by Emily Larkin
Arabella shook her head. “He pushed his way in . . . the door was quite flimsy . . . and Mother lost her temper. She told him—” She bit her lip. The things her mother had said were unrepeatable. “And . . . and he said that if Mother wasn’t willing then he’d have me instead, and he grabbed me and . . . Mother hit him with the skillet.”
“What happened next?” St. Just asked, his voice grim.
“He fell over. There was . . . a lot of blood.” The smell of it came to her nostrils, as strong now as it had been thirteen years ago. Arabella shuddered. “He was too big for us to move, so I went to get Harry, and he carried him outside.”
“Did this man give you any more trouble?”
“We never saw him again.” She glanced at St. Just and saw his expression sharpen.
“Do you think that Harry—”
“I don’t know.” Arabella looked away. After a moment she said, “I think it far more likely that my mother killed him. It was a very heavy skillet.”
St. Just said nothing. His expression—when she darted a glance at him—was sober, thoughtful.
He caught her glance. “I must applaud your mother’s defense of you, Miss Knightley, but her manner of living . . . your exposure to her choice of occupation—”
“Her choice of occupation?” Arabella removed her hand from his arm. “Her choice?”
St. Just had the grace to look ashamed. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “What I meant was—”
Arabella was too angry to listen to his apology. “My mother took in washing, Mr. St. Just. She sewed. She cleaned and dressed the dead. She did everything, anything, to earn money. Whoring was never her choice; it was always a last resort. She hated it! Absolutely hated it.” Her anger died, as abruptly as it had kindled. She looked away from him. “She could only do it if she was drunk, and she always cried afterwards.”
“I apologize,” St. Just said again, quietly. “What I meant was that it’s terrible that you, or your mother—or indeed any female!—should be forced to live in such circumstances. I deeply regret—as your mother must have—that you were witness to such things.”
Arabella fiddled with a mother-of-pearl button on her glove. “You think she should have given me to my grandparents?”
St. Just hesitated. “I can’t be a judge of that. Do you think she should have?”
Arabella twisted the button. I don’t know. “It would have broken her heart.” The button came off in her fingers. She stared at it for a moment, at the snapped threads. “If she’d let me go, I would never have known her. I’d have no memories of her.” As it is, I have thousands. As many bad as good. She clenched the button in her hand. “My mother was a very brave woman.”
“Yes,” St. Just said. “She must have been.”
She glanced at him. He was looking down at the path. As she watched, he scuffed a stone aside with the toe of his boot. “I remind you of Lord Crowe and the man in the slums, don’t I?” he said, raising his head. His face was bleak. “That’s why you dislike waltzing with me.”
Arabella shuddered. “No, Lord Emsley reminds me of them.”
St. Just’s forehead creased. “Then why—?”
“It makes me feel uncomfortable.”
“More uncomfortable than waltzing with Emsley,” St. Just persisted.
Arabella looked down at the button. “Yes.”
“May I ask why?”
She flushed. “Because . . . because it feels dangerous.”
“Dangerous, how?”
“I . . . I find it hard to breathe, and . . . and my skin prickles and . . . I feel too hot.”
“Those symptoms, Miss Knightley, sound rather like the symptoms of, er . . . desire.”
“Oh, no!” she said, her gaze flying to him. “It couldn’t possibly be.”
St. Just smiled, his eyes creasing at the corners. “You sound very certain.”
“I am,” Arabella said emphatically. “I will never have physical congress with a man!”
His eyebrows rose. “Never?”
She shuddered again, remembering the ugliness of the noises, the rank male smell, her mother’s distress afterwards. “Never.”
“Ah . . .” His smile faded. “This is why you wish me to withdraw my offer.”
Her gaze fell. “Yes.”
St. Just was silent for several seconds. “You’re quite determined never to . . . uh, have physical congress with a man?”
“Yes.”
After several more seconds of silence, he held his arm out to her. “Shall we walk further?”
Arabella glanced at him from beneath the brim of her bonnet. His face was unsmiling. After a moment’s hesitation she laid her hand on his arm.
They strolled slowly in an awkward silence. Above them, birds sang, and from beneath their feet came the gentle crunch of gravel. Arabella was aware of a pang of regret.
“Tell me about your friend Harry Higgs,” St. Just said.
“Harry?” she said, relieved to have a subject to converse about. “He and Polly were my greatest friends in Whitechapel. They taught me how to—” She bit her lip and glanced at him. “How to steal. And I taught them to read and write.”
“Polly?” St. Just looked sharply at her. “You mean . . . Miss Highsmith?”
“She’s Harry’s sister.”
“His sister?” He glanced behind them, to where Polly maintained her distance. “But her name—”
“She changed her surname.” Polly had wanted to leave her past behind. The Polly Higgs who’d sold her body on the streets of Whitechapel was someone entirely different from Miss Polly Highsmith, lady’s maid.
St. Just accepted this with a nod. “How did she come to be your maid?”
“The school began with Polly.”
“It did?”
Arabella nodded. How much should she tell him? “During my first Season, one day I went to Whitechapel without anyone knowing, to see if I could find Harry and Polly. It was . . .” It had been shocking—and it had put her own miseries into perspective. “It was a good thing I did. Harry had broken his arm. He couldn’t work, and Polly was trying to earn money by—” She bit her lip, and then hurried on: “I gave them everything I had, and Polly was able to . . . to stop. And we decided that the best thing would be a school where girls could learn how to work as servants, instead of . . . prostitutes.”
“A most admirable plan.”
“Yes. At first it was just Polly, and then Tess.” She glanced at him. “Harry’s wife.” Who’d been a prostitute alongside Polly. “I’m hoping they can move out to Swanley, Harry and Tess, before the baby’s born. Whitechapel is no place for an infant.”
“No.” St. Just walked in silence for several paces. “Harry taught you to steal? Was it necessary that you . . . er, do that?”
Arabella nodded. “In the beginning . . . it meant that Mother didn’t have to take so many clients. And at the end, when she was ill, we had no other income.” Her thieving had paid for their food, for the tiny room in the rookery—and it had paid for the stagecoach and that final journey to Kent—where her mother had died and been buried alongside her husband—and her own onward journey to Somerset and her grandparents.
Adam St. Just said nothing. She glanced at him and read censure in his frown. “Mother didn’t know I was doing it. She would never have allowed me! I told her . . .” She flushed. “I told her I’d earned the money, begging. I’m a good liar.”
“I know,” St. Just said. His expression became wry. “The nanny goat.”
They walked in silence for several minutes, their feet crunching on the gravel. “Does the school have a name?” St. Just asked, as they neared a junction in the paths.
“Not yet. But once I have my inheritance and can formalize everything, it will.”
“What will you call it?”
“The Thérèse de Martigny School for Girls,” Arabella said. “After my mother.”
“She would be very proud of you,” St. Just said quietly.
&
nbsp; Sudden tears rushed to Arabella’s eyes. She blinked them away. “I hope so.”
They reached the junction. St. Just stopped. “I should return you to the museum.”
“Yes.”
They stood for a moment, looking at each other. Arabella took hold of her courage. “Mr. St. Just, do you . . . do you truly wish to marry me?”
“Yes, Miss Knightley. I truly do.”
“I’m very sorry,” she said.
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “So am I.”
* * *
THAT EVENING, ADAM attended the Elphinstones’ ball with his sister and aunt. He was in no mood to dance. He stood out the first dance, a drink in his hand, searching the ballroom for Arabella Knightley.
She was the daughter of a whore. Common wisdom painted her as impure, little better than a lightskirt herself, when instead, the opposite was true. She was afraid of sex—
“Darling,” a familiar voice said.
He turned his head. Lady Mary Vane stood beside him, smiling her sleepy smile. “I have that letter you wanted. I’ll send it around tomorrow.”
For a moment Adam had no idea what she was talking about—then he remembered. The letter from Grace’s blackmailer, Lady Bicknell. “Thank you. I’m more grateful than you can imagine.”
“For you, darling, anything.”
“Mary, if anyone should ask . . . you never received the letter.”
Her eyebrows arched slightly. “If that’s what you want?”
“It is.”
Mary nodded. She moved on, leisurely, beautiful.
Adam sipped his champagne. He scanned the ballroom for Lady Bicknell. Once he’d finished with her she wouldn’t be blackmailing anyone else.
He saw dowagers with turbans on their crimped gray curls, stout matrons wearing caps of white satin from which ostrich feathers sprouted, dashing young ladies with diamond tiaras atop their heads, débutantes with jeweled combs in their hair—
A face snagged his gaze; dark curls, dark eyes, high cheekbones, and a softly indented chin.
“Lovely, isn’t she?” a smooth voice said in his ear.
Adam grunted, and swallowed another mouthful of champagne.
“Do I hear the sound of wedding bells?” Jeremy asked sweetly.
No. His hand clenched around the glass. “Were you present when Crowe was ruined?”
“Crowe?” Jeremy blinked. “Lord, yes. Never forget a scene like that!”
Adam grimaced, and drank another mouthful of champagne. It tasted bitter in his mouth. He’d turned away from Crowe, as had every man in the room, while Crowe had blustered his innocence. I should have killed him. Or better yet, castrated the man and then killed him.
“Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” Adam said.
He returned his attention to Arabella Knightley. She was afraid of sex—the kind of sex her mother had been forced to endure, not the kind of sex he hoped to share with her. If he could only make her understand the difference—
An idea bloomed in his head. It was shocking, scandalous, perfect.
Dare I? Adam asked himself, as he sipped the champagne.
Given the alternative, he most definitely did.
“D’ you like my waistcoat? Matches my eyes, don’t you think?”
Adam glanced at him. “You are a fribble and a coxcomb!” he said, severely.
Jeremy looked gratified. “One does one’s poor best.”
Adam couldn’t help it; he laughed.
* * *
HE MADE HIS way around the ballroom to where Arabella Knightley stood. She watched him come, her eyes wary.
“Are you engaged for the waltz?” Adam asked, bowing.
“No, but—”
“Then shall we sit it out together?”
She hesitated a moment. “If you wish.”
Adam offered her his arm. “What do you think of Revelstoke’s waistcoat?” he asked as he led her towards an unoccupied sofa. It was tucked into an alcove, quiet and out-of-the-way.
“Very pretty,” she said. “But Revelstoke is always pretty.”
They sat. Miss Knightley smoothed her gown over her lap in a nervous gesture. She was wearing ivory-white satin stitched with pearls.
Adam glanced at her throat. “You’re not wearing the locket.”
She raised gloved fingertips to touch the strand of pearls. “No.”
A pity. It would have helped his purpose. Adam cleared his throat. “Miss Knightley, your parents had a love match.”
She eyed him warily. “Yes.”
“Would you say that they were happy together?”
“I have no memory of it, but my mother always said they were very happy.”
“Miss Knightley . . . do you think they would have wished you to marry?”
She stiffened. “That is none of your business.”
“I think they would have wished it,” Adam said quietly. “I think they would have wanted you to have a marriage like theirs: happy.”
Her mouth tightened. She looked away from him.
On the dance floor, couples made their bows to each other. The strains of the waltz rose, mingling with the perfume and the candlelight.
Adam lowered his voice. “Miss Knightley, I know your mother found herself in distressing circumstances, that she was forced to do things that were extremely distasteful, but I believe—I know—that when she was with your father she enjoyed the . . . er, the marital act.”
Her head lifted. Her glare was fierce. “You are presumptuous, Mr. St. Just. No one can know that. Least of all you! You never met them.”
“I do know it,” Adam said quietly. “One merely has to look at the portrait your father painted of her. He adored your mother. And when a man adores his wife, Miss Knightley, he takes great care that she enjoys the physical side of marriage.”
She looked at him stonily.
“I know that you’re disgusted by the thought of physical congress with a man—and quite rightly so, given your experiences. But I believe your mother would have wanted you to marry. I believe she would have wanted you to find pleasure in sharing your husband’s bed.”
He saw her shudder, and hurried on: “The act of congress can be many things for a woman. For some, it’s a duty; for others, a pleasure; for still others . . . it’s something terrible.” He held her gaze. “You must believe, Miss Knightley, that I’d ensure you found only pleasure.”
She flushed and looked away from him. “This is an extremely improper conversation, Mr. St. Just.”
“Yes,” Adam said. “Isn’t it?” And it is about to get even more improper. He took a deep breath. “What I propose, Miss Knightley, is that you . . . er, try me out.”
Her head jerked around. The dark eyes were wide with shock. “That I what?”
“You’re afraid of something, disgusted by it—without having any personal experience of it. Let me show you how it should be between a husband and his wife.”
Arabella Knightley shrank back on the sofa. The flush was gone from her cheeks; she was quite pale. She shook her head.
Adam tried to let no hint of desperation enter his voice. “You are correct, of course,” he said, smiling affably. “It is a shockingly improper suggestion. But consider this, Miss Knightley: no one but you and I would ever know. In the eyes of the world your virtue would be intact. And I give you my word of honor you wouldn’t be with child.”
She swallowed. “It’s quite impossible, Mr. St. Just. I couldn’t—”
“You are the most courageous person of my acquaintance,” Adam said softly. “If any woman dares do this, it is you.”
She swallowed again and looked away from him.
“Answer me truly, Miss Knightley: would your mother have wished you to marry?”
Arabella Knightley closed her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. Her hands were clenched around her ivory fan.
“Then, please . . . accept my offer.” Adam lowered his voice until it matched hers, a whisper: “Try it. Try me.”
She sat for a long time with the fan clenched in her hands. Adam watched her, scarcely daring to hope, scarcely daring to breathe. He listened to the waltz, to the soft rustle of fabric, the low hum of voices, the shuffle of feet dancing across the polished floorboards.
At last Arabella Knightley raised her head and looked at him. He saw how afraid she was. She moistened her lips. “Very well.”
His relief was so intense that he felt almost dizzy. Adam took a deep breath and smiled at her.
She didn’t return the smile; instead she seemed to shrink into herself. “How shall we arrange it?” she asked, her voice as pale and colorless as her face.
Adam wanted to lay his hand comfortingly on her arm, but thought it would scare rather than reassure her. “I’ll go down to my estate for a week—on business, you understand. Grace shall accompany me; and as company for her, you’ll be invited.”
“A week?” She looked appalled.
“I’d visit you only twice,” Adam hastened to assure her. “The first time may hurt slightly, but the second . . . should only be pleasurable.”
Arabella Knightley didn’t look reassured; she looked ill.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ARABELLA TRAVELED DOWN to Roseneath Priory four days later, with Grace and her aunt, Mrs. Seraphina Mexted—and Lady Westwick.
Her grandmother had unexpectedly refused to allow her to go alone. “I mistrust Adam St. Just,” she had declared. “And after what he said seven years ago, I wonder that you should care to visit his home!”
In a second carriage, behind them, were their four maids. St. Just had gone down a day ahead, under the guise of attending to business.
Arabella sat and stared out the window, her hands clenched inside the swansdown muff. Memories churned in her mind: the ugly, animal sounds of sex, the rank smell of unwashed male, her mother gulping gin, her mother weeping.
There were nicer memories, too, twisted into the mess: her mother singing, her voice sweet and true, her mother teaching her the steps of the minuet and laughing, her mother’s voice: ma chère, ma joie.
Her spirits should have lightened as they left London and the ton behind; instead, with each mile they traveled, dread grew inside her until she wanted to vomit from it.