Arabella of Mars

by David D. Levine

  “Dear Lord!” cried Trombley.

  “I had wondered at the sound,” the captain said. And, indeed, after Simon’s death the Martians had cried out in triumph, then fallen silent.

  Arabella closed her eyes, but nothing could shut away the memory of Simon’s fate. “Somehow … somehow he found the courage to redeem himself,” she said, knowing that every one still considered him a hero and not wishing to argue the point at this moment. “I only pray that his sacrifice will bring an end to the insurrection.”

  “Oh dear,” said Trombley, mopping his brow. “Oh dear me. What horrible news. Horrible, horrible. I … I extend my deepest condolences upon the loss of your cousin.” He bowed. “Shall I summon a servant to bring you a glass of water?”

  “No thank you, sir.” She curtseyed, the action coming automatically despite her inner tumult. “I thank you for your concern, but I am certain the servants are all occupied in preparing the defense of the kitchen.”

  “Of course, of course, how stupid of me.” He bowed again, quite unnecessarily. “I shall bring you some water myself.” He bowed again and retreated rapidly, his own emotions obviously in a state of considerable distress.

  As soon as he had departed, she collapsed. But before she could land in a heap upon the stone floor, the captain’s strong arms were beneath her shoulders. Without a word he helped her upright, holding her up until, with a gesture, she indicated that she could once again maintain her own feet. Yet despite the turmoil in her heart and the feverish tremor in her limbs, her eyes remained dry.

  Still without a word, the captain led her to a nearby sofa. After she had seated herself he sat silently beside her, hands chastely folded in his lap, waiting patiently for her to collect herself.

  At last she drew in a shuddering breath, then let it out all in a rush. “Thank you for your understanding,” she said, her voice shaky. “If that prattling fool had kept up his jabber for one moment more…”

  “Do not concern yourself with him,” he said.

  Arabella, realizing that she was on the verge of babbling herself, quieted her tongue.

  After another stretch of silence, during which Arabella’s racing heart steadied and slowed, the captain spoke again. “Did Mr. Ashby truly give himself voluntarily? Without coercion or … assistance?”

  Not for the first time, Arabella wondered at his seemingly superhuman ability to perceive the truth of any situation. “Not … entirely.” She looked up, dreading the captain’s judgement. “He rushed at me, I evaded his charge, and he … he went over the edge. But I did not push him. I swear this to you.”

  His gaze was clear and steady and untroubled. “I could not imagine otherwise,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir,” she replied with deep sincerity. “But you must not share the details of his fate with the others. Not yet.”

  “Of course not. It would destroy morale.”

  She frowned then, and added, “We must make some provision for his family. Though Beatrice assisted Simon in imprisoning me, I believe she was compelled to do so, and her daughter Sophie is an innocent undeserving of punishment for her father’s misdeeds.”

  “You have a most generous spirit, Miss Ashby.”

  At that moment Mr. Trombley reappeared, though without the promised glass of water. “Miss Ashby! Miss Ashby!” he cried. “The Martians are at the gate, demanding to speak to you! And Michael has regained consciousness!”

  Arabella looked to the captain. Her shock and indecision must have been plain upon her countenance, for he straightened and in a firm yet compassionate voice said, “You must tend to your brother. Go. I will treat with the Martians to the best of my ability.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” she said, and saluted.

  She did not realize until she was halfway down the hall that she had done so.

  * * *

  Michael was sitting up, drinking from a glass of water, as Arabella entered his bedchamber. “Michael!” she cried, and despite the presence of Dr. Fellowes and several others in the room she embraced him with heedless enthusiasm. A moment later she realized her mistake and drew back, fearing she might have damaged his already-injured body with an excess of zeal.

  But her brother’s face, though ashen and sunken of cheek, showed nothing but pleasure at the sight of her. “My dearest sister,” he said, gripping her hand. His grasp seemed terribly feeble. “My dear Arabella. How I had worried about you!”

  Michael’s voice was rough, hollow, and weak, but unmistakably, joyfully his own. It was a voice she’d feared so many times in the last few months that she would never hear again, and at the sound of it she was quite overcome with emotion. She sank to her knees at the bedside, still holding her brother’s hand. “Words cannot express my relief at your recovery,” she managed in a hoarse whisper.

  “I am, you may be sure, astonished at your presence on Mars at all,” Michael said, “never mind here at Corey Hall. The last I had heard of you was a letter from Mother, which arrived on the last packet-ship before the insurrection. She said that according to cousin Beatrice, you suddenly ran mad and vanished into the countryside. Pray tell, how came you to be here?”

  For a moment she hesitated—not knowing just where to begin, nor how much of her adventure she ought to share with him in his obviously still fragile state of health. But then she recalled the verve with which he’d raced across the dunes with her and Khema, and smiled. “I did not run mad,” she said, “let me assure you. Though I was exceedingly vexed.…”

  She sketched out the story quickly, knowing that the details would be filled in over many conversations to come, but despite the shocked expressions on the faces of Dr. Fellowes and Mr. Trombley, neither of whom had heard any of it before, she felt no need to either moderate or exaggerate her tale. She simply told it as it had happened. Michael’s reactions were quite satisfying, ranging from gape-jawed astonishment to hearty laughter.

  “Privateers?” he gasped.

  “Privateers,” she repeated, and went on to describe the battle in some detail.

  Just as she was describing the ship’s arrival at Mars, a commotion came to Arabella’s ears from the corridor outside, followed by a knock at the door. Mr. Trombley opened it, to reveal the captain.

  Suddenly she recalled the continuing danger of the Martians without, which she had quite forgotten in the excitement of her brother’s return to consciousness. But though she ached for news of the insurrection, the forms must be obeyed. “Michael,” she said, “please permit me to present to you Captain Prakash Singh of the Honorable Mars Company airship Diana. Captain Singh, my brother, Michael Ashby.”

  The two men shook hands with great propriety. “I have heard so much about you, Captain,” Michael said. “I thank you for taking my sister on in your crew, though I must apologize for her deception as to her sex.”

  “No apology is required,” the captain replied with a bow. “Her position was earned, and well-earned, with intelligence, skill, and bravery.”

  “Please, sir,” Arabella interrupted, bursting with anxious curiosity, “what of the Martians?”

  He paused. “Your, ah, Miss Khema, is in the entry-way, being too large to pass through the inner door. She says that the council of clans has met and, having heard and considered her entreaties upon our behalf, has decided to accept your cousin’s death as sufficient recompense for the egg’s abduction.”

  At the words “your cousin’s death,” Michael’s face showed shock and sadness. “My cousin Mr. Ashby? He who saved my life in the fighting at Woodthrush Woods?”

  “I am afraid so, sir. It was he who took the egg, which triggered the insurrection, and it was his confession and death which brought it to an end.”

  “I should never have imagined him capable of such a thing.” Michael turned his pale, stricken face to Arabella. “Nor, of course, of imprisoning you.”

  “He did,” she replied, “and much else besides.”

  The captain cleared his throat and continued. “We are free to de
part the house, and once the word has reached the rest of the Martians, the insurrection will be at an end.” He raised a finger. “However, Miss Khema acknowledges that considerable ill will has been raised, on both sides, by the recent violence. She invites you, Miss Ashby, to consult with her on matters of improving relations between the Martians and English, and to represent the English to the council of clans.”

  Before Arabella could reply to this extraordinary invitation, Dr. Fellowes interrupted. “If we may depart this house, I believe we should do so, and the sooner the better.” A groan from the timbers above confirmed the urgency of his suggestion. “Though I fear Mr. Ashby may be in no condition to be moved, my fear of the house collapsing about our ears is greater still.”

  At that Michael managed to lever himself up onto his elbows. “How did the house become so damaged?” he asked.

  Arabella touched the back of his hand reassuringly. “We will explain later. For now we must put all our attentions on moving you to some safer place.” She paused, considering. “But where? Surely all of Fort Augusta is in ruins.”

  “Woodthrush Woods,” Michael said, grasping Arabella’s hand. The very thought seemed to lend some strength to his tremulous grip. “Take me home.”

  Dr. Fellowes frowned deeply at the prospect. “It is over two miles distant!”

  “The Ashby house is in much better condition than this one,” the captain observed, “thanks to Miss Khema’s efforts. And she might be prevailed upon to aid us in transporting him.”

  “We must move him there at once,” Arabella said to the doctor, then turned to the captain. “Give Khema my thanks for her invitation, but tell her that my brother’s health must take precedence for now, and ask for her help in moving him. After we are settled at Woodthrush Woods, I will consult with her as she requests.”

  “I will do so,” he said, and with a brisk bow he departed.

  * * *

  After leaving the house, they waited on the road outside while Khema arranged for a huresh to carry Michael back to Woodthrush Woods. While the doctor inspected her brother’s dressings, Arabella looked back at Corey House.

  The house, never beautiful, was now a collapsing ruin, so battered that in places it could scarcely be distinguished from the rocks on which it had been built. Even as she watched, a section of the roof fell in, sending a cloud of dust into the air. The landscape around it, too, had been demolished, pleasant paths and gazebos completely vanished beneath piles of rubble and thousands of Martian footprints. The Martians themselves were mostly departed, leaving only a few burnt patches on the sand, and the catapults with their pyramids of stones.

  This place, Arabella knew, would be honored as a battlefield some day. For now it was nothing but a waste—a desolate waste of destruction and death.

  A thin stream of refugees was emerging from the gate, looking about themselves and back at the ruined house in appalled silence. Arabella glanced from them to her brother, equally battered by the events of the past few weeks, then back at the refugees.

  “Go and tell those people,” she said to one of the servants, “that if they cannot return to their homes they are welcome at Woodthrush Woods.”

  The servant looked from her to her brother, who nodded. “As you wish, Miss Ashby,” the servant said with a bow, and moved off.

  26

  A STRANGE PROPOSAL

  Some days later, Arabella was in the kitchen, supervising an inventory and considering how to feed her guests. Most of Woodthrush Woods’s servants, both human and Martian, had already returned—thanks to Khema, the fighting there had been much less than at Fort Augusta, and most of them had remained nearby—and they had been joined by many others from Corey House and elsewhere. This was fortunate, as most of the other Corey House refugees were of the gentry and unable to provide for their own needs.

  She turned from a count of the bags of noreth-flour to find one of the servants waiting expectantly. “Your brother requests your presence, Miss Ashby. He says that the matter is rather urgent.”

  After instructing Collins, the former Corey House majordomo, to continue the inventory, she hurried to her brother’s bedchamber, where she found him lying across a heap of pillows, with Mr. Trombley in attendance. A sheaf of papers lay atop the bed-clothes. “What is the matter?” she said.

  Mr. Trombley swallowed and looked down. “I … I am afraid it concerns your brother’s last will and testament.”

  “I see.” She, too, felt a sudden need to inspect the dusty floor.

  Michael gestured to the papers. “Explain the situation to my sister,” he said to Mr. Trombley with weary impatience.

  “Sir, I really must protest this—”

  Michael stopped him with a raised hand. “Explain it.”

  Mr. Trombley frowned, but nodded to him, then turned to Arabella. “As you know,” he said, “the Ashby family estate is entailed to heirs of the body male.”

  “Yes, yes,” Arabella said, waving an impatient hand.

  “This is important. An entail, at least an entail of this type, is, in effect, a contract between generations, ensuring that the family property is neither lost nor subdivided into insignificance. It binds the estate—the entire estate—to the current holder and to his next two heirs.” He took a breath, let it out again. “As is typical with estates of this type, your brother’s will was drawn up for him shortly after he was born.” He swallowed. “As such, it was prepared by my predecessor, Mr. Beale. Mr. Beale was … well, let us say that he gave little consideration to the fair sex at the best of times, and in his dotage he appears to have omitted any consideration whatsoever.” He picked up the papers and handed them to Arabella with an expression both disgusted and contrite. “As your family solicitor, I must apologize for not having reviewed this document before now. Your father was in, in such … robust good health, until his sudden passing of course, and, well, the months since then, they have been so hectic…”

  As Mr. Trombley continued to stammer his apologies, Arabella took the papers and ran her eyes over the dense pages of text. They might as well have been Venusian for all the sense she could extract from them. “What does this all mean?”

  Mr. Trombley frowned and blew out a breath through his nose. “The entail binds the estate to heirs of the body male for three generations. When this will was drawn up, that was your brother, your uncle, and your cousin. Your uncle and cousin are specified by name, but in the event of their … their death or incapacity, the estate is to be inherited by the next heir of the body male. Whoever that may be.”

  Arabella thought for a moment. Apart from Simon, she had no other male relatives on her father’s side, not even distant cousins. “And who would that be?”

  “That … is the problem.” He sighed. “To the best of my knowledge there is no surviving male heir … and the will contains no provision whatsoever for this circumstance. As I said, my … predecessor, Mr. Beale, gave little consideration to the fair sex.” He shook his head. “If your brother should … pass, with the will in this state … the estate will be thrown into probate.”

  “In which case…?”

  He shrugged and spread his hands. “In a case such as this, any one with any possible claim, however spurious, may petition the court. It could take years to settle, the estate could be … could be divided any which way. And the expense would be tremendous. In the worst case, the entire estate could fall to the Crown.”

  Through all this Michael had been looking at Arabella with stoic resignation. “We cannot allow this to occur.”

  “But Michael, surely this is no concern of ours? I am sure you will be up and about in no time.”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “You need not prevaricate with me, sister. I am fully aware of how precarious my health is. And if this … contretemps has taught me any thing, it is that life is fragile and easily snuffed out.” His expression was now as serious as any she could ever recall having seen on him. “The estate must be preserved at all costs. And so the entai
l must be broken.”

  “But how? To break an entail, I have heard, requires an act of Parliament! And we could not possibly—”

  Michael held up one finger. “An entail is a contract, as Mr. Trombley has explained to me in wearisome detail, and contracts can be terminated.” He struggled to sit up, but soon gave up the effort, collapsing back upon the pillows and addressing the ceiling. “Any change in an entail requires the consent of all those involved—in this case, the current holder and the next two heirs in line. Now, under most circumstances this means that change is virtually impossible. Why would any one in his right mind consent to any change which might cost them so large an estate? But at the moment, there are no such heirs. This is our problem, and our opportunity. For the first time in heaven knows how many generations, I may change my will however I wish.”

  “Sir,” Mr. Trombley fumed, “I cannot allow you to—”

  “My mind is made up,” he said, “and as I have achieved my majority, albeit by only three weeks, and am of sound mind if not body, you cannot prevent it.” He raised himself on one elbow to face Arabella. “My dear sister, I intend to will the entire estate to you.”

  “To me?” Arabella laid a hand on her chest and felt her own pulse throbbing hard. “But … even if there are no other male heirs, surely Mother is the next of kin?”

  “You and I both know that she has no head for business. The maintenance of the Ashby estate, I have learned to my sorrow, is an immense and troublesome undertaking, and you are the only one I would trust with it. Besides, Mother is in England, and much happier there. We require an heir who can take the reins at once upon my … demise, not one who would have to be dragged here against her will, a process that would take months even if she consented to it.”

  “Which she would not,” Arabella concurred. “For Fanny and Chloë’s sake, of course, not her own.”

  “Of course.” Michael gave a slight, wry grin that, for a moment, made his face seem as animated and youthful as she remembered it.

  But the grin fell away as Mr. Trombley cleared his throat. “Sir, your sister is not legally competent to manage the estate, being both underage and female. She must have an older male relative to handle all business affairs.” He cleared his throat again, and straightened. “As there is no such relative, I would, as your family solicitor, be prepared to stand as her legal guardian.”