Dark Side of the Sun

by Addison Cain

  The gods did not help. When had they ever?

  The following morning, it was Payne who’d spooked the prize black stallion at market when the Baron stood near enough for hooves to cleave. The accident had not killed the man, only left him broken and abed. So, Payne finished the job once the doctor had gone to see to his full bladder. Standing large and foreboding over the evil noble who had bought him as a boy and treated him like a dog—who laughed when others used the baroness and still tortured her, Payne’s work roughened palm covered Iliffe’s mouth and nose.

  The baron had been too weak to fight back.

  The man who had named him Pain in mockery of what his life was to be twitched, wept, and then he died. When the doctor returned to the room and found the baron dead, Payne had dragged the haggard man to the hole where the sounds of a fevered woman’s ramblings could be heard.

  The physician saw to Arabella’s freedom.

  It was never spoken of in the ton, the state of his baroness Iliffe when she was pulled naked, covered in sores and filth from that room. Why would nobles offer pity to a creature they had mocked and hated from first glance?

  The only soul who’d ever understand her was Payne. The one who kept her safe was Payne. But he was getting old...

  As if Arabella knew his thoughts, the chant of her reading broke. Eyes the shade of the most brilliant spring leaves set softly upon him, seeing him as no one could.

  His personal wraith smiled softly, a rare expression of contentment upon her face.

  Payne smiled in return, nodding toward the boy snuggled up to her. “He should have a tutor, my lady.”

  Arabella tightened her arm around the child. “I will call upon the parson tomorrow, if you wish.” She fingered the open book on Hugh’s lap, her next words for the boy. “I lack the skill to teach you more than the little I know. Payne is right.”

  “Can I learn numbers too?” Hugh’s eyes were wide, the youth excited.

  “Arithmetic,” Arabella corrected, “amongst the other things the parson will teach you.”

  Payne gave the final order. “Hugh, that is enough for tonight. Our lady is tired. Off to bed.”

  The boy scampered off, leaving the two of them alone.

  Payne had a knack for knowing what the red-haired witch needed. “Come rest beside me.”

  She scooted until her head could lie on his knee. Payne stroked her hair as he spoke softly, gently, “What if I were to go to London? What if I were to kill lord Dalton?”

  Arabella jerked under his hand and sat up. “You would be hanged! Do not even think such things. Swear to me you would never do it. It is only for you that I keep breathing.”

  “Then I will never die.”

  “Never.” Resting her head back against his leg, eyes wide and sad, she whispered, “Never speak of it again, Payne. Promise me.”

  Tears fell unchecked down her cheek, his gentle thumb brushing them away. “I promise to always love you.”

  * * *

  The fabric under her fingers took form with each pull of her needle. Behind the great leather chair, nearer the windows, Parson Witte sat with the scrubbed clean, and tidily dressed, Hugh. It was the boy’s first lesson, the Parson only too happy to find time to serve the elusive baroness’s call—so he might see in to her house. Arabella made certain to be present during the lesson, to make sure all was done properly—which fell as an honor in the staunch clergyman’s estimation.

  He was especially impressed with her humility when the needlework she chose to exercise was not the embroidery of ladies but the economic stitchery of mending.

  Hugh was unrecognized by their neighbor, both an insult and a boon to the boy. Shy, he had trouble being little more than meek. As time wore on and the direction of tutelage went from the bland redundancy of tracing letters to a boy’s practicum filled with tales to draw in an audience, Hugh came alive.

  With her ear pricked toward the lessons behind her, the sounds of Magdala’s muffled steps on the rug covered stone alerted the baroness that the other expected invasion had arrived.

  “Mr. Harrow has called, Lady Iliffe,” Magdala announced the gentleman behind her.

  Arabella set the garment aside and stood, spine straight, to formally greet the landlord.

  “Mr. Harrow.” Her voice was steady and her face blank. “Do sit down.”

  The hushed sound of student and teacher in the corner were not missed. Black brows dropped further and with narrowed eyes he looked back upon the lady of the house.

  “Magdala, tea for our guest.” Again Arabella was civil, playing the part so well even Gregory looked momentarily bewildered. They lowered to their respective seats in formal unison. “It seems the rain has impeded you little.”

  Lowering his chin to his chest, flashing black eyes toward the unwelcome nuisance in the corner, he curled one side of his lips. “You are paying to educate the boy?.”

  Arabella could not help but glance over her shoulder, a proud smile on her face before looking to her agitated, and damp, guest. “I am.”

  Gregory settled back further into his seat. “That is crueler than I would have expected from you.”

  Wondering at his game, she stammered, “What do you mean?”

  The alligator grin, the darkness about him growing, he cooed, “Building up his hopes that he might be more than a servant.”

  Uncertain she grasped his meaning but positive he had just insulted them both, Arabella cocked her head and formed her reply. “If Hugh went to school he could be.”

  “You would raise that to a gentleman?” Mr. Harrow sneered, looking past her shoulder to see the boy stuttering like a fool over his lessons. “Is that some sort of wayward baroness’s passing amusement?”

  “Jealous?” Arabella sneered.

  “Disgusted would be the proper term. Are you going to edify every stable boy you find on the side of the road?”

  “I,” Arabella smiled, showing teeth as if she might bite him, “will do whatever I please. Perhaps you should take note of him. Maybe one day you too could be a gentleman.”

  Her insult only seemed to make the man chuckle.

  The tinkling of china came and Magdala returned with refreshment, Arabella directing her housekeeper on how her guest preferred his cup.

  When the housekeeper retreated, Gregory stared with such energy that Arabella worked to keep the hand that held her tea from shaking.

  His voice came deep, too low for Parson Witte to hear. “The county has long wondered how I made my fortune. How I raised myself from beggar to gentleman. It was not with the help of a benefactor, I assure you.”

  Arabella could not help but feel her lips twitch. “I have seen you play dice. You cheated your way to it.”

  Leaning forward, whispering her name conspiratorially, Gregory purred, “No. Try again to guess my secret, Arabella.”

  “Are you really a pirate?”

  He smiled, sipping his tea. “No.”

  “A pugilist? ...no, your nose is too straight.” She eyed a body that was still firm and brawny. “You took it. You took it from fools, from those you hate. You bullied, you stole, you walked through places like the borough of Liverpool where baby Mary was left on the stoop of an asylum.”

  He was playing with her, smirking as if he knew all her secrets. “I wonder at your knowledge that the diceman was cheating all those weeks ago and your skill at cards. The real secret, I think, is yours.”

  “You have figured me out, Mr. Harrow,” Arabella answered dryly. “I was a pirate.”

  “I do believe you were.”

  She had no idea why, but she laughed, finding it difficult to behave properly with his teasing. “And look at us now.”

  A sensuous mouth formed the taunt. “You make a terrible baroness.”

  She had to agree. “I suppose I was far more content as a pirate.”

  “Why did you marry Baron Iliffe?” He’d struck, his purpose for the banter revealed.

  All the light went out of the woman. Arabe
lla set her teacup aside and looked instead at the portrait of Gregory’s mother. “I was madly in love with him.”

  “Talk of the dead man sets you into quite a mood. Your hackles are raised, madam pirate,” Mr. Harrow pointed out. “It was a simple question. Answer it.”

  Cold, Arabella replied, “I desired his fortune and title.”

  “Liar.” He watched her shift, knowing the Imp was about to stand and make a run for it. “This little show in the corner, do you think it will curb my behavior? If you move from that chair, I will make a scene before the Parson. I will kiss your mouth and hold you where all of your household can see.”

  Arabella was not sure if there was a possibility that she could feel more anger than she felt in that moment. Lips in a snarl, she hissed in a whisper, “You bloody bastard.”

  The man shrugged. “We have been over that point before.”

  “Why can you not be pleasant? I know you are capable of it when you want something.”

  “Come now, my love...” He raised his teacup up for a sip, snide and arrogant as he held her attention. “Answer the question.”

  “No.” Reaching for her sewing, Arabella ignored the man, knowing he was delighted by her sulking.

  She kept to her chair attending the mending and holding her tongue until the Parson’s lessons had ended. Playing the role of hostess, she thanked the old man, noting his almost worried glances towards Mr. Harrow while she saw him out.

  She knew that look. The man, like everyone else in the county, owed her landlord money, or a favor, or was simply wise enough to fear him.

  Walking back into the great hall to find Mr. Harrow still seated as if he belonged there, Arabella lifted the pot of cold tea and dumped it straight into his lap. Whatever anger he may have harbored for her actions was ignored when, instead of retribution, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her to sit across his thighs.

  Crushing his mouth against hers, he kissed her until she was breathless.

  It was he who left her, Mr. Harrow pushing her away when she was complacent and baffled. Gaining his feet, he walked out as if nothing at all had occurred.

  Chapter 9

  “C ome, Mary.” Arabella reached up into the carriage, offering a hand to the young maid. “Let us enjoy ourselves.”

  Dressed in a paisley frock, her hair bound in a knot with a pert bonnet atop her blonde head, Mary held tight to her mistress’s hand.

  Once Arabella had the maid standing in the sun, the baroness straightened Mary’s fichu, tucked back a stray curl, and took the silent girl’s arm in hers. “Shall we begin by walking through the village shops, or would you like to see the market first?”

  As usual, the girl only stared ahead.

  “Perhaps we should peruse the milliner?”

  With Payne acting as chaperone, Arabella took Mary towards the hat shop.

  On the promenade, the few strolling redcoats already eyed them curiously, as did farmers’ wives and their children. Magdala had pointedly selected her manner of dress, a costly green gown and an intricate feathered bonnet—to be seen in, the Spaniard had said, while pinning the hideous contraption to overly curled hair.

  Between the ugly hat and the almost indecent cut of the bodice, one glance her way, and Arabella was certain Gregory Harrow was going to laugh... and that she would be unable to keep the color from her cheeks when he did.

  She looked, and felt, ridiculous.

  Passing the milliner’s window, Arabella studied Mary’s reflection in the glass, searching for a hint of interest. “Those combs would be lovely in your hair. Do you fancy them, Mary?”

  There was no reaction.

  “Good point... I’m sure we can find something far more interesting than combs at the fair.”

  The sun had returned after days of late summer mist, leaving the roads cracked like an overcooked cake. Traffic was rampant, as many of Harding’s outlying citizens had come to the village on the same errand.

  As a girl, Arabella had always loved marketplaces—the noises, the animals, the sweets she might steal. When she’d been young and hungry, the crowds had eyed her with contempt or poorly veiled malice. She’d been called names and spit upon while the English clutched at their purses. Now she was given room out of deference. It was uncanny.

  Traveling merchants hawked their goods, barking while dusty wind flapped the fabric of their stalls. The items for sale ranged from pottery, root vegetables necessary for cold winter foodstuffs, pigs, horses, jewelry, fabric, everything brought into the tiny hamlet so that even the most remote subjects might enjoy the finer things the empire might offer.

  But there was nothing more exotic than the caravans and what the dark skinned Romani might offer. Gypsies, reviled yet sought for their cheap goods and colorful displays, had much to offer those brave enough to trade.

  This would not be the first time Arabella might walk so near to what had once been her people. Secretly she hoped to find a brown-skinned grandmother layered with the weighty gold necklaces marking the neck of a Romani matron. To have the old woman look at her and see her for what she was.

  They never did...

  She was English now, an outsider.

  Her clothes were fine, perhaps the finest in the county, but Arabella found the Romani women with their full, brightly colored skirts, embroidered tunics, and exotic jewelry more beautiful than butterflies.

  Drawn, the baroness passed all decent traders, approaching a woman with bedecked fingers waving potential customers over.

  “Would you like to buy some fine silver, mistress?”

  Arabella drank in every crease of the aging woman’s face, admiring the sun darkened skin. So caught up was she, that when a small hand tugged her sleeve she felt nothing.

  The Romani trader spoke, air whistling through a gap tooth. “It’s the mirror your companion wants.”

  In the center of the table a silver hand mirror reflected the sky. Fashioned in the style of a bygone era, it was dented, but held a weight to it that was pleasing.

  “Would you like this, Mary? A trinket to take home?” Lifting the gilded glass, the baroness angled the mirror so Mary could look into it.

  Mary made no move, but her eyes did land upon the shining thing.

  “Then I shall make it yours.”

  Handing the object to the gypsy, Arabella set out to discuss price. But, her words stuttered, she stopped speaking entirely, staring down at the goods left on the table. There were so many things displayed from so many places. Even if the Romani were reviled, there was no keeping them out. Every English city saw them, where they moved amongst the lowest circles and were ignored by the highest.

  As a girl, even Arabella had traveled to almost every corner of Britain. London, Bath... the places as an adult she feared to go. With a tightening in her chest, Arabella executed a half-hatched idea. Eyes back on the waiting trader, she said, “I’ll have the mirror. I will have everything upon your table if—”

  “If?” The old woman grinned, hungry to make much needed coin.

  A high-pitched greeting ended further negotiations. “How very brave you are, Lady Iliffe, bartering with a gypsy!”

  Lilly waved her fan, breaking through the crowd to join her.

  Forcing a smile, Arabella answered, “Good afternoon Miss Jenkins.”

  As pretty as ever, Lilly began perusing the wares, knocking things about as she picked through odds and ends. “How much of this do you think was stolen?”

  Arabella did not laugh in return. “If you find these goods beneath you, then perhaps you should move to a different stall.”

  Undaunted by the lady’s reprimand, Lilly grew sly. “But you never know just what treasures the gypsies might possess.” Slender gloved fingers lowered into a box of tangled jewelry, a victorious smile upon an angelic face when she lifted out something truly unique. “And, it seems I have found something.”

  A silver ring winked in the sun, dimmed by time and hammered into a crescent moon. Just the sort of ring Gregory had
spoken of buried under Crescent Barrows.

  “After the tale Mr. Harrow shared, I would find it an ill omen,” Arabella warned. “Be wise and choose something else.”

  “No.” Lilly was too fond of her game to give it up. “I simply must have it.” She turned her grin to the Romani trader. “I will give you three pence for the ring.”

  The old woman would not let the trinket go for less than five.

  With a devilish smirk, Lilly turned to Arabella and caught up her hand. Removing the baroness’s glove, she slid the ring on her finger. “My gift to you, your ladyship.”

  It was the kind of backhanded mockery the baroness had come to expect from Lilly. Should she refuse the ring, it would be rude. Should she accept, it would only invite future trouble.

  “It fits as if made for you.” Lilly giggled, holding the unfashionable inferiority of the plain ring nearer her eyes for inspection. “How well it looks.”

  The modest band shone all the brighter against her tawny skin, but Arabella ignored it, seeking to be rid of the girl. “Have you come with your family, Miss Jenkins? Shall I have Payne escort you back to your brother?”

  Nose in the air, Lilly offered her most bored expression. “Edmund and Lizzy are only a few stalls down, digging through musty books.”

  “Lilly!” Lizzy on his tail, Edmund pushed through the crowd, scowling at his renegade sister. “You must not wander off in these crowds.”

  “Oh, but look what drew me away.” Lilly offered a coy smirk. “It is Lady Iliffe... I simply could not resist her.”

  Edmund’s disapproval left the craggy face of the gypsy matron his sister had dared to barter with, softening at the sight of Arabella. “Good afternoon, your ladyship.” A gentle reprimand followed. “We have been expecting you daily.”

  Lilly scoffed. “Really, Edmund...”

  Arabella had given her word to return to Stonewall Grove for dancing lessons and had not kept her word. “There was much to do in preparation for the market. You must forgive me.”