It seemed beyond comprehension, but Heaven help him, could it be true his blood was not tainted, and Arabella was only his ward? But the sickening catastrophe of her birth… God, how he wished he had taken Valencia away from that unpardonable household. Had Hernando known? Everything he knew about the man he had loved so dearly collapsed into rubble. Hernando’s kindness, his willingness to see Valencia, his own sister, in the arms of a fourteen-year-old British soldier. Was it the caballero who forced his family to hide his sin? Spanish dueñas were notoriously protective of virgin daughters, yet he’d not had much trouble sneaking into Valencia’s bed. Duped, damn it. Duped, tricked, and sent home as scarred as any prisoner of war. He wanted to punch something, or break something, or at least pick something up that weighed as much as the whole stinking lot of Vargas Duartes and dump it into the ocean.
On his feet now, he paced back and forth in the library reading and re-reading the baptismal record. Could it be a mistake? Was there another child born with the same name? But no, no… it could only be Arabella.
Claire sat reading. Her shoulders were slightly hunched, though she appeared to be concentrating on her book. As he watched her, she seemed to take on light, the flawless plains of her face growing incandescent until her beauty brought tears to his eyes. For the first time in forever, he pictured what true, guilt-free happiness might be like.
Crouching next to her, he said, “Are you well enough to come outside? I want to show you something.”
* * *
Though Claire had been by the open windows in the library, nothing compared to the hazy warmth of the autumn afternoon. Lilies, snapdragon, and Queen Anne’s lace filled the flowerbeds; pairs of white moths circumnavigated one another before landing among the stalks, and the buzz of enterprising insects filled the air. “Pretty,” she croaked.
“Just wait.” He wiped his mouth eagerly.
Around the corner of the house, Arabella’s tower came into view. Leaning against its gray stone facade was a pile of detritus two stories high. Everything Arabella had collected in a massive heap. Claire stopped, slack jawed.
“Here,” Flavian led her to a bench on the lawn. “Now you can watch us cart it all away.”
She sat and shook her head in wonder. Too restless to sit, Flavian planted a boot on the bench and his forearms on his thigh. “Arabella sensed I would brook no argument, so she agreed without a struggle.” His eyes flashed, flinty and gray. “I told her we’ll burn it, so Hernando will receive her gift in heaven.”
The way he spoke Hernando’s name sent a chill up Claire’s spine. He wouldn’t take his rancor out on his ward, but clearly the family’s deception had struck hard.
At that moment, a decrepit chair had the misfortune to tumble off the pile. Flavian charged over and hurled the thing back so hard, it disintegrated into a jumble of sticks. “What a bloody burden it’s been,” he mumbled. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to curse. But until this moment, I didn’t know the weight of it all. It’s as if I carried that pile on my shoulders, and it’s been crushing me since I was fourteen.”
In rapid succession, he picked up stray items fallen from the mountain of refuse and slung them back. Pausing, he looked at her. “Before you gave me the baptismal record, I was thinking I’d build a music conservatory for her at the asylum, one with plenty of room for an audience, and I’ll do it still. All she’s ever wanted was to perform.”
Claire nodded, muscles closing around her swollen throat. “Good.”
“How I love you, woman.” He rushed to her, lifted her from the bench, and buried her mouth with his. The kiss developed into a languorous exploration. Lips, tongue, the fine bristles of his chin—Claire forgot her sore throat, the trauma of Arabella’s attempts on her life—even the grass beneath her feet vanished into the sensuality of that kiss.
Drawing away, he blurted, “Before I grow bitter enough to change my mind, I’ll tell her.”
Before he could get away, she took his hand and went with him.
“You should wait down here,” he protested.
She shook her head. Arabella terrified her. If the scared rabbit were ever to be tamed, she needed to see Arabella as just another harmless person.
* * *
The squat door to the tower boasted a newly outfitted bolt. Made of black iron, the rod fit into a hole drilled deep in the stone arch surrounding the entry. As Flavian loosened it, the metal bar ground in its path, and with its squealing came visions of the tower’s rats. Claire’s heart sped and her vision narrowed, so that the door, which was a few feet in front of her, seemed hundreds of yards away—a tiny, distant speck wavering in uncertain light. She dug her nails into her palm, hoping the pain would keep her from fainting.
The door swung open—black and gaping. It wasn’t until Flavian took her hand that she found the ability to move. “You’ll be safe,” he whispered. “I won’t leave your side.”
Heart clanging with each step, a certainty gripped her that if she saw the desperate scratch marks made while trying to escape the rats, she’d scream, run, and collapse like a carriage that rolled off its wheels. Yet as she rounded the last corner and the third floor came into view, she realized she’d forgotten the jumble on the lawn. The tower was clean now—a vast stretch of empty space that rang with Arabella’s melancholy song. Stripped of the signs of her lunacy, this space, which once held such dread, became just another hallway. She let go of Flavian’s hand.
* * *
The bedroom had been stripped of its piles of rags and useless filth, and the bed sported new linens. Ablaze with sunlight through a clean window and an oil lamp, which burned despite the heat of the day, the horror was gone. Arabella stood by the window, gazing through its leaded pane. How oddly small she seemed, Claire thought. Small and powerless. Now that Flavian knew there were no blood ties and was willing to keep her from harming anyone again, Claire recognized her own power. The scared rabbit vanished.
Singing the last sorrowful note of her melody, Arabella tapered the sound to the thinness of a rapier then without turning, said, “I hear you coming. Little creatures who carry news, si?”
She whirled and strutted toward Claire. Before Flavian could move to protect her, Claire stepped forward, and stood her ground, staring into the black diamonds of the girl’s eyes.
“You brave now,” Arabella said, tossing her mane of black hair.
Claire kept very still.
“Humph.” the girl inched back. “They give me the eggs this morning, Vav. I no like eggs.” She shuddered.
Flavian put his hand on Claire’s waist. “We’ve found a place for you.”
Clenching her fists, Arabella screeched, “That’s right, you throw me out! You put me on that pile. My father chase me, my mother treat me like dogs—now you! Now you to kill me, too. Put me where they chain me, starve me, beat me!”
Flavian tried to catch Arabella’s arm, but she yanked away. “This asylum is different,” he told her.
“Is no different!” Picking up a water ewer, she launched it against the wall. Blue and white china shattered. Claire threw her arm over her eyes and backed toward the door. Around the room, Arabella raged as Flavian tried to get hold of her. She threw the new bedspread at his face, hurled furniture to the floor, and finally slammed the brass lamp into the window. The pane exploded into glistening shards, and the lamp snapped in two. Its base clattering on the floor while the top teetered on the sill, then fell back into the room. Whale oil pooled around it, but the wick snuffed out on impact. Angry now, Flavian caught her and gripped her tight around the arms.
“You kill me!” Arabella shrieked, twisting and squirming in his grasp. “You throw me out so you marry that woman. She hate me!”
“I’m not throwing you out,” Flavian said, his voice calm but taut.
“Liar! Liar!” Tears streamed down Arabella’s face; saliva dripped from her mouth, and she gasped for breath between choking sobs.
“I will never abandon you,” he said, not relinquishing
his grip.
As she calmed, he released her. Sniffling, eyes red and puffy with tears, she turned and stared at him. He met her gaze with such love and tenderness, tears crested Claire’s lids and if she hadn’t caught them, would have slid down her cheeks. It surprised her that she could feel sympathy for Arabella, yet… what the girl’s father had done, or tried to do; that Flavian loved her still, without common blood and after all the trouble she’d caused; it proved the warmth of his heart, and she loved him more for it.
He sat Arabella on the bed and put an arm around her trembling shoulders. “I was fourteen when I met your mother; about seven months after you were born, and she was only two years older.”
“No, my mama older than that.”
“Maria Abrantes Loya de Vargas Duarte is your grandmother. You never heard your real mother’s name because her parents forbade it to be spoken in their presence. It was Valencia. She was beautiful. You look just like her.”
“But where she be?”
“She died, my darling.”
Arabella’s hands flew to her face, covering her eyes as if she saw Flavian’s words, and they hurt. “What happen her?”
He caught Claire’s eye, and his glance filled with despair. “She killed herself, Bella.”
The girl remained silent then swallowed and bit a quivering lip.
He shifted, so he could look at her directly. “I’m so sorry, my darling. I swore to Hernando, to whom I owed my life that no one would ever know. You see, he took Valencia’s body the night she died and had her buried in consecrated ground. She loved the Catholic faith, but in the eyes of the Church, suicide is a sin. If the Church ever finds out the nature of her death, the priests will have her body exhumed and removed.”
Arabella twisted her hands in her lap, grappling with a barrage of emotions that Claire could only guess at.
“I wish there be a song for this,” she said at last. “And who my padre then?”
A mixture of outrage and disgust darkened Flavian’s features, and she knew she had to speak first. Holding her throat, she whispered, “We don’t know.”
Arabella opened her mouth to respond when suddenly they heard Marlow shouting from the hall. “My lord, my lord!” A second later, the butler burst into the room. “Fire! There’s a fire. Come quickly!”
Flavian leaped to his feet. “Everyone out of the tower.”
Arabella dashed away, eyes bright with terror. “I can no go.”
“What should the servants do?” usually unflappable, Marlow shouted, frenzied with panic. “They don’t know what to do!” The man bounced up and down, waving his arms.
Flavian went to grab Arabella, but she rolled to the other side of the bed out of reach. “Come to me!”
Shoving him toward the door, Claire croaked, “Go!” Doubt flashed across his face, but Marlow hauled on his arm. “My lord, the house. The house!” The butler dragged him away.
At the window, Arabella seemed mesmerized by the black smoke billowing past. Claire took her arm. As if stung, the girl drew back, eyes filled with dread. “You no want me.”
Ignoring her, Claire yanked her toward the door.
“No, no!” Tearing away, she attempted to crawl across the bed again, but Claire seized her collar and hauled back as hard as she could. Arabella fell, landing on the floor with a thump and a crack to the head. A gust of wind sent smoke pouring through the shattered window, turning the room suddenly dark. Eyes stinging, each breath ending with a spasm of agonized coughing, Claire tugged her across the floor. Even at the risk of death, she would get Arabella out, or else Flavian would always wonder if she left his ward to die. She would not grant one iota of power to this lunatic who sought her ruin.
Having dragged Arabella out in the hall, Claire had to let go with one hand to close the door and keep the smoke from overtaking them. The moment her grip weakened, Arabella wrenched free and sprang to her feet. Claire slammed the door and pressed against the oak, the handle digging into her back.
Glittering with rage, Arabella raised her hand, and as it arced toward Claire’s face, she grabbed the wrist and held fast.
“Let me go!” she tried to wrench free from Claire’s grasp. “I want to stay in my room where the horses don’t cry.” She tried to drop into the smoke curling under the door as if it were a pool of water on a hot day.
“Sing,” Claire commanded, heaving Arabella to her feet. As a thousand knives sliced her throat, she started the old round, “London’s burning, London’s burning.”
The look of despair lifted a little, and Arabella trilled the next line, “Look out! Look out...”
Claire took her hand and half led, half dragged her down the hall, “Fire, fire! Fire, fire!” the girl sang, “Pour on water, pour on water.”
* * *
Just as Claire yanked Arabella outside, an explosion rattled every window of the massive house. Flames shot into the air causing a hot wind to gust past them. The impact shook a burning wine barrel off the debris pile, causing it to roll onto the lawn and detonate. Servants helping in the bucket brigade broke away to put it out.
“Stay with the line!” Flavian shouted. “Save the house.” He hurled the contents of a pail at one of the tower’s wooden window frames. Marlow and Beverage-Haugh struggled with a horse trough full of water. Flavian broke from his place at the head of the line to help them.
Moving as swiftly as she could Claire joined the water brigade and passed a full bucket to Mrs. Gower, who stood like a post, the bucket hanging from her arm until Collingwood came to fetch it.
Arabella wandered absently up and down the line. She seemed unable to understand what was happening. Another ear-splitting explosion caused the vague, somnambulant haze to clear from her eyes. “I sorry,” she said, taking a bucket from Claire. Framed by her black hair, Arabella’s face appeared paler than usual—her eyes wide and distracted.
Claire raced for another bucket from Apple Bess. Coming back to Arabella, she tried to say, ‘Thank you for the apology,’ but her throat was so raw, all that came out was a faint, “Thanks.”
“You love him, si?”
Claire nodded as she lugged the bucket the rest of the way to Mrs. Gower.
“I no want to hurt you no more.”
After handing off the bucket, Claire pressed her heart then placed her palm on Arabella’s chest. “Friends?” she croaked.
Tears sprang to Arabella’s eyes and she dropped to her knees, clutching her head.
“Here, my lady!” cried Apple Bess, lugging a bucket across the lawn. Worried about Arabella’s emotional state, Claire decided to keep an eye on her, but there was little else she could do. Her place on the bucket line was too critical to run for a vial of remedy. She hurried to take the pail from Apple Bess.
Flavian had one end of the trough while Marlow and Beverage-Haugh manned the other. As they passed, Arabella leaped to her feet. “Vav, my things for Hernando, dey go to him now?”
“Like in ancient Rome,” he answered breathlessly as they hurried by, “where they burned things the dead would need in the afterlife.”
She kept following him. “And fire, it purify?”
“Yes, and it sends earthly goods to heaven. Help with the brigade now.”
Claire wondered if Flavian noticed Arabella’s agitation.
“Purification bring peace to the soul.” Arabella murmured, returning to the line and accepting the bucket Claire gave her.
“You silly fool!” shouted Apple Bess. The cook flapped a soaking apron at a scullery maid. “She’s gone and dumped water on me.”
“It were an accident!”
“That fire is raging, and I got to go fill this bucket again!” Apple Bess raged.
Waving her arms, Claire chased the women back to their work. She shoved the empty bucket into the scullery maid’s hands and gestured toward the water. The maid hurried off to the canal that ran under the stone bridge.
Acker passed Apple Bess a full bucket, and Claire took the container next t
o hand it off to Arabella, but the girl was gone. As she hauled the heavy pail toward Mrs. Gower, she scanned the lawn. The girl wasn’t by the fire, nor was she elsewhere on the line. She wasn’t walking toward the house or down by the canal, either. A terrible sense of foreboding gripped Claire. “Flavian,” she tried to shout, but only the faintest squeak left her lips. She rammed the pail onto Mrs. Gower’s outstretched arm and ran toward the fire. A white sheet of paper floated from the roof of the tower and skittered high into the sky. “Flavian!” Claire screamed, but her pitiful caw was no match for the roar of flames.
Arabella appeared then, standing on the edge of the tower between two turrets, hair blowing wildly in the heated air. In one arm, she held a mass of sheet music; the other protected her face as she gazed at the burning pyre.
Yanking on Flavian’s sleeve, Claire pointed.
“Get back!” Flavian bellowed at the tower, but the girl didn’t move.
Flaming ash danced into the air. Arabella beckoned to it, willing the lacy black particles to drift nearer.
Dropping his end of the trough, Flavian dashed for the tower. Pandemonium erupted as shrieking servants abandoned their pails and ran forward. An ash twisted its glowing body and then rested against the skirt of Arabella’s white frock. Like a spill, a circle of brown spread on the dress. Please God, let him get to her in time, Claire prayed. But in the next instant, the skirt transformed into a mass of orange flames. Frantic with pain, Arabella let go of the sheet music, which spiralled and circled like birds above the ocean.
Even over the howl of fire, Arabella’s shrill cry split the air. “Forgive me,” she wailed, then tipped forward, and thrashing against the scorching air, plummeted into the inferno.
His Lordship's Darkest Secret: Epilogue
As his valet, Simmons, re-tied the cravat for the third time, Flavian watched his lovely wife bounce her knees up and down for the amusement of three-year-old Sarah Monroe.
Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology Page 93
