by Stella Riley
She watched him turn back to the keyboard and embark upon a series of scales. He was still playing them when she shut the door behind her and leaned against it, feeling childishly hurt. She would have sat quietly and not interrupted no matter what he played. He knew that … though admittedly he didn’t know that she’d happily listen to him playing scales all night, just for the pleasure of watching him do it. But something had changed and she didn’t know why. It couldn’t be the kiss because they’d cleared the air about that … and Julian seemed more comfortable relegating it to the past than she was.
Closing the door did not completely shut out either sound or, as now, the lack of it. Arabella sat down on the stairs and waited. A moment later, she heard something new … a slow yet restless melody in a minor key, picked out only by the right hand. He played it again and then again, this time adding the left; the same phrase, over and over … searching, melancholy and beautiful. She hugged her knees, and wondered how to find out what it was without giving herself away by asking.
Inside the library and concentrating on the complexities of rearranging the middle movement of a concerto for solo performance, Julian recovered his balance. This would work. He could give her one hour a night. He could manage that. If he was careful, she need never know the mess of confusion that was going on inside him. And meanwhile, he would work systematically through his repertoire, one composer at a time. Tonight, one of Bach senior’s sons … tomorrow Rameau … the next Scarlatti … and so on. It was sensible and productive and it would prevent him doing anything stupid.
Still sitting on the stairs, Arabella didn’t care that she was being stupid. She was, however, determined to keep her stupidity to herself by slipping away to her room before Julian stopped playing.
* * *
Three days later, Julian returned in triumph from the auction in Newark and went immediately in search of Arabella.
‘The wine made nearly two hundred pounds! One hundred and eighty-six pounds, seventeen shillings and sixpence, to be precise.’
She beamed at him. ‘That’s wonderful. I’m so glad.’
‘I can pay the outstanding bills and we can get new clothes and shoes for the children. And I can rent the corn-mill for another month and buy a new plough and --’
‘And have new clothes yourself,’ she interrupted. ‘Don’t argue. You need them! Whether you like it or not, you are the Earl of Chalfont and occasionally you should look the part. So … coat, vest, breeches … everything. Do you promise?’
‘Yes. Yes – all right. I promise.’ Grinning, he dug in his pockets and held out a couple of letters. ‘These were waiting for you at the Dog and Duck.’
One was a long-awaited letter from Lizzie – the first since a hasty note telling of her safe arrival in St James Square and saying that the duchess was lovely but the duke could be rather frightening. Arabella started to smile … then saw the superscription on the other letter and felt all her muscles go into spasm.
It was addressed to Mistress E. Marsden – which was all right; but the black slash of handwriting belonged to someone it shouldn’t. Max.
For a moment, she held it at arm's length as if it was a live snake.
Julian eyed her obliquely. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Wrong? I – no. No. It’s just … from someone I didn’t expect to write to me.’ And thought wildly, Max wouldn’t write to Lizzie. Why would he? But the alternative is that he knows … and how can he? Summoning a weak smile, she said, ‘Excuse me, please. I – I’d like to read this now because it’s likely to need a reply.’
Seated at her desk in the little housekeeper’s office, it was several minutes before she could bring herself to break the seal. And when she finally did, all her worst fears were realised.
Belle, Max had written. What in God’s name do you think you’re doing – and did you honestly expect to get away with it? You and Lizzie have changed places, haven’t you? Don’t trouble to deny it. I know you must have done. You made no secret of the fact that you never wanted to go to London but that you thought Lizzie deserved to – so somehow you’ve talked her into this madcap scheme. I can only assume it never occurred to you that Mama and Aunt Maria would share letters from the pair of you. As soon as I read all that chatter about taking the children to rummage through the attics, I knew right away who had written it. That idea wouldn’t have occurred to Lizzie in a million years – neither would she have been remotely enthusiastic about it if it had. She’s never been as comfortable with dirt as you. That entire paragraph had your personality stamped all over it so clearly I can’t understand why neither Mama nor Aunt Maria saw it – yet somehow they didn’t. And no, I haven’t told them. Yet. But let me be plain. The only reason I’m writing rather than already being on my way to fetch you home is that you sounded happy; happier than you have been for a long time. I also suspect I understand what lies at the root of all this – though it isn’t something to be discussed by letter. However, if you want to remain at Chalfont, here is the small amount of leeway I’m prepared to offer. I want an immediate reply giving chapter and verse on the earl – who you seem oddly reluctant to write about and who, I am assuming, is as much in the dark about your charade as the rest of us. And make it the truth, Belle. If you lie, I’ll know and you can expect me to arrive within the week – having already shared my knowledge with both Mama and Aunt Maria. None of this is negotiable. In case you haven’t yet realised it, I’m bloody furious with you.
Max
Arabella let the letter fall to the desk and dropped her head in her hands. Stupidly, she found herself remembering what people said about being careful what you wished for. For Julian’s sake, she had been wishing for Max … and look what had come of it? But she didn’t have time to panic about that. She had to respond – and quickly.
Pulling a sheet of paper in front of her, she stared helplessly at its blankness for a few minutes. Then, Dearest Max, she scrawled. I’m sorry, truly I am. And yes, I did this for Lizzie as well as for myself – but I am happy here. So don’t come. Please, please don’t – even though I’ve wished I could ask your advice for his lordship who is struggling with a neglected estate, lacking workers and money. But he thinks I’m Lizzie and I don’t know how to tell him I’m not, even though I’d like to. As for telling you about him … I don’t know where to start. The obvious things – the ones you might think important – aren’t important at all. The things that are seem impossible to put into words. And the most important thing of all, which you won’t understand, is that he simply doesn’t belong here. It’s such a waste. He should be in Vienna or Paris or London. But I’ll come back to that later. First – rather than just saying he is a good, kind man yet also extraordinary – the quickest way to illustrate all that is by explaining about the children. You see, it’s like this.
It seemed that, once she had started, there was no end to it. She wrote about how the children came to be there and what Julian had done for them; the months mending the damaged harpsichord; the recital he had given in Vienna; the lying lawyers who had persuaded him into forsaking his career; the impromptu concerts for the villagers; and finally – and at great length – the brilliance of his playing. She poured it all out, praying that Max would understand but by no means convinced that he would. And at the end said, So you see why I don’t want to leave – not yet, at least. If there was a way to give Julian the life he should have and someone to look after the children in my place without caring that they are illegitimate … then it might be different. But as things stand, they need me here. In a different way, I think I need them, too. So please keep the secret. I am safe, I am happy and I’m glad I came. The only thing I regret is that Julian thinks I’m Lizzie and I don’t know how to put that right yet. But I will. I must. Try not to be angry, Max, and don’t worry about me. All my love,
Belle
She sealed the letter – not having the remotest idea of how much else she had given away – and opened the one from Lizzie.
&
nbsp; This described the gowns the duchess had bought for her at London’s leading modiste and listed the people she had met thus far. The rest of it was wholly taken up with Lord Sherbourne. The duke wasn’t pleased that we had been seen travelling together. And there’s something else. He killed a man in a duel, Belle. It was years ago but everyone remembers it. Only I can’t believe he’s so very bad – not after he helped Annie and me. But I remember him saying that sometimes being able to believe one’s sins could be blamed on Fate would be very comforting. And though I didn’t know it at the time, he must have meant the duel, mustn’t he? It will be odd seeing him again. I am to attend my first ball tonight at Cavendish House and am told he will be there. Dearest Belle, I pray every night that you are happy at Chalfont and don’t regret what we have done. Write and tell me everything!
Much love,
Lizzie
Arabella frowned over this. Lizzie … thinking a man who had killed couldn’t be all bad and wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt? It didn’t sound like her at all. But she didn’t have time to worry about that now. She had to warn her that Max knew; and that, though Arabella hoped he wouldn’t give them away, Lizzie should be especially careful in every possible way.
Having sent her letters to the village and trying not to worry about Max’s possible response, Arabella spent most of the afternoon with the children. She listened to them read, set each of them a small and quite different task and, when these had been accomplished, sent them outside to play. As soon as she was alone, however, she could think of nothing but that her feelings for Julian were causing her deception to carve a hole behind her ribs. Try as she might, there did not seem any way of telling the truth that would not make it unforgivable – possibly even hurtful; because whichever way one looked at it, it had been a breach of his trust. She couldn’t understand why this aspect of the masquerade had never occurred to her before. But then, she supposed miserably, the chances of falling utterly and irrevocably in love during the course of it had never occurred to her either.
* * *
Julian, who was frequently oblivious to anything that did not relate to music, noticed immediately that Elizabeth wasn’t herself. Her smile was tense, she talked less than usual and she didn’t laugh, even when he told her that the spinach Mr Phelps had planted in the kitchen garden had turned out to be marigolds.
Eventually, suspecting he knew what might be wrong but hoping he was mistaken, he said baldly, ‘Was it the letter?’
Her eyes flew wide. ‘What?’
‘You seem upset. I thought it might have something to do with that letter. The one you said you didn’t expect?’ He hadn’t thought of it right away – he’d been too euphoric about the wine money. But later, wondering about her odd reaction, he’d realised that the bold handwriting was masculine … and for the first time, it had occurred to him that somewhere – Yorkshire, probably – there might be a man patiently waiting to marry her. A weight had promptly settled on his chest, making it hard to breathe. He could still feel it now. So he waited, staring down at his plate, and when she remained uncharacteristically silent, muttered, ‘I beg your pardon. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business.’
It is, thought Arabella despairingly. But I can’t blurt out the truth just like that.
Refusing to add any more lies to her existing tally, she said haltingly, ‘It’s all right. It was from my brother. He – he had concerns about my coming here and doesn’t consider my letters adequately reassuring.’
Her brother? The weight lifted and he drew a grateful breath. Just her brother.
Amidst the waves of relief, something stirred vaguely at the back of Julian’s mind. She had mentioned brothers before, hadn’t she? Yes. He was sure she had. But hadn’t her letters to Paul spoken of sisters? And why was it her brother expressing concerns, rather than her father? It seemed … odd. But since nothing mattered except that she didn’t go away, he shoved his doubts aside and said, ‘Is he worried because of me – or is it the children?’
‘Neither. He just … he feels that I’m not where I should be.’
Julian wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean. ‘And are you?’
‘No. I’m exactly where I should be and I’ve written telling him so, hopefully setting his mind at rest.’ Then, summoning a bright smile, she said, ‘Now … I wondered, since Rob is learning to play, whether it would help if I taught him to read music so that you can use your time with him for the practical side. But I thought you might advise me how best to go about it.’
He realised that she was deliberately changing the subject. He also realised that it was the first time he had felt her setting him at a distance. He told himself he shouldn’t mind … which did nothing to change the fact that he did. Very much indeed.
~ * * ~ * * ~
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Elizabeth’s drive with Lord Sherbourne had to be postponed for two days due to sudden gusty showers. But when, on the third day, the sun finally deigned to put in an appearance, his lordship sent a note promising to call for her at four in the afternoon.
Elizabeth dressed carefully and tried to ignore the butterflies in her stomach. The deep blue carriage-dress trimmed with cream silk and the pale straw hat with its profusion of matching blue ribbons were becoming and elegant. In the last weeks, she had learned that looking one’s best was the surest – and sometimes the only – antidote to nerves.
Arriving promptly, Sherbourne left the crossing-sweeper to hold his horses and entered Rockliffe’s house unsure of his reception. Even an hour ago, he had still half-expected to receive a reply from Mistress Brandon making her excuses. He could only assume that Rockliffe knew that Philippa was writing to all and sundry and had decided to keep his and Arabella’s options open for the time being; either that or the girl herself had refused to rescind her acceptance.
The duchess awaited him in the drawing-room, her lovely aquamarine eyes cool.
‘Lord Sherbourne,’ she said. ‘You will be aware of the speculation surrounding yourself and Arabella – but as yet speculation is all it is, so there is no need for Arabella to be troubled by it. I’m sure you agree.’
‘Completely, your Grace.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Did you think I intended to spend the afternoon regaling her with salacious gossip?’
‘I have no idea what you might do,’ she returned crisply, ‘or what possessed you to issue this invitation or why Arabella felt it necessary to accept it. I do, however, have very definite views on what is best for her.’
‘And your point is well-taken.’ The door opened to admit Arabella and he turned swiftly, bowing. ‘Good afternoon, Mistress Brandon. You look delightful.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’ She looked at Adeline. ‘I didn’t have a parasol to match this gown, so Jeanne loaned me one of yours. I hope that is all right?’
‘Of course.’ With a brief glance at the earl, Adeline added, ‘One should never go driving without adequate protection.’
‘How very true,’ drawled Ralph, meeting the duchess’s eyes with a look of complete comprehension. Then, offering his arm to Arabella, ‘Shall we go?’
‘Yes.’ She laid her hand on his sleeve and smiled at him. ‘Yes, please.’
Once settled beside her in the carriage and setting his pair in motion, Sherbourne said meditatively, ‘I did not think you would come.’
‘Why not? I said I would, didn’t I?’
‘I thought you would be persuaded to change your mind.’
‘By Cousin Adeline?’ asked Elizabeth. And when he nodded, ‘I believe she might have liked me to do so. But she merely cautioned me to be careful.’
That was more honesty than he had expected. On a note of what might have been wry laughter, he said, ‘Unnecessary advice. Did you not once tell me that you never do anything that you should not?’
She coloured a little and, toying with the handle of her parasol, said awkwardly, ‘I think I – I attempted to do so the last time we met.’
‘Ah.’ They had got to that quicker than he expected as well. ‘Is that an apology?’
‘Should it be?’
‘No. It is I who should apologise for speaking so sharply. But you were about to open a conversation I prefer to avoid … particularly in the middle of a ballroom.’
Elizabeth tilted her head to look at him. ‘You knew what I was going to say?’
‘Oh yes. I have heard it countless times. You wanted to know if I really killed a man; if I intended to do so and why; and how I felt afterwards. Correct?’
‘No.’
His eyes met hers with sudden, sharp intensity. ‘No?’
‘Not at all.’ She looked away, watching the park unfold before them as the earl guided his phaeton through the gates. ‘I was going to ask if it’s true that, had events been otherwise, you would have married Lady Sutherland.’
Well, thought Ralph. That makes a change.
‘And why would you wish to know that?’
Because I once heard you described as “heart-on-his-sleeve, stars-in-his-eyes besotted” … which, if it’s true, means there is a part of yourself that you keep remarkably well hidden, was the truthful answer. But she said, ‘Because it might explain her hostility. If she loved you – as I imagine she must have done – she can’t have believed that you meant to kill her brother. Grief and anger are natural but they fade. Virulent animosity so long after the event is not natural; and it makes me wonder how real it is.’
‘Real enough not to care whose reputation she destroys so long as mine is one of them.’
‘But that’s all part of it.’ Elizabeth looked earnestly into his face and, without realising it, laid her hand on his arm. ‘The line between love and hate is a very fine one. She loved you once and she hates you now. But somewhere inside that hatred is, at the very least, a memory of love … and perhaps also a shred or two of mistaken jealousy.’
