to her performance.

  The recital drew to a close, Arabella applauding as expected.

  Before she might offer an excuse and leave, Lilly called across the room. “Now you must play. Come entertain us, Lady Iliffe.”

  Arabella admitted for all to hear, “I am afraid I lack your talent, Miss Jenkins.”

  “Would you like to sing? I may not have any music for a voice as, ahh, rich as yours,” Lilly began to shuffle through sheet music, “but you could always sing an octave below.”

  “Lilly.” Her mama raised her eyes from her needlepoint and fixed a stare at her eldest daughter. “Lady Iliffe does not wish to perform for you.”

  With just a few words, Mr. Harrow earned a pleased smile on Lilly’s pretty lips. “Do not fault Lady Iliffe, Miss Jenkins. It is too great a challenge to follow such skill.”

  Arabella agreed. “You are correct, Mr. Harrow. I cannot play the pianoforte.”

  Lilly chimed, tone innocent, intention mean, “You cannot play, and you do not dance...”

  Now on that point Lilly was wrong, though the Jenkins’ would never consider the swaying hips of Romani dancing girl anything but vulgar. A twitch at the corner of her lips, Arabella said, “I danced before I was married. I enjoyed it then. But it has been so long, that I no longer remember the steps.”

  Dancing was key to social standing, to finding a mate, to interacting at parties in general. To openly admit such a wanting trait was preposterous... publicly damning. Astounded, Lilly asked, “To even a quadrille?”

  Arabella shook her head.

  “Lilly!” Lizzy called out, “Play a minuet so I may teach her.” The eager girl rushed to her new friend, assuring, “That one is the easiest.”

  Arabella had not meant to incite an impromptu lesson and tried to politely decline, but Lizzy was on her, pulling her to stand, Edmund already shifting the couch to make spa
ce.

  “It is improper for two young ladies to dance,” Mrs. Jenkins corrected. “Partner her, Edmund. You are a fine dancer.”

  “But, mother...” Lizzy pouted, disappointed to have her friend taken away.

  Standing from the pianoforte, Lilly argued, “She will never properly learn a minuet with only one couple dancing,”

  Setting aside her needle point, Mrs. Jenkins picked up on the subtle cue. “You are correct, my girl. Mr. Harrow, would you kindly partner Lilly? And, Lizzy, you must play for the room.”

  The youngest had no interest in performing, but reluctantly did as she was told.

  Lilly was an exacting teacher. But over the lesson Arabella kept her opinion hidden behind a blank face as she took Edmund’s hand, repeated a step, a bow, twirled. Over an hour later, she danced the whole thing, partner exchanges and all, flawlessly... that was until Mr. Harrow took her hand and squeezed her fingers.

  She moved out of time.

  “Try not to step on my toes, your ladyship,” he mumbled as they came together and separated in the form.

  “Perhaps if you did not have such big feet...” Arabella countered, spun, then moved back to stand beside Edmund.

  Mr. Harrow leered at her statement, meeting her eyes as if he knew how much she hated this.

  At long last the dinner bell declared the dance lesson complete.

  Arabella’s relief was so obvious, Lilly snickered, “What woman dislikes dancing?”

  “I do not dislike it.” Arabella said, stepping away. “It just does not occur to me.”

  As he offered his arm to Lilly, Mr. Harrow mocked the baroness for good measure, “And how could it? The baroness spends her time far more productively, exploring the moors and frightening the locals with her devil horse.” Leaning down toward the brunette beauty at his side, he spoke in hushed tones as if sharing a secret, “Did you know, Miss Jenkins, the baroness rides her beast with no saddle or bridle?”

  Lilly snickered behind her hand. “How savage.”

  Arabella could not help but smirk at the statement. Yes, it was savage... and glorious. Green eyes glowing, she explained what the pacified and confined Jenkins family would probably never grasp in their bland existence, “Unless you have ridden a dangerous beast with nothing but your hands tangled in his hair, you could never feel the glorious triumph of the moment. The act ties the brute to you to a point that you would never be thrown... to the point you are one—unrestrained and beautiful.”

  Clearing his throat, Edmund swallowed.

  Mr. Harrow coldly interjected. “I do believe you’ve scandalized Edmund, Lady Iliffe. Perhaps you should be cautious of your speeches on horsemanship in the future.”

  Ignoring the taunt, Edmund offered an arm to escort the baroness into the dining room. His usually light voice came thick. “Come, your ladyship, let us take supper.”

  Smiling politely at her host, she followed protocol and let him lead her to the seat at his mother’s side.

  Wine flowed and the courses progressed. Beside Mr. Harrow, Lilly tried her best to entertain the gentleman, but the girl struggled, Mr. Harrow’s answers short and not conducive to conversation.

  In fact, he seemed appallingly bored.

  As the dessert course was taken away, Harrow leaned back in his chair. He looked down the table, pointedly ignoring the chatter of the female at his elbow. “Lady Iliffe,” he called, “Do you know why Crescent Barrows carries its name?”

  Arabella, conversation with Lizzy interrupted, pursed her lips. “Does the tale of the White Woman figure into the name?”

  Table quiet, the color went out of Mrs. Jenkins’s complexion, Mr. Harrow allowing one side of his mouth to curve up in an indulgent smirk.

  “From your expression, Mr. Harrow, I must assume the original name was based on something far more romantic and much less morbid,” Lilly sang, slipping into the conversation in an attempt to draw the beautiful black eyes back her way.

  “Indeed, Miss Jenkins.” Harrow flattered the girl at his side. “The location of the manor was chosen not only for the view, but for the flowering vines that once covered the hillside. When my ancestors placed the foundation, they unearthed an ancient grave and within it discovered a crescent shaped savage’s ring. Taking it as an omen, they christened the property Bower Crescent for the flowers and the treasure hidden in the ground.”

  “Your ancestors?” Arabella could not help but ask. “Crescent Barrows is your family home?”

  “Yes.” The gentleman nodded, continuing the story. “As I was saying... the ring was gifted to my ancestor’s bride when the structure was completed.”

  Captivated, Lilly cooed. “How lovely.”

  “Not exactly. The ring was cursed, you see. Once it was taken, stone began to crack, tools disappeared. In less than a year, the flowers turned to briars and the land grew hard as rock. But my forbearer was proud, relentless, and unwilling to bend to the voices in the wind. At least not until a strange illness came upon his lady. She passed from the world, wasted away.

  “Ravaged with grief at the death of his beloved wife, the legend says that the ring was buried with the woman beneath the house, but it did not appease the spirit it was stolen from. The blooms did not return and the howling did not cease. Eventually the locals stopped referring to the fortress as Bower, altering the name to Barrows for the graves: the grave of the unknown owner of the ring, and for the grave of the wife.”

  “Is your home haunted?” Lizzy asked, looking at Arabella as if she would be crazy to return to such a place.

  Thoroughly amused by the story, Arabella could not help but snicker into her wine. “Do not believe a word Mr. Harrow speaks. He is telling tales now that he has discovered your affinity for stories.”

  Acrimonious, pitch eyes glowed, the man countered. “You do me a great injustice, Lady Iliffe, leading the two lovely Jenkins sisters to doubt my word.”

  She met the stare of her adversary. “Perhaps I do them the favor by pointing out your falseness.”

  “Come now, Lady Iliffe,” Lilly jumped to the gentleman’s defense. “All the neighborhood has heard the tales of the White Woman.”

  “Lilly is right. Several locals have seen her carrying her candle past the windows of Crescent Barrows while it lay empty,” Lizzy admitted in a hushed whisper.

  Arabella sneered. “You describe that nonsense so poetically.”

  “And do you fear for your future wife, Mr. Harrow?” The fan of Lilly’s lashes lowered, the beauty coy as she flirted. “Do you fear she will befall the same fate as your ancestress?”

  “Lady Iliffe is correct, Miss Jenkins. It was only a tale told to entice. You need not fear... for my future wife.” He purred the words at his hostess, Lilly blushing with the implication.

  How casually he played with people. It disgusted Arabella.

  Eager to change the subject to something far less unnerving, Mrs. Jenkins smiled at the baroness. “After so long to be dancing again, what did you think of the exercise, Lady Iliffe?”

  Sipping her wine to clear the bad taste Mr. Harrow’s behavior had left in her mouth, Arabella considered the best answer. “It was an interesting experience, but perhaps the minuet is not for me.”

  “I believe,” Mr. Harrow offered, looking pointedly at the rather quiet gentleman watching the baroness, “that Mr. Jenkins assumes you would strongly prefer the waltz.”

  Something about his words made Edmund’s ears go red, Mr. Jenkins turning toward the only other man in the room with an expressionlessness that Arabella assumed demonstrated anger.

  The scowling dark haired antagonist only leered in response.

  “I am unfamiliar with the waltz. What is the difference?” Arabella asked, setting her glass aside.

  Lilly and Lizzy burst out in giggles while Mrs. Jenkins offered an answer. “The waltz is the more... well, a minuet is stately... in a waltz the movements are less fleeting and more extended.”

  Looking toward the most socially successful lady a
t the table, Arabella asked, “Do you waltz, Miss Lilly?”

  The beauty stammered. “Of course... when it’s appropriate.”

  “Miss Jenkins, shall we show her?” the black haired rogue tempted.

  Edmund appeared on the verge of speaking out, but Mrs. Jenkins declared, “Excellent notion.”

  The party, humming with a strange excitement Arabella failed to grasp, moved back into the drawing room. Mrs. Jenkins took the bench of the pianoforte and showed great skill with the romantic beginnings of a waltz. Movement started with the couple hip to hip both facing forward, Mr. Harrow’s strong frame an anchor for the slender woman at his side. Each had an arm entwined around their partner, their eyes locked as if there was no audience intruding upon their private moment.

  On the third count, both Lilly and Harrow reached up, forming an arch between their bodies.

  With Edmund at her side, Arabella observed the sensuous movements, the slow rotations. Mr. Harrow was a talented partner, his cold intensity holding Lilly’s attention without a waiver. The male and female form twisted, turned, never separating fully. When the tune grew a bit livelier Harrow’s strength pulled Lilly to face him, sure arms encircling her to hold her hands clasped at her back. Arabella understood why all had giggled. Where the minuet had been bland, a waltz was almost indecent.

  When it ended Lilly was flushed, her lips parted, thoroughly drugged by the seduction.

  Though his question was for the baroness, Harrow held Lilly’s eyes simply to prove he could. “What did you think of the waltz, Lady Iliffe?”

  Everything felt wrong. Mr. Harrow did not seem even fractionally drawn in. The way he looked at the girl who was so clearly enamored, the cold expression he returned her, the thinly veiled contempt... it was disgusting.

  “I think,” Arabella swallowed, looking toward Edmund’s soft expression. “That the sun will set soon and I must return home.”

  “Come now, your ladyship,” Mr. Harrow simpered, setting Lilly free. “The display was for you. Do you not wish to try it?”

  Glancing back at the overwhelming presence, she mumbled, “Another time perhaps.” Searching for something to excuse her sudden departure, Arabella offered a joke, “I would not want to run into the White Woman on the moors because I lingered too late.”