“It looks delicious,” said Arabella, no doubt thinking of the ices she had ordered for one of her father’s last parties in London. Haro suspected that she was making a deliberate attempt to humor him with her praise. From what he could tell, she had no innate appreciation for natural beauty, but he had acquiesced so readily to his cousin being cast out of doors that he needed some small reward.
“A fine sight,” Haro agreed. “I told Torin it wouldn’t be ready for skating until next week, but I wonder….” He put a tentative boot upon the edge of the ice. He took another step and left the safety of the shore. Another step—he felt it creak beneath his weight. One more step and it would be sure to crack.
“Watch what you’re doing, boy!” said a voice from the bridge. Startled, Haro shifted his weight, and the hard sole of his boot broke through the ice with a splash. He regained his balance ingloriously and recovered the safety of the shore by Arabella’s side, thankful that his topboots had protected his breeches from a dousing.
“What are you doing out here, Uncle Harold?” he demanded. The old man was in little more than his shirtsleeves and trousers, and it was as cold outside as a Russian Christmas. Haro could see the gleam of frozen water on the boards of the bridge. “And you should watch what you’re doing the same as I. There’s ice on those steps!”
Uncle Harold came down from the bridge, his feet surprisingly sure for an octogenarian. As he came closer, they could see that he held a large loaf of bread in his hands. “Ice? Pshaw. This is nothing compared to the winter I was in St. Petersburg. There was ice on our eyebrows every time we walked outside.”
“But I daresay the Countess kept you warm enough!” called out a cheerful voice. Haro swung around to see that Eda and Bayeux had come around the bend and were closing the distance between themselves and the water.
Uncle Harold smiled. Eda always had been his favorite, or at least, so Haro suspected. He wondered how the old man would take the news of her imminent eviction from Woldwick.
“I see you’ve already managed to spoil the pristine beauty of the pond,” said Eda, gesturing at the jagged hole Haro’s boots had made near the shore.
Haro tensed. So, she meant to sink her claws into him as well as into Arabella this morning. Well, then, let her! It would make him feel like less of a blackguard when he turned her out of her adoptive home.
“He tried walking on it!” said the old man with a snort. “Walking on it, when it’s hardly thick enough to hold a sparrow, let alone a great, galloping lad!”
“What does it matter?” said Arabella. “There’s ice aplenty to look at, and once you’ve all looked your fill we can return to the house. Some of us”—she glanced at Uncle Harold—“may be warm enough in our shirtsleeves, but I, for one, am starting to feel the chill.”
“By all means, then, let us return,” said Eda, acting far more agreeable to the idea than anyone would have guessed. “We should switch walking partners for the journey back, for Monsieur Bayeux tells me he has several questions to put to you regarding the house plans.”
Haro frowned at this, but the architect had already stepped up on Arabella’s other side and was blathering on about beams, and gables, and cornices.
“Will you join our party?” Eda called out to Uncle Harold.
“No, thank you, my dear.” The eccentric old man waved good-bye with one hand while his other hand clutched the loaf of bread. “I still have my birds to feed.”
“There’s a thick mist settling in through the trees,” Haro called out to the figure receding into the bare branches. He knew the old man was familiar with the woods, but still, there was a chance that he could lose his way in all the fog.
“Just leave him be,” said Eda, taking Haro’s arm and giving it a pull. “He’s too stubborn to listen, and we might as well get back to the house before your beloved’s nose turns blue.”
The path was not wide, but neither gentleman seemed willing to leave Arabella’s side, so they pressed on four abreast, jostling elbows and nearly stepping on each other’s feet. The fog was growing rapidly, and soon it was hard to see more than a dozen paces ahead of them.
“Oh dear,” said Eda quietly, falling behind the rest and bending down on one knee. Haro, who had been walking beside her, was the only one to notice her disappearance—the other two were talking far too animatedly about friezes and fixtures. He bit his lip in frustration, but whatever his feelings, the idea of leaving a female behind in the fast-growing fog was too ungentlemanly to be thought of. He murmured something to Arabella about being “right back in half a second” and turned around to come to the aid of his confounded cousin.
***
“What are you doing?” Haro demanded. The fog had already swallowed up the other two, and he was alone with Eda’s kneeling figure, surrounded by a thickening wall of white.
“I’ve broken my lace and need to fix it before I can go on.”
“Wouldn’t it be more effective to pretend that you’ve twisted your ankle?”
“Why, Haro! How clever of you! I do believe it would.” She stood up with a show of anguish and hobbled over to her cousin’s arm. “Would it be too difficult for you to carry me? Yes? Perhaps if I lean very heavily on your arm, I will be able to make it back to the house without fainting from the pain.”
Haro grimaced as she hung her full weight upon his forearm, and he began to drag her slowly down the path. It rankled him more than a little that this charade had forced Arabella into a tête-à-tête with the mysterious architect, but it also occurred to him that now would be an excellent time to broach some unpleasant news to his cousin.
“I hear you’ve been flaunting my dressing gown in a most inappropriate manner.”
“It’s very comfortable,” said Eda, forgetting to wince with each step now that Haro had addressed her in conversation. “I’m thinking of keeping it. Will your fiancée approve?”
Haro snorted. “I imagine any decent woman would approve if it kept you from wandering the halls in your nightdress. Go ahead and pack it in your trunk, and whatever else you want to take with you.”
“Oh? Are we going back to London so soon?”
“No, we are staying. You are going to London, or Brighton, or anywhere there’s someone who will take you in.”
Eda stopped walking. Her fingers tightened around his arm. “Haro, what on earth do you mean?”
“I mean you’ve been the most horrible harridan this past week or more, vexing Arabella to no end with your taunts and your tittle-tattle. I’ve made up my mind that it would be better for all concerned if you left Woldwick.”
“You’ve made up your mind, or she’s made it up for you?”
“There you go again! I’ll not have you sneering at her like that. Dash it all, Eda! She’s going to be my wife.”
Eda caught her breath. “I was going to be your wife.”
“Maybe,” he said coldly, reminding her that their understanding had never been official. “But things have changed. Perhaps for the better.”
“No.” Her face, already pale by nature, went a shade whiter at his words. “You have changed, and certainly not for the better. The Haro I knew would never put money before kindness.”
“Now, see here, Eda. It’s not as if I embarked on this engagement bloated with greed. I need the Hastings’ money, yes. But it’s for my mother, for my brother, for Woldwick.”
“There’s no need to make excuses. Never fear—I shall pack my things. I will not stay where I’m not wanted.”
She pulled her furs around herself more tightly and forged ahead through the fog. Haro felt a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. Should he hurry after her? No, let her walk back to the house alone. It was better for both of them to avoid further conversation and further flashes of temper that they would later rue and regret.
14
The walkers—all four of them—straggled into the house at different times. Arabella came in first with a crinkle between her brows and slipped quietly up to her
room. Bayeux opened the door a little later, very red in the face as if the winter wind had chapped his cheeks. Eda entered third and stormed up the stairs in high dudgeon to begin gutting her wardrobe of its contents. Haro came through the door last, his movements slow and pensive. The solitary journey through the white fog had given him ample time to look inwards and reflect, and, truth be told, he did not like everything that he saw.
Later that afternoon, Haro discovered that the unpleasant scene he had acted out with Eda would need to be reenacted, this time with his mother in the opposing role.
“What is this Eda tells me?” asked Lady Anglesford, floating into the billiards room where Torin was performing the unusual feat of besting his elder brother.
“I don’t know, Mama,” said Haro, a bit untruthfully. “What is it?”
“That you are turning her out of doors into the cold?”
“What a lot of fustian! I simply said it would be best for her to leave Woldwick at present. I hoped that you could find her a suitable place.”
“But why?” demanded Torin, putting down his billiard stick and staring openmouthed at his brother.
Haro gave him a sideways glance. “I should think it would be obvious.”
“The only thing that’s obvious to me is the fact that your Miss Hastings can’t hold a candle to her. Is that why you’re sending Eda away?”
“Don’t talk rubbish!” Haro braced himself with the remembrance of Arabella’s most attractive qualities—although these fortifying thoughts were somewhat undermined by the memory of his cousin Eda…right before she’d put on his dressing gown.
“I’ll tell you what’s rub—”
“Hush, Torin,” said Lady Anglesford, her lip quivering. Haro feared, with good reason, that she was about to cry. “I daresay I could find her a place, but for how long? Did Arabella ask you to send her away?”
“Yes.” Haro walked over to the window and looked out to the bare birch trees surrounding the house. “And I don’t know for how long. A lifetime, I presume. Arabella cannot stand to be in the same house as her for a moment longer—and in truth, Eda has made herself so obnoxious, that I can hardly blame her.”
“Does she know that you and Eda were enga—”
“That we had an understanding?” Haro corrected her preemptively. “Yes, I believe she does. And, naturally, that is another reason to want Eda away from Woldwick. I recognize that it is hard on Eda to be sent away from what has always been her home, but Arabella has claims that cannot—and should not—be denied.” The young earl stared fixedly at the misty landscape, his duty as shadowy as the trees in the distance.
“Oh, my dear boy,” said Lady Anglesford, placing a hand on her heart. “This is a heavy burden that your father has laid upon you—that I have laid upon you. Perhaps we should reconsider this alliance, or rather, this mésalliance with the Hastings. Perhaps we should give up Woldwick, as Mr. Godwin suggested, and take our chances in Russell Square.”
Torin groaned at the mention of that awful place.
“And break the betrothal? It’s too late now, Mama. I’ve given my word.”
“Just as I’ve given my word to shelter and provide for Eda.”
It was Haro’s turn to groan.
“Let us take a week or two to think on it,” said Lady Anglesford, feeling a strong need to retire to her chamber and rest but resisting it until the matter could be settled. “Surely, the Hastings cannot wish us to turn Eda out at a moment’s notice.”
“I would not put it past them,” muttered Torin.
“I must have some time to write letters to ladies of my acquaintance. Eda would make a fine companion for an elderly widow. Perhaps I can secure her a place.”
Haro nodded. It was not exactly the happiest prospect for a girl who had, but two months ago, been enjoying her first London Season. But it was better than Ireland. It was better than nothing.
***
“Where have you been keeping yourself all afternoon?” Haro had finally found Arabella staring out the windows of the upstairs parlor. Her face held an expression of puzzlement—or was it worry?—that was papered over with a smile as soon as he spoke.
“I had some correspondence to write, so I took tea in my room.” She left the window, and walked over to take his hand. “I’m sorry to have deserted you, my darling.” She laid her lips on Haro’s cheek, and the kiss surprised him. It was warm, uncalculated, as if she actually desired his person and not just his pedigree. “Three weeks,” she said, her eyes alight with anticipation.
“Three weeks,” echoed Haro. His own excitement had paled a little since breakfast. Maybe it was from the row with Eda. Maybe it was from the talk with his mother.
Arabella had dressed for dinner, looking lavish in cloth of gold. She was as pretty a woman as a man could ask for, and prettier still when one knew the size of her father’s pocketbook. She knew how to adapt herself to the circles she found herself in. Given the chance, she even had the possibility of transcending her lowbred parentage.
But, even with all that, there was something lacking. Haro kissed her wrist. She attracted him, yes, but it was with a sweetness that seemed certain to cloy. There was no high mystery in her eyes that he must seek to unravel. There was no fire blazing between them that would always warm him inside and out.
Three weeks.
“Would you like me to send out a boy to take your letters to the post?”
“Letters?”
“You said you spent the afternoon writing correspondence.”
“Oh, yes…a letter, but it is not finished. I will send it into the village with my father tomorrow.”
“Very well.” Haro stood quietly beside her, both of them staring out the window and into the distance. She leaned against his shoulder, touching the drapes carelessly with her opposite hand. Haro reflected that by this time next year those drapes, this window, and maybe even this view would be changed for something different—something the fashionable new Lady Anglesford would find more appealing.
“Has that fellow Bayeux completed any plans yet?”
“No.” Her head lifted abruptly from his shoulder, her neck tensing like a terrier backed into a corner. “Why?”
“I just wondered…since you two seemed to be discussing the finishing touches on our walk home this morning.” Was that what they really had been discussing? Had their conversation continued in the same vein when he had hung back to assist Eda with her broken lace—or twisted ankle—or whatever the deuce had been wrong with her?
“Oh, yes, we were, weren’t we?” Arabella’s brow furrowed. “I believe he will need to return to London tomorrow for a meeting with another client. Perhaps he can finish up the plans and send them by courier from there.”
It seemed that his departure was to be as sudden as his arrival. Curious, Haro decided to probe a little deeper. “Perhaps he can give them to us in person when we return to London for the wedding.”
“No.” It was a firm and definite refusal. “There is no need for us to see him again.”
“As you wish,” said Haro, just as the gong for dinner sounded. He gave her his arm, and they went down the staircase together, the earl more curious than ever just what had transpired between Arabella and the architect during their tête-à-tête in the forest.
***
Uncle Harold decided to join them for dinner that night, making the acquaintance of William Hastings for the first time.
“How do you do?” said Mr. Hastings, pumping the old man’s hand vigorously just before they entered the dining room.
The family and guests took their seats around the table. Uncle Harold insisted upon seating Lady Anglesford while Torin sulkily pulled out a chair for Eda. Monsieur Bayeux’s eyes were unnaturally bright, his head bobbing a little, and Haro suspected he had been plying the bottle all afternoon.
“I daresay you’ll have heard the name Hastings before,” said the mill owner proudly, leaning back in his chair with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets.
>
“What was your father’s name?” asked Uncle Harold. He was trying to place the portly guest and failing miserably.
“Robert Hastings. He was in cotton too. The ‘cotton king,’ some called him. Which, I guess, makes me the ‘cotton emperor’!” Mr. Hastings fell to laughing at his own joke.
“Dear me—an emperor! I knew several of those back in my day…although they went by other names like tsar. Have I told you that your daughter puts me in mind of the Countess of St. Petersburg?”
Haro rolled his eyes while Arabella sniffed.
“Does she?” Mr. Hastings’ face suffused with pleasure. “I’m not surprised. A good girl, she is. Looks every inch a countess. She’ll be one in name, too, in three weeks, don’t you know?”
Uncle Harold did know, but he had already fallen into a reverie about his long lost sweetheart. “Maria was her name. She would have run away with me, too, but her sister got wind of it and told the count. Jealous of Maria’s good fortune, I heard some say later. The ship had almost set sail when her husband arrived.”
William Hastings frowned, clearly disgusted with aristocratic views on morality and propriety.
“Goodness!” Eda broke in. This was a story she had never heard before. “And then what happened? Did you fight him?”
“How could I avoid it? It was pistols at twenty paces, on the docks, without even time to arrange a second.”
“And you won?” demanded Torin, his moodiness having disappeared in the thrill of adventure.
“We fired almost simultaneously. He missed. I didn’t.”
“Did you kill him?” Torin was on the edge of his seat.
“Regrettably, no. Through the shoulder, but not the heart. He bled all over his white shirt and yellow waistcoat, and Maria was so affected by the sight, that she could not go on. I fetched a doctor, and she decided to return with her husband. We said our farewells, and the ship weighed anchor.”
“And you never saw her again?” Eda’s blue eyes were wide, her spoon poised above her bowl of soup.
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