by Karen Ranney
Twice the countess tapped her cane on the patterned carpet, the sound an odd punctuation to the otherwise stilted silence.
Gillian leaned close to Arabella and whispered, in a tone she hoped only the younger girl could hear, “Arabella, you are causing a scene. Say something polite.”
Arabella turned her head only slightly. Her gaze met Gillian’s, and a look of irritation crossed her face.
“Why should I not use every situation to improve my powers of observation, Gillian? This woman might be a victim of apoplexy. She has the color for it. I suspect her diet is too sufficient in cheeses and meat. I think she would benefit from a few glasses of ale in the evening. Or wine, perhaps, as a morning tonic. A week’s regimen of purgatives would not be amiss.”
Purgatives? Dear God.
“Young woman, can you pour?” the countess said.
Arabella blinked. “What?”
The countess raised her cane and pointed it at Arabella. “Can you only talk of private matters in public, young woman, or can you behave as befitting a woman of some manners?”
For once Arabella remained silent.
“Well?”
“Arabella is schooled in good manners, Your Ladyship,” Gillian said, stepping to Arabella’s side. “She sometimes forgets, however, in her quest to be a healer.”
“A physician,” Arabella corrected, sending her an annoyed look.
The countess pointed her cane at the adjoining sofa. “Sit.”
Gillian didn’t think twice, but Arabella was somewhat slower. Gillian sighed, bit back a comment, and tugged on Arabella’s sleeve.
The countess sat opposite the sofa, while Dr. Fenton and the earl sat on adjoining chairs.
Just then, the door opened as if the countess had performed some secret signal. A footman came in, struggling under the weight of a massive silver service.
Arabella sent her a look, not of desperation, but of annoyance.
“Use your common sense,” Gillian whispered to her. “If you can stitch a wound, you can certainly pour a cup of tea.”
If only her words had been remotely prophetic. But Arabella proved to be abysmal when it came to making other people around her comfortable. She did not indulge in casual conversation. Other than asking the countess, the earl, and her father exactly how they wished their tea, she didn’t speak at all.
Gillian did not even receive the courtesy of being asked. Without a word, Arabella simply handed her a saucer and a full cup, tea sloshing over the rim.
Gillian thanked her and sat back in the corner of the sofa, feeling grateful, for the first time, that she was not in Arabella’s position, and was therefore spared from being on the receiving end of the countess’s stare.
It was all too obvious that Arabella was failing in her first test. The entire gathering was awkward, and so filled with painful silence that Gillian would have done anything to escape it.
“You shall learn everything that you need to know,” the earl said unexpectedly. “All you need is a little practice.”
“I have no desire whatsoever to practice,” Arabella said. “I would much prefer to spend my time serving mankind.”
“Well,” Gillian said, “think of it as serving mankind. Only a smaller number of them.”
She hadn’t meant the remark to be amusing. She knew how to appeal to Arabella’s skewed sense of logic. The earl’s sudden smile was startling, as was the countess’s precipitous departure. The woman stood, looked down at Arabella as if she would like to say something particularly scathing, and then simply made her way to the door without a further word to anyone—not to her son, not to the doctor, and certainly not to Arabella, who looked faintly relieved at the other woman’s absence.
Arabella turned to her. “May I return to my room now?”
The earl stood. “Would you prefer a tour of Rosemoor instead, Arabella? I believe you would find the library particularly interesting.”
Gillian sent him a look of gratitude.
Arabella did not look in his direction. “I would prefer to return to my chamber, Your Lordship,” she said.
“May I escort you, then?”
“I can’t think why,” Arabella answered. “I’m not about to become lost.”
To his credit, the earl simply bowed slightly in response. If he was annoyed at her answer, he didn’t reveal it.
Gillian stood and made her way to the door to accompany her, but Arabella didn’t wait, simply left the room with the hauteur of the countess.
Was she supposed to follow her? Did she remain behind?
The earl reached out his hand, staying her with a gesture. She was sure he didn’t mean to touch her, because he pulled back his hand the moment his fingers brushed beneath the lace at her elbow. She was certain the gesture wasn’t meant to be one of reassurance or even intimacy but rather one of arrogance.
He had not meant the moment to mean anything at all, but it did. She stopped, frozen into place by his touch. Nor did he speak, and she couldn’t discern anything from his expression except for an almost imperceptible flinch of surprise.
She wanted him to touch her again, to press his fingers along the top of her arm where she seemed especially sensitive. Or perhaps he might encircle her wrist with his fingers, and create a prisoner out of her. As if she would walk away.
How much ruin could she endure?
“If I may have a moment of your time, Gillian.”
She turned toward Dr. Fenton. “Of course, sir.”
She left the earl at the door, managing to cross the room without looking at him once. But he was there, nevertheless. She felt him staring at her, could feel his glance between her shoulder blades and on her bare neck, right at the nape where her hair had been gathered up and was now restrained with a tortoiseshell comb.
As Gillian sat on the sofa facing Dr. Fenton, she prayed for composure, and a little propriety. If nothing else, then let memory flood her mind. Let her recall those two days of fear when she’d been abandoned, terrified, and with child in Edinburgh.
The earl hesitated, and for a moment she wondered if he was going to remain in the room and listen to Dr. Fenton’s words. But then he simply closed the door behind him, leaving her feeling relieved.
The minute they were alone, Gillian turned her attention to her employer.
She pressed her hands together and willed herself not to betray any emotion. No annoyance, irritation, or anger would show on her features.
“Arabella does not seem inclined to take on the role of countess.”
Since she had told him that very thing for the last two weeks, Gillian remained silent now.
“She needs to be made aware of what a superlative opportunity this is for her, one that most women would not get.”
Gillian was growing irritated, and annoyance was an infinitely preferable emotion to fear. “Whenever I speak to her about her manners, Dr. Fenton, Arabella merely ignores me. What am I to do?”
“I’m not asking that you treat her as you would a sister, Gillian. I know that is impossible. But I would not wish her to be shamed by her own behavior.”
Gillian didn’t think that was possible. Arabella was so completely unconscious of the entire world that she doubted the other girl noted when it rain or snowed or was otherwise a fair day. If it was not within Arabella’s small frame of reference, she simply paid no attention to it.
“I fear the countess was not impressed by Arabella,” Dr. Fenton added. “It is imperative that all of Arabella’s deficiencies are eliminated, Gillian, as quickly as possible.”
What could she say to that? It was all too evident that Arabella was not prepared for the role she was to assume and didn’t seem to notice or care.
“Very well,” she said. “I will try a little harder.”
“See that you do, Gillian.” He studied her for a moment. “The Earl of Straithern is very conscious of his position in society.”
She remained silent.
“Should he be informed of your past,
I do not doubt that he would ask me to dispense with your services.”
Aghast, she stared at him. “Why would you do such a thing, sir?”
“I trust that it will not be necessary.”
There was a look in his eyes she’d never before seen, a glance that almost conveyed dislike. “I have told you that I will try with Arabella,” she said, hoping that her voice was even and conciliatory. She had learned one valuable lesson in the past, and that was to protect herself. Until she had a new position, she could not afford to alienate the doctor.
“You are Arabella’s dutiful companion, someone with Arabella’s interests at heart. That is what you are and that is what I want everyone at Rosemoor to think.”
She clenched her hands together again.
“Not a woman with wildness in her heart, Gillian. Not a girl who would forget that she was a gentlewoman.”
“No. Sir.”
“You have a habit of looking at him too well, Gillian. Anyone could see he interests you.”
Ah, the true reason for this tête-à-tête.
“See that your history does not repeat itself, Gillian, that no hint of scandal comes to Rosemoor because of your actions. If you cannot remember, then I will be forced to confide in the earl. You will find yourself on the streets of Edinburgh again.”
A curt nod was all she could muster before leaving him.
Grant opened the letter with some trepidation, hoping it wasn’t bad news. Instead, it was the very best news of all. He began to smile as he scanned his friend’s scrawled handwriting, easily discerning from the labyrinth of loops and swirls exactly what Lorenzo was trying to say. His friend had been delayed in London, but would arrive at Rosemoor as soon as he was able.
In the meantime, he had some advice to impart to Grant. A list of remedies followed, some of which Grant thought he might as well attempt in the interim. He found himself nodding in agreement toward the end of the letter.
It is very rare that such a malady makes no appearance until just before death. Had your brothers been sick often as children? And you, my friend, were you sickly as well before coming to my country? If it is not so, then I would be doubtful of an illness such as you described.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t been in Scotland when Andrew had fallen ill and died. Nor had he noticed James becoming sick before the illness that had claimed his life. But then, he’d been involved in his own interests, spending countless hours traveling back and forth to Perth to ensure that his machinery had arrived safely from Italy.
James might well have been ill long before he knew it. Unfortunately, his brother had been one of those individuals who never complain until complaints would do no good.
He folded the letter and put it away, thinking that it had been too long since he’d seen Lorenzo. There were a few people he could trust, and although he trusted Count Paterno more than any other man, even Lorenzo did not know all his secrets.
Oddly enough, contentment permeated Rosemoor. The servants seemed pleased to be employed at the great house, and there were many smiles among the staff. She’d also heard laughter along the corridors, and it was such an odd sound for this place that she stopped and listened for it.
Was she the only one who could see beneath the smiles to the true evil?
The gray eyes of the Roberson males were the color of smoke, of slate. The devil’s colors, as if he lived inside each of them.
True, they were all charming, the Roberson men. Each one of them, from the patriarch on down, had the grace of Gabriel, and the slyness, too. They smiled with ease, and it took great practice to see beyond their pleasantries to the sin residing in their hearts.
It wasn’t that voices told her how evil they were. True, there were voices she heard in her mind, voices that she knew other people didn’t hear. Sometimes she thought that the voices were the various entities of God Himself: the Holy Spirit, the Son, and God the Father. But then they would change and seem almost like children, and she’d know exactly who they were. Mostly she knew that what she heard was her conscience, goading her to duty.
Practice had made her fingers nimble at their task. She uncorked the cobalt bottle, inserted the long-handled spoon, and removed a small quantity of powder. Every day she ingested a little, placing it on the tip of her tongue. If she survived to the following day, she knew she should be about her mission.
When it was time, she would add a larger quantity to the earl’s food or beverage and watch him die with a true and deep sorrow. People would come to join her in mourning such a man, and they would marvel at her composure, at her dignity.
There was no rancor in this act. It was simply something that needed to be done. A task that needed to be carried out for the good of all. Such evil could not be allowed to exist in the world. Such horror must have a consequence.
The bloodline must be eliminated.
Chapter 6
Arabella was claiming a headache, and said she’d taken one of her powders. Short of dragging her from her chamber, there was nothing for Gillian to do but wish her well.
It was a blessing that the girl had chosen to barricade herself in her chamber. For a few hours, Gillian would be free of her, free of any duties, free of pretense. Free, most of all, of being the guardian of Arabella’s future.
What would Dr. Fenton say if she was truly honest about Arabella? Did he really wish to know all of Arabella’s deficiencies?
Arabella must learn to be kind. She should pay attention to others, in order to notice their sadness or irritation. If she could not dredge a drop of sympathy for another living soul, then she should pretend to care. Pretense was sometimes necessary, especially if another’s feelings were to be spared. There is no virtue to brutal honesty. Arabella must guard her tongue. The world truly did not care for her opinion, especially if it was unduly harsh. A little tact went a very long way, and silence even farther.
Arabella must look beyond the boundaries of her books. There was a world outside the printed page, or the bones of her skeleton. There was music in the wind, in the sounds of the birds, in the silence of the countryside. There was beauty all around them, especially at Rosemoor, and she was foolish to ignore it so unremittingly.
Arabella must learn to exhibit some enjoyment in the world, in a manner that did not include disease, suffering, or death.
There, that was enough to start with, and she’d not yet begun on Arabella’s social graces. The girl needed to be slowed when it came to eating. She gobbled up her food as if it were going to disappear, or as if eating were a chore that, although necessary, was not enjoyable. She needed to learn to talk to other people. A simple inquiry as to the weather would suffice. She must not ask a stranger about his intestines, and please, for pity’s sake, let her learn that a diagnosis of impending death was not socially acceptable.
Playing the pianoforte was perhaps more than Gillian could hope for, as was any skill in watercolors, but Arabella was certainly capable of learning how to do many of the Scottish country dances.
But for now, she was tired of Arabella. She had a few hours of freedom, and instead of retiring to her room, she wanted to explore.
Gillian wasn’t entirely certain that what she was doing was proper or even acceptable. She was constrained by manners in the fact that she was the Earl of Straithern’s guest, but that thought did not stop her now. Curiosity drew her out the front door of Rosemoor and down the sloping lawn to the lake she’d seen on her arrival.
The lake was a perfect oval and quite obviously created by man at the lowest point of the lawn, and designed to reflect the building it fronted. The waterfowl didn’t seem to mind that the lake was created for artistic purposes. Instead, the geese and ducks were absolutely content to paddle around on the glassy surface.
Cattails surrounded the lake at the narrowest point and were obviously trimmed from time to time. So they would not mar the purity of the scene?
The building opposite the lake was large and square and constructed of white stone that gl
eamed in the morning sun. On either side of the tall arched doorway was a vaulted recess, each filled with a life-size alabaster statue of a woman dressed in a diaphanous garment. On the second floor was an entablature consisting of four statues: two men dressed only in a loincloth and holding spears, flanked by two women as scantily dressed.
Above the door, directly beneath the steeply pitched tile roof, was another statue, this one of a pair of lovers. The woman was bent back in the embrace of a powerful-looking male who was plundering her with a kiss. The inscription, carved into a ribbon of stone at the base of the figures, read “Virtue and Vice.”
It was all too easy to recognize that Vice was winning that particular battle.
Upon first seeing the building, she’d thought it to be some sort of crypt, but it was much too large. The structure was larger than Dr. Fenton’s house, but was dwarfed by Rosemoor.
The spring morning was chilly but not uncomfortably so. The call of the birds was the only sound, the soft swaying of the cattails the only movement. She might have stepped into a painting, something appropriately titled to reflect the earl’s wealth and prominence.
Slowly she encircled the lake, taking the path worn in the grass to the front door of the structure. At the bottom of the steps, she hesitated for a moment before grabbing her skirts in her fists and lifting them slightly. She took the first step, ignoring the voice of her conscience that warned her against being where she didn’t belong.
No one protested her arrival. No human voice called out in anger. No ghostly denizens decried her actions. She was alone with the statues, with the tall, arched, black-painted door and its brass knocker.
She pushed in the door, surprised to find that it was unlocked. Surely, if such a place was not open to visitors, it would be locked tightly? One last whisper of caution sounded in her ear. How could she possibly guide Arabella if she was as lacking in social graces?
She had every intention of closing the door, walking down the three wide steps, and returning to Rosemoor. But just at that moment, a shaft of sunlight illuminated the room through a rounded window in the roof.
