by Addison Cain
Harrow offered a leer, drawing the bumbling drunkard nearer with soft speech. “Then a loan of thirty pounds should see you through.”
“Thirty pounds?” Keith could hardly believe his ears. That was ten pounds more than he had started with—a true fortune. Rising from the bench, stumbling, the sudden would-be comrade grinned and nodded, holding out his hand to shake. “If it pleases you, sir.”
“More than I can express...” Warm welcome oozed from the villain. “Shall we drink to it?” Harrow waved over a nearby barmaid, demanding a pour of porter.
The drink came and the men raised their glasses, Harrow smiling all the while. Before the gulp was fully swallowed, Keith’s bloodshot eyes darted back towards the gaming table—back to where men once again gathered to shout and cheer. With a belch, the farmer took his thirty pound, ready to show his neighbors his worth.
Harrow made no move to stop him, but silent laughter shook his shoulders as he watched the small fortune he had lent the fool dwindle until Keith had lost every single penny... again.
Belligerently drunk, Keith began to sputter and weep, unsure where he had gone so wrong. He’d felt it. The money had been his... he had been winning. Then, little by little it all just slipped away.
When the man became a blubbering mess, Mr. Harrow rose from his chair, crossing the distance to the gaming table. The quick-eyed diceman reached out to pull his winnings towards his belly, Keith, hiccupping between sobs, sagged to the tabletop in a heap of filthy wool and sweat.
In pure disgust, Harrow shoved Keith from seat to floor, and with a flourish of his cutaway, claimed the vacant position. He looked to the Irishman, smiling like a crocodile. Harrow tapped the table with his finger. “Now dice has never been my game. The odds are just too unpredictable.”
Across the worn table, the diceman straightened. The Irishman was willing to play into Harrow’s brand of conversation. “Then what’s yer game?”
Harrow tutted. “My game is the sort requiring determined patience.” Black eyes rolled down to where Keith lay balled up on the floor crying like a babe. “And an attentive eye...”
The diceman pinched his mouth, lips tucked back tightly against crooked teeth. “Aye.”
Flourishing his fingers, Mr. Harrow pulled out two twenty pound notes, sliding them on the table between them. He gathered the dice in his palm. “And, as you must understand, a wise man never plays unless he knows he will win.”
The dice were shaken, Harrow's numbers called, and the wooden cubes cast... every single one landing in favor of the man who'd thrown them.
“Perhaps I spoke falsely.” Harrow’s grin was a nasty thing. Teeth bared, he reached forward and gathered every last coin from the diceman's pile—reaching to take from the Irishman’s breast pocket until the debt was fully settled. “Dice indeed seems to be my game.”
Mr. Harrow tossed five pounds down, all pretense of pleasure replaced with darkness. “For the hours of gratuitous amusement.”
* * *
The blazing hearth held Arabella's attention, not her guest.
Harding township's coach inn, the Red Griffin, had afforded them the privacy of the upstairs dining room. Together they were sequestered from the boisterous noise of the common room below, yet the pair had not filled the silence with speech. They had simply eaten, both comfortable in their way with silence. But her reticence could not continue; specifics had to be discussed.
Solicitor Griggs set his chipped teacup atop its saucer. “The house is appalling. As it is now, it may take weeks before comfortably habitable.”
She gave him the courtesy of meeting his eyes. “Is it really so bad?”
Griggs was a blunt man. “Yes.”
Arabella sipped her tea. “And Mr. Harrow, what did you think of him?”
“His reputation appears accurate.” Sunken, yellowed eyes, familiar with the ways of the world, spoke louder than Mr. Grigg’s words. “Be cautious of him. He has already taken offence.”
“Noted.” Setting her cup aside, Arabella addressed a far more important topic. “I won’t draw this out. The Iliffe estate, how in the red is it?”
“William Dalton has amassed large gambling debts and seeks to sell more land to raise income. The new baron is running the estate into the ground. Your portion may be less than two thousand pounds this annum.” The old man seemed hesitant, as if choosing his words cautiously. “I anticipate it won't be long before his attention turns back to freeing up your share. He'll want you handled quietly.”
Mr. Griggs saw the worry on her face and didn't force her to speak, but he did vocalize what she needed to face. “If he were to make you marry, your dower would end and he would have access to your third of the Iliffe estate.”
The fact the new Baron would prefer to see her dead rather than married did not need to be spoken aloud.
Mr. Griggs remained grim. “Dalton has worked hard to secure popularity with the nobility—spent a fortune... developed connections, power, simply by holding the title and keeping you at bay.”
Her eyes went back to the fire. “He can have London.”
“It has been three years, your ladyship. New scandals have arisen that are fresher and more interesting than yours.” Griggs spoke of nightmarish things in the same tone in which he spoke of the weather. “The greatest stand you could make would be in London, where your arrival would spark curiosity. Curiosities garner invitations, even if for the wrong reasons. Bank on your infamy. Be seen at court.”
The type who would invite her to gatherings of any kind were the very people that turned her stomach. She could not fault Griggs's strategy, not when she knew he had her best interests at heart... but there was more to her hesitations than dread and common sense. “I can't... I can't do it.”
“Should the worst happen and you try to stand alone, friendless, and with a cursory title... you will lose. Without powerful friends at your back, he has the power to force you or to make you disappear.”
“I know.” Pinching the bridge of her nose, Arabella closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
“Child,” he reached forward and placed his gnarled hand over hers, “try and you will see that you can navigate society as a titled widow far more easily than as the wife of a cruel husband.”
She opened her eyes. For a moment the young woman looked ancient beyond her years. “All I desire is to be left alone.”
Mr. Griggs steepled his bony fingers and rested them under a sharp chin. “This is desolate country, my lady. You could begin here, expose yourself... in practice. From such a bramble, the news of your whereabouts would take time to reach London. Or, stagnate in the solitude you desire.” He made sure she heard every word. “But running... you cannot live this way forever. The ground will shrink beneath your feet and the chase will eventually come to an end. If you don't control when, he will.”
The conversation was over. Solicitor Griggs had made his argument and knew she would want to be alone with her thoughts. The gentleman stood, bowed deeply, and left without another word.
Alone, still dressed in her mud splattered gown and stinking of horse, Arabella paced before the meager fire in the inn’s small room.
If Magdala could see her, her housekeeper would be mightily displeased. The Spaniard would fret, try to brush her hair, distract her with pointless babble, or just nag. Anxious as she was, Arabella even considered waking her, slipping into the adjacent room for the distraction. But the idea was selfish, and Magdala’s company would only go so far in soothing her.
Magdala would also want to know what was discussed with Griggs. At one hint of the solicitor's opinion the that baroness proclaim her title, the well-meaning housekeeper would agree... loudly and often. For that reason, Arabella chose to face her anxiety alone.
Careless of the hour, Arabella stole from the room, pleased to find no candle had been left burning in the shadowy hall. Fingertips brushing faded papered walls, she crept towards the stairs, quiet as a ghost. Near the kitchens, she turned a corner
and found a slice of light cutting through where age had forced the boards apart.
The sliver beckoned her like a hooked finger, offering a glimpse into the common room.
One peek and Arabella spied the late crowd of Harding’s only public house. Men, their shirtsleeves exposed, relaxed and drank. A few scant women served drink or... other things. There was laughter and easiness about everyone.
Everyone but him.
Cheek pressed to a wall scented of dust and linseed oil Arabella watched, mouth agape to see the very scoundrel from the moors sitting like a king in the shifting firelight. No matter how Mr. Harrow lazed in that great leather chair, how calm his visage, she saw all that sat in his intentions—ruthless calculation.
Yet, the way the barmaids glanced his way, it was clear the women admired what they saw—for he was beautiful in the way a fine painting was beautiful. Even brooding, his brows drawn low over dark eyes, he seemed far too handsome, almost pretty if it were not for the crook of his nose and the largeness of him.
No matter how long she watched, Mr. Harrow’s ungodly attention remained focused on one thing. Arabella could even fancy she saw him lick his lower lip, blatantly staring at a fat, laughing drunkard at the dice table.
The show played on, and though she could not hear Harrow's words, she felt she understood his motives. He ruined a man by empowering the fool to ruin himself. It was all so simply done. Even as it was happening, some of the men looked upon the villain with glances that grotesquely mirrored nervous esteem... as if everyone in the room was privy to some great secret that not a soul would dare speak of—the lowest staring with reverence, the highest peering with anxiety.
Arabella watched in fascination as he faced off against the diceman himself. The villain had seen what she too had noticed... the Irishman had cheated. It was obvious from the way Mr. Harrow palmed the cubes and threw. Even she knew such a trick, having mastered the game at a very young age to swindle Englishmen out of their coin.
At his victory, Harrow's pitch eyes burned. Every cent he had lent the sniveling drunkard on the floor having come back to him two fold.
Chapter 3
T here was a smell about the place, a rich earthy scent that lingered in every room. It reminded Arabella of a graveyard, the walls of exposed stone better suiting a tomb than what had long ago been a fine house.
The surroundings were appropriate, comfortable even. Finery did not suit the Baroness of Iliffe.
Her housekeeper, Magdala, had been far less pleased with the new accommodations. Resigned, she’d let out a series of sighs. Despite her disgust, the woman had moved straight to work, setting the place to right with the assistance of the kitchen maid, Mary. It had taken two weeks, but Crescent Barrows was beginning to reflect a semblance of order.
While the women worked inside, Payne had his labors outside, accompanied by the latest young addition to the staff.
A ragged boy in Harding had pilfered a coin from Arabella so splendidly, she gave the little miscreant two more. The following morning, Payne had been sent to offer him a place. Hugh, the orphan beggar, fit in well. He scampered and stuttered, working hard to prove his worth. Payne made it easy for the boy, patient and unassuming as he taught him tasks suited to a child.
With the staff engaged by duties of their own, Arabella found her own work. Between hours of scrubbing away years of grime, the baroness explored. The house was odd. Furniture covered, random items left lying about. Crescent Barrows had been shut up and frozen in time. Many rooms seemed untouched in decades—heavy velvet bed curtains moth-eaten, latticed windows grown over with ivy so thick waxy leaves blocked the light.
Most of what she found was little more than garbage, but the study held a treasure.
Running a fingertip over dust laden books, Arabella pulled a few volumes from the shelves. Each was snapped shut and ultimately disappointing. Every title was religious in nature: well-worn, lengthy sermons she imagined the most upright and bland of men poring over day by day at the room’s overlarge desk.
Holy men... godly men... she'd never met one who lived up to such a title.
The true points of interest in the study were found leaning against the wall, hidden under dust cloths. Portraits.
The pious previous occupants’ oval faces stared back at her, each either entirely beautiful or entirely ugly. All seemed severe, save one—a young woman dressed in blue. The girl was particularly pretty, powdered hair framing large eyes. But there was a stiff set to her mouth, as if she itched to be anywhere other than sitting for that portrait.
Such a girl did not belong in that dowdy room, nor could Arabella believe she would have wasted her time with books like these.
The painting was propped atop the desk so the frame might be dusted and the picture prepared for hanging. The rest were left covered and ignored.
It was her eyes, dark and soulful, Arabella liked most. Or was it the greys and peacock blues used to highlight the woman’s beauty?
More light was required to decide.
Sleeve to the nearest window’s filthy pane, Arabella wiped away years of dust, finding the view stole her attention from the portrait. Outside, even with the sky bloated by rain, it was beautiful. Or it would have been if not for the single rider who crested the hill and brought his horse to a stop.
Once again he had come to watch and wait. Tall in his saddle, he glared up towards the house, unwelcome and uninvited.
Though it was impossible, Mr. Harrow might see her standing behind such grimy glass, it felt as if their eyes met. The sensation that followed, the hairs rising on her neck and the tightening in her stomach, was not a welcome one.
Two days prior he had called and taken tea with the housekeeper, only to be told that the baroness had yet to reveal when she would appear amongst them. It had been laughable when he left and Magdala came to seek her, to tell her of the fine gentleman that had acted both amiable and polite.
The older woman had praised their new landlord. “He offered the names of any nearby residents who might seek employment.”
“How very gracious he sounds.” From her bedroom window, Arabella had watched him ride away, utterly unimpressed with the amiable gentleman. “I find it strange he did not have those townsfolk already in his employ to prepare this house before I arrived. But I suppose he must be admonished from fault since he has offered us the chance to hire them ourselves and cover the expense.”
Mr. Harrow was the type of man Arabella understood—the one playing the part, manipulating. Only Payne had ever been different... and he was perfect, greater than a man in her eyes.
“My lady,” Magdala had admonished, “Mr. Harrow is your nearest neighbor. You will have to extend an invitation soon or he will know you are slighting him.”
“Afraid he might turn us from a house no one wanted to rent?” The baroness smirked and put a stop to the subject. “No.”
The long stare she'd earned from her housekeeper pressed Arabella to clarify her expectations of their tenure. “Solicitor Griggs explained the situation and Mr. Harrow is receiving payment—generous payment I might add. Wasting my time was not part of the bargain. Should he call, you will attend him, and I will be left unmentioned.”
Magdala left the room muttering phrases under her breath, phrases Arabella was sure involved the words stubborn and foolish... if not a few choice Spanish expletives as well.
Though she'd been with them for the better part of two years, Magdala still didn't understand her ways. But the housekeeper was faithful, even when in open disagreement with her renegade employer. Magdala wanted Arabella to be happy, to wear fine dresses and socialize with her peers... to accept callers. Most days the woman would be pleased just to comb all that blazing hair into anything beyond matted tangles.
For Arabella, it changed nothing. At Crescent Barrows, the baroness would live as a servant in her own house, Magdala’s high manners be damned.
Sneering, sick of looking at Mr. Harrow, of hearing about him, Arabella t
urned her eyes from the window and went back to dusting weighty books of sermons she'd rather be struck with than listen to.
* * *
Mr. Harrow plodded across Crescent Barrows's overrun courtyard. Little had changed since the meager household's arrival. There were no servants scuttling about, all was overgrown, quiet. Sneering when glazed windows reflected the swollen clouds instead of revealing what was behind them, he dismounted. He knew she was in there, he could feel it, and had given the old dame two weeks to settle in before it was clear she was refusing his civility. Harrow mulled over the snub, the ridiculous circumstances he had unwittingly agreed to, and grew mighty aggravated the crone found herself, in her low circumstances, too fine for his company.
Gravel crunching underfoot, he stalked towards the heavy portal. Two loud bangs and the African servant appeared. Unconcerned with proper admittance Harrow pushed past, almost tripping over a twitching maid scrubbing the floors.
Rail thin, the girl toiled, unblinking eyes trained on the ground, oblivious to the gawking intruder.
“Welcome, Mr. Harrow,” Payne offered a flat greeting. “I am afraid her ladyship is not in residence to attend you.”
“And where exactly would her ladyship be?”
Payne stood stolid. “I am ignorant of her present location, sir.”
Harrow paced deeper into the manor, inspecting the rooms, surprised to see how well the hovel had been put to order. The great hall's hearth blazed, the room brighter for it, almost inviting, and empty... as if the one it burned for had vanished in a puff of smoke. Suspicious, he moved towards the only alternate exit, passing through the kitchen and found nothing. There was no old woman dressed in black, no more servants... at least not inside the house. Through the window Harrow found a sturdy workhorse tied to the hitching post, and a scrawny boy working carefully to brush the animal down.