by Jane Feather
Unsmiling, she returned the greeting. “Good morning, your grace.”
He ran lightly down the steps to her side. “I thought we’d dispensed with that particular absurd formality last night.”
“I prefer to maintain the formalities,” Arabella said.
“Ah.” He seemed to consider this as he ran a long look over her, taking in the tumbled knot at the top of her head and the bare feet in the simple leather sandals. “So I see.”
“If you’ll excuse me, sir,” Arabella said with frigid dignity, “I am on an urgent errand.”
“Oh, then I’ll accompany you on your way.” He offered a benign smile.
“Mrs. Elliot will have prepared your breakfast,” she stated.
“I broke my fast this hour past,” he said, still smiling. “An excellent repast, as it happens. So where does this errand take you?”
“It’s an errand that requires no companionship,” Arabella said.
“But if it has something to do with the estate, then surely I should participate.” The smile now had a little edge of challenge to it and the gray eyes were uncomfortably penetrating.
“It has nothing to do with the estate,” she declared, beginning to feel like a rat in a trap. “It’s purely personal. So I beg you to excuse me, sir.” She started off down the drive.
“I will walk with you to your destination,” he said, catching up easily. “Maybe you could point out one or two of the landmarks of the estate along the way.”
Arabella could see no way to dislodge him, apart from turning the dogs on him, but given the way they were gamboling around him with eager little yaps, the chances were fairly remote. He picked up a stick and threw it for them, and that was the end of that remote possibility. There was nothing for it but to walk in silence, ignoring him as far as possible.
“You had a London Season, as I recall,” Jack said.
Silence in the face of such an ordinary, perfectly reasonable question was not possible. “Yes, ten years ago.” She picked up the slobbery stick that Boris had dropped at her feet and threw it.
“You didn’t enjoy Town?” He threw another stick for Oscar.
“No.”
Jack considered the short negative. It offered no handholds to an expanded conversation. So he asked bluntly, “Why not?”
Arabella looked at him for the first time since they’d begun their walk. Her pronounced eyebrows rose and she said, “What a stupid question, sir. Look at yourself and look at me. How could you imagine I could live in that, your world. I have no interest in fashion, in gossip, in intrigue, in all the falseness . . . it suited my brother, and it clearly suits you. You don’t know me, sir, but what little you’ve gleaned in the last twenty-four hours must have made it clear to you that that is not for me.”
“There’s room in that world for the unusual, Arabella,” he said. “Room for the innovator.”
“I’m a woman,” she declared, as if that was the end of it.
“Women can be innovators,” he said mildly, throwing another stick for the dogs.
“Not in my experience.” The conversation was beginning to interest her, much to her irritation.
“I would venture to suggest that your experience was somewhat limited, given that you only had one Season, and that with all the restrictions of a debutante.”
Perhaps he had a point. She had to satisfy herself with the tart rejoinder, “It was enough.”
“But what of your interest in politics?” he pressed. “Was that stimulated by your short exposure to London life?”
“Maybe.” Arabella walked a little faster.
He lengthened his own stride accordingly. “And what of the arts, Arabella? The theater, opera, music . . . Surely you wouldn’t close your mind to those experiences?”
“I don’t close my mind to anything,” she said, making no attempt now to mask her irritation at this catechism that grew increasingly uncomfortable.
“Forgive me, but I think you do,” he said gently. “You are closing your mind very firmly to the possibility of exposing yourself to a great variety of interesting experiences . . . of living life to its full. Why would you do that?” He sounded genuinely interested in her answer.
Arabella stopped in her tracks and turned to face him. “Your grace, you are forgetting that opening my mind to such experiences would involve marriage to you. That is what I am rejecting.”
Chapter 5
Arabella set off again, her skirts swinging with her energetic stride. Jack raised his eyebrows. She was clearly intent on putting as much distance between herself and her unwanted companion as she could. Well, he could be just as stubborn. He walked quickly in her wake, catching up to her easily although she increased her speed as far as she could without actually breaking into an undignified run.
“Peter Bailey was telling me of some neighbor dispute over a plot of land on the far side of the village,” he observed as if their previous exchange had never taken place. “Does the inhabitant of Lacey Court generally arbitrate such issues? Or is it left to the magistrate?”
“The lord of Lacey Court is a magistrate,” she replied, allowing her step to slow. It was too hot for fast walking even at this early hour, and it was clear that she was not going to lose her companion whatever she said or did. The only dignified course was resignation. “He sits on the bench with Sir Mark Barratt and Lord Alsop.”
“I see. Then it would be politic for me to make the acquaintance of my fellow magistrates,” Jack observed.
“Oh, don’t worry, they’ll come knocking at your door,” she said dryly. “I’ll lay odds that right now Lavinia Alsop is informing her long-suffering husband, who is probably still abed, that he must dress and accompany her to Lacey Court on the instant.”
“And will he obey?”
Arabella couldn’t help but chuckle. “Oh, yes, you need have no fear on that score. Lavinia has only to snap her fingers and the poor man jumps to it.”
“He sounds henpecked,” Jack remarked.
“Well, as I said yesterday, you have not met Lavinia Alsop as yet.” Arabella turned off the lane at a stile that filled a gap in the high hedge. “I’m going this way. You may wish to continue along the lane.”
“Why would I wish to do that?” he asked.
“You’re hardly dressed for climbing stiles and traversing fields and ditches,” she pointed out in tones of sweet reason.
“And you are?” he wondered.
“I’m accustomed to it,” she stated, and set one foot on the stile.
“Allow me to go first.” He put his hands at her waist and lifted her off the first crosspiece, then with commendable agility swung himself over the stile, the neatness of his movement completely unhampered by the long rapier. “Now,” he said, turning to face the stile. “If you step up, I’ll lift you over.”
“You’re very gallant, sir, but it’s quite unnecessary,” Arabella declared. “If you would move aside, please . . .” She set her sandaled foot on the rough-hewn plank.
A lazy smile curved his mouth. “And if I don’t?”
“Then I shall continue my walk along the lane and you may enjoy the field to your heart’s content,” she snapped.
Jack laughed and stepped away from the stile. “Please yourself.” He had to admit that she climbed over the stile with a lithe grace and the deft management of her skirts, which offered him barely a glimpse of well-turned ankles.
Arabella jumped down and set off around the field, skirting the ripening corn that stood almost waist high, rippling in the light breeze. The dogs were in seventh heaven, racing around with shrill barks and fluttering tails, startling rabbits among the stalks.
“It must be close to harvest,” Jack said, keeping pace beside her.
“Another week,” she said. “If you’re still here, you’ll be obliged to host the harvest dinner.”
“And what does that entail?”
And so it went on for the duration of the walk, Jack asking unimpeachably neutral, intelligent
questions about village life and the running of the estate and Arabella giving him the plain answers. There was no further trespassing on private ground and only once did he touch her, placing a steadying hand on her arm when she nearly lost her footing in a rabbit hole. And she could find no fault with that.
They approached the Barratts’ square, redbrick gabled house from the narrow lane that ran in front of it. The house stood close to the lane, a gate between two low stone pillars giving onto a narrow path that led directly to the front door. A broader driveway ran along the side to the stables and carriage house at the rear. It was the modest residence of a man with frugal tastes and little sense of consequence, Jack reflected.
“I’ll leave you here,” Arabella said, her hand on the latch of the gate. “If you continue along the lane, you’ll come to a crossroads. Take the left fork and that will lead you back to Lacey Court. The right fork will take you into the village.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. He leaned idly against one of the pillars. “How long do you think it will take you to accomplish your errand?”
“I have no idea,” Arabella said. “I may stay all day.” It was not an untruth. Often enough she and Meg spent the day together.
“Shall I continue to walk the dogs, in that case?” he asked politely, although it was very clear that Boris and Oscar, who were on their hind legs trying to push the gate open, had decided they too had reached their destination.
Arabella shook her head. “They have family here,” she explained. “You’d have to drag them away by main force.”
He nodded with a slight laugh. “Yes, I can see that.”
Arabella opened the gate and the dogs raced towards the rear of the house. Two other streaks of red appeared and the four of them fell in a tumbling heap, barking excitedly. “Their sisters,” Arabella said. “And that’s their mother. She’s just had another litter.”
A bitch with swollen teats hanging heavy sauntered around the corner of the house to greet her erstwhile puppies. “Are your two going to serve as stud for their sisters?” Jack inquired.
Arabella shook her head. “No, Sir Mark doesn’t believe in inbreeding. He breeds them for pleasure rather than profit.”
So this was the residence of one of his fellow magistrates. One could turn a handsome profit breeding hunting dogs, Jack mused. It took an enlightened breeder to forgo the convenience of breeding within his own stock.
“Good morning, your grace,” Arabella said in firm but courteous dismissal, sketching a curtsy.
Jack was momentarily startled. “I was hoping you would introduce me to Sir Mark.”
“No,” Arabella said definitely. “I’ve come to visit my friend Meg. I have no idea whether Sir Mark is at home, and even if he is, it’s not my place to explain that you’ve usurped—” She broke off, raising a hand in a gesture of frustration at the absurd predicament in which she found herself. “You must smooth your own way, Duke.” And she turned from him, hurrying up the path to the front door.
Jack offered an ironic bow to her back before turning and strolling down the lane towards the crossroads and the village.
Arabella greeted the steward who opened the door to her. “Morning, Harcourt. Is Miss Barratt abovestairs?”
“She’s still in the breakfast parlor, Lady Arabella. With Sir Mark and her ladyship.”
Oh, Arabella thought, somewhat dismayed. She was a little too early for comfort. She had hoped to explain matters to Meg before divulging the situation to Sir Mark and his lady. But there was nothing to be done about it now. The steward was already opening the door to the small breakfast parlor behind the staircase.
The three people at the breakfast table looked up in surprise at this interruption, but surprise turned swiftly—as always—to warm greeting. Arabella was as welcome in the Barratt home as their own daughter.
“Why, Bella, my dear, you’re up and about betimes,” Lady Barratt exclaimed, her round pink-complexioned countenance wreathed in smiles beneath her stiffly starched lace cap. “Come, sit down and have some coffee.” She gestured to the chair next to her daughter. “Have you breakfasted?”
“Yes, at least an hour ago, ma’am,” Arabella said, bending to kiss Lady Barratt before going around the table to Sir Mark. His tall figure had the permanent stoop of one accustomed to ducking beneath low lintels. His long face was deeply lined but the green eyes were sharp and shrewd beneath untidy gray eyebrows whose thickness belied the thin gray wisps that adorned a domed and shining pate. In the privacy of his own house he chose not to hide his baldness beneath the powdered wig that was de rigueur in the outside world. He rose to his feet and bestowed a paternal kiss upon Arabella’s forehead.
“Good morning, my dear Bella. I trust it finds you well.” There was a questioning undertow to the benign greeting, which didn’t particularly surprise Arabella. Sir Mark Barratt, like his daughter, missed very little and her arrival this morning was unusually early.
“Well enough, sir,” she temporized.
Meg, sandy eyebrows raised in eloquent question, rose too to hug her friend. “Great minds think alike,” she observed with her customarily infectious chuckle as she tucked an errant strand of vivid red hair behind her ear. “I was going to walk over to Lacey Court after breakfast . . . before it got too hot.” She filled Arabella’s coffee cup.
“So what is it, my dear?” Sir Mark got straight to the point once Arabella had taken her first revivifying sip. “Something out of the ordinary must have brought you here this early.”
Arabella considered her words. Sir Mark and his lady would have enough to work on with the simple facts. There would be no need to muddy the waters with tales of proposals. That story she would relate only to Meg.
“It’s hard to know where to begin,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “Frederick’s dead.” The blunt statement lay heavy in the already overheated air, but she couldn’t for the life of her think of any way to soften such a crude and basic fact. She felt Meg’s hand for a second squeeze her knee beneath the table.
“Oh, my dear,” Lady Barratt murmured, dabbing at her lips with her napkin. “You poor child.” She reached across the table to pat Arabella’s hand as it lay flat on the deep rosewood surface.
Her husband cleared his throat. Sir Mark liked to stick to facts unconfused by emotions. “In what circumstances, Bella?”
Should she produce the duel fabrication or tell them the truth? She looked around the table at their concerned faces and knew she couldn’t lie to these people. They had stood her friends all her life, and, indeed, had become to all intents and purposes her family when she was barely out of infancy. She couldn’t remember her own mother, and her father had always been such a distant and generally indifferent figure in her life, she had always turned to Sir Mark for paternal comfort and advice. And he had never failed her.
She explained, her voice very quiet in the now silent room where food lay forgotten and coffee cooled in the cups.
“Oh, my dear,” Lady Barratt said again when Arabella had at last fallen silent. She looked at Arabella with stricken eyes. “It’s . . . it’s so hard to believe.”
“It’s not really,” Sir Mark declared, pushing back his chair restlessly. “Frederick’s not the first fool to lose everything in a card game, and he won’t be the last. Gambling is the curse of this society.” He got to his feet and paced back and forth between the window and the fireplace, hands clasped at his back. “Arabella is now our concern.”
“Oh, yes,” his lady said with swift sympathy. “What are you to do, my poor child? How could there be no provision . . . ?” Her voice trailed away but there was more than a hint of indignation in her voice.
Meg rubbed at her sharp chin, pushing her fingertip into the deep cleft at its point, a habit she had when deep in thought. “Perhaps this duke could be persuaded to make some provision,” she offered.
“That would certainly be my first suggestion,” her father declared. “If he’s an honest man, he’ll do the decent
thing. I shall call upon him at once. Where is he staying, Bella?”
“At Lacey Court, sir.” Arabella waited for what she knew was to come.
Sir Mark stopped in his tracks, halfway between window and fireplace. “He was there last night?” he demanded, staring at Arabella.
“Yes, sir. In my brother’s apartments in the east wing.”
“And you?” The question was incredulous, as if he was anticipating the unbelievable answer.
“In my own in the west wing, sir.” Arabella clasped her hands tightly in her lap to still the slight quiver of her fingers. The good opinion of the Barratts was too important to her to accept their displeasure with equanimity.
“Good God!” For a moment he was speechless. He passed a hand over his shining scalp before demanding, “What could you have been thinking of, Arabella? You should have come here immediately.”
Lady Barratt recovered her own powers of speech. “Indeed, my dear, you must not go back to that house at all,” she declared energetically, taking up her chicken-skin fan. “No, no, all is not lost if you remain here from this moment. We shall say that you arrived late last night when this . . . this . . . oh, there are no words . . . when the duke arrived and forced you to leave your home. What kind of brute must he be?” she wondered abstractedly, plying her fan with a vigor to match her words. “We shall send for your things . . . Franklin and Mrs. Elliot will know exactly how to carry this off.”
“Ma’am, there’s no need for that.” Arabella spoke carefully. “As the duke explained, he stands at the moment in place of my brother. There can be no objection to us remaining in separate wings of the house. We don’t even need to pass each other in a corridor. Besides,” she added when it was clear her audience found plenty of objection, “I have a surplus of chaperones. Mrs. Elliot, for one; my old nurse, for another.”
“Your old nurse is in her dotage and wouldn’t know if the house caught fire around her,” retorted Sir Mark. “And you cannot claim a mere housekeeper as a chaperone. If I didn’t know you better, Arabella, I’d say the news of Frederick’s death has overset your reason.” His eyes bored into her and he shook his head impatiently. “No, there’s to be no argument. You will come to us immediately.”