by Regina Scott
The rush of air caused by her mother’s swift entrance into the stifling drawing room startled Arabelle.
“Gentlemen, forgive me,” Mama said. “Nothing to worry about. I’ve been neglectful of this holiday season and have determined to do something about it. Don’t you look lovely, Arabelle?” Arabelle stood to greet her and took her outstretched hands. “I’m sure you’ve been a splendid hostess in my absence. Ah, here is Clark. I trust you gentlemen have been getting to know each other. What wonderful company. Shall we go to the dining room?”
* * *
Isaac sipped his port, observing Mr. Forbes, who perused the art on the dining room walls. After his own brilliant display in the drawing room, Isaac attempted to make amends to both Arabelle and Forbes by being the most sparkling dinner guest he was capable of being.
Which meant he smiled, took part in conversation when appropriate, and complimented Mrs. Hyatt on the meal, all while maneuvering around his plate with one hand. He’d become fairly deft at cutting meat as long as his knife was sharp and the weight of all eyes weren’t upon him.
Gratefully, the subject of his service hadn’t come up again.
He’d also struggled to keep his gaze off Abby. Arabelle. Miss Hyatt. Her form in that vivid red gown left no mistaking that she was indeed a woman. And her eyes, how pale blue they’d become when he’d cut Forbes down. He’d wanted to go to her and tell her something silly so they’d warm in his direction again.
He rolled his eyes and glanced toward the windows, thoughtful of the assignment George had given him. He leaned back in his chair and absently rubbed his knee. “Tell me, Forbes . . .”
“Yes, Major?” Forbes turned from the still life he’d been examining closely and dusted off his fingers.
“What are your intentions toward Miss Hyatt?”
“Ah.” He wagged a finger at Isaac, picking up his port. “The older brother’s best friend feels obligated to take his place in these matters. I thought I saw this coming.”
“Did you?”
“What else could your arrival mean?”
“Hm. What else, indeed?”
Forbes took to pacing. More of a strut in front of the fireplace. “I assure you my intentions are genuine. I’ll ask for Miss Hyatt’s hand on Christmas Eve Day. It will be the best gift I could offer both her and Mrs. Hyatt, you see. A rescue from their sad predicament.”
“And Eleanor, of course.”
Forbes paused. “What was that?”
“Eleanor. George’s child? She is part of this rescue as well?” Eleanor had been brought in during the dessert course dressed in finery and been allowed to take a sweet back up to the nursery with her. Forbes had barely acknowledged the girl over his pudding.
“Ah, yes, of course. Poor child. She’ll have the best nanny Forbes money can buy. Miss Hyatt is far too attached to her. What can one expect, though, under such circumstances? However, to be not only an orphan, but an overly coddled orphan . . . I fear that in Miss Hyatt’s inexpert care, the child would continue to go wild.”
So, he thought, Eleanor was to be “the orphan.”
Beneath Isaac’s calm, an inexplicable rage grew. “Would not your own children be in Miss Hyatt’s inexpert care?”
The man chuckled. “Certainly not. She is practically a child herself.” He faced Isaac, his hands clasped behind his back. “I see what you’re doing. A test of sorts, eh? How shall I convince you next? Though I speak of Miss Hyatt’s lack of experience, I assure you she has captured my heart. I had no idea what I might find in her when I came to examine Hybrigge and consider my options—”
“And their options. It is still within your power to bestow Hybrigge House into their care without connecting yourself to Miss Hyatt. You would own the property; they would live here and manage it. The income would be yours.”
“Oh, I don’t intend for anyone under my guardianship to live here or manage it.”
Isaac frowned. “I don’t understand you, sir.”
“The estate isn’t profitable enough to keep. I intend to sell it.”
“What was that about buying property to attain one’s loyalties?”
“Well,” Forbes huffed, “it depends on the property.”
“This estate means the world to Miss Hyatt. If she knew you were selling it, she would see you in a very different light.”
The man leaned forward. “Then I know I can trust you to keep that to yourself until after the banns are read. When Miss Hyatt realizes what luxury I am offering her in exchange for this estate, she’ll come to see me in a very different light, indeed.” He rolled back on his heels and grinned.
“The hero,” Isaac murmured.
Forbes pointed conspiratorially, then finished his port.
* * *
The men entered the drawing room to rejoin the women, and Isaac halted.
“Well, this is splendid,” Forbes exclaimed, striding into the room aglow with candles.
“I know it’s not Christmas Eve yet, but I could not help myself,” Mrs. Hyatt said in return. “We missed Christmas last year, and I felt like putting things up a few days early. It’s only the drawing room.”
“It’s wonderful, Mama,” Arabelle said. “George would be pleased.”
Garlands of ivy and rosemary draped the mantel and hung above the windows. At least two dozen cut-glass candlesticks graced every flat surface available, holding tall pillars lit for the evening. The pungent scent of rosemary and candle wax filled the room. And in its center stood Arabelle, with Forbes bowing over her hand.
Isaac frowned and limped into the room, taking a seat near the fire. His knee ached and the heat would do it—and perhaps his agitated state of mind—some good.
“Do you like it, Mr. Linfield?” Arabelle asked, walking to him on Forbes’s arm.
He nodded at the fire. “I do. It reminds me of those Christmases I spent here as a boy. Not the parties and the dances, but the quiet evenings in between. We’d play chess or commerce.”
“Or sometimes spillikins.”
He glanced up at her and smiled. “Yes.” His conversation with Forbes had exhausted him, and he hoped it didn’t show. He struggled to imagine Arabelle and Mrs. Hyatt anywhere but Hybrigge House for Christmas. But perhaps it would be good to be somewhere less saturated with memories.
Arabelle took the seat across from him, the candle and firelight illuminating her skin and hair. “Shall we play something now? For old time’s sake?”
He shook off his melancholy as best he could. “What would you have us play?” He pursed his lips. “We can hardly climb trees and pretend at pirates.”
Mrs. Hyatt gasped, but Arabelle’s grin encouraged him, and he leaned toward her. “Or shall we play Bow Street Runners and track the cat across the vale?”
Arabelle laughed, a fresh, genuine sound, and he paid Mr. Forbes’s huff no mind, watching her eyes dance.
“Shall you give away all our secrets, Mr. Linfield?” she asked.
“Indeed not. I’ve no wish to betray your brother and my friend. He’s resting well knowing his mother never knew who let the chickens into the ballroom for races.”
Arabelle’s eyes grew wide. “The chickens,” she exclaimed.
“Oh my,” Mrs. Hyatt said, “the chickens.” And then a giggle burst from her as well. “We thought a door was left open.”
“Oh, a door was left open, ma’am. During our speedy escape when we heard Mr. Hyatt coming.” He smiled at the memory. “I’m certain no three children moved faster.”
“I suppose,” Forbes said, “that small children, left to their own devices, can get into all sorts of mischief.”
“Small children, yes. But George and I were sixteen, and Arabelle had just turned eleven.”
“No doubt she was led by your poor examples.”
Isaac turned his gaze to Arabelle, who had drawn her mouth closed in a pretty bow. He lifted a brow.
“Actually, Mr. Forbes,” she said, a blush in her cheeks. “The chicken races wer
e my idea. I’d believed they were as bored as we were on that rainy day. We each chose the chicken we thought the fastest, and, well . . .”
“And, uh, whose chicken won?” Forbes asked.
Arabelle sighed. “We never found out.”
“We did, however, learn who the fastest of the three of us was.” Isaac grinned at Arabelle, who fought to cover her pride with propriety.
He’d had his game.
He turned back to Forbes. “Do you have a favorite entertainment, sir?”
“Love the hunt. But I think you mean the indoor variety. Occasional games of cards or dice, I suppose. I am known to be an asset to my whist partner.”
“Is that so?”
Arabelle stepped in then, utterly composed. “Shall we play whist, then, Mr. Forbes? I find a clever partner most stimulating. Mama, shall you partner with Mr. Linfield?”
Mrs. Hyatt nodded as Forbes bowed curtly.
Isaac took Mrs. Hyatt’s arm and led her to the whist table.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, “for bringing laughter to my son’s memory.”
“And thank you, ma’am, for leaving us to our own devices enough that such laughter is part of his memory.”
A look of worry passed over her expression. She pulled him back a moment.
“Have I upset you, ma’am?” he asked.
She shook her head, and her gaze went to Arabelle on Forbes’s arm. “Do you think,” she asked, her voice barely a whisper, “that I gave Arabelle too much freedom as a child? After her father passed away, I—”
“Ma’am.”
She turned round eyes on him.
“Arabelle has grown into an exceptional woman, and any man worth his salt will see that.”
She squeezed his arm and nodded. “Thank you.”
“Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hyatt.”
“I think it might be.”
He led her to the table, and they took their seats.
“I warn you, Linfield,” Forbes said, “I give no exception to my opponents, even war heroes.”
Isaac steadied his breath and nodded. “I expect no less from my challengers.” Then he took it upon himself to beat Forbes soundly at whist for the remainder of the evening.
Chapter Four
Arabelle found Isaac in the hall, pulling on a glove with his teeth, then adjusting it slightly with the hooked hand he’d worn when he’d first arrived. All the curiosity she had about him rose again—not only the circumstances of his injuries, but how it would be to go through the dailies of life with not only one leg, but one hand. She’d found herself making the attempt to undress, tie a boot, or open a letter with only one limb.
She lifted her gaze quickly as he turned her direction.
“Abb—Miss Hyatt. Forgive me. Good morning to you.” He placed his hooked hand behind his back.
She smiled at the slip of her name, grateful she was not the only one dancing along the lines of their childhood familiarity. “I’m not sure I can forgive you for the thrashing you and Mama gave us last night.” She grinned, and he returned it. “I didn’t see you at breakfast.”
“No,” he said. “I rose early. I’m taking my horse out for a run before this weather turns.”
“It is a beautiful morning. Have you named him yet?”
“I haven’t.”
She shook her head. “He shall begin to wonder his purpose, sir.”
“Perhaps you can help me.”
A thrill leaped inside her. “Well, that would require some time with him. I can’t just spout off names like I’m dealing whist.”
“Walk with me to the stables, then.”
“I’ll do one better and take Snowbird for a ride.” She stopped, remembering herself. “But that was forward and thoughtless. You mean to make the most of your time. I’d have to change into my riding habit and convince someone to chaperone.”
“Things were much simpler when we were younger, were they not?”
Her face flushed. There he stood with one leg and a hook while she complained of having to change clothes.
“Was it very hard to learn how to ride again?” she asked before she could think not to.
His brow arched. “Yes. Quite.”
“Did it hurt terribly?”
His eyes seemed to intensify and dim at the same time. “Yes. Fear was also a factor.”
“But you learned.”
He hinted at a smile. “I learned.”
She nodded and clasped her hands together, wondering at his bravery.
“Why don’t you change,” he asked, “and I’ll talk to your mother about a chaperone?”
“Really? What of the weather?”
“Maybe it will inspire a name for my horse. Downpour. Or Drizzle.”
“Those are awful.”
“Which is why I need your help.” He smiled, and she found herself rushing upstairs to change out of her morning dress.
Atop Snowbird, Arabelle allowed her gaze a sort of routine: follow the thin, high clouds toward any break of blue sky, drop to the horizon at the west end of the valley, then over to Isaac’s horse in contemplation of a name, and then to Isaac, if she could do so surreptitiously. If she was caught, she would offer one of several names she had in mind. If she wasn’t caught, she would study him, searching for glimpses of the boy she knew so many years ago.
“On to tree names?” she asked when his gaze met hers. “He is a lovely deep brown, but I suppose Walnut is out of the question. Perhaps Chestnut? He is not red enough for Mahogany.”
“Walnut is out of the question. Everyone names their horse Chestnut. And Mahogany is a bit of a mouthful, don’t you think?”
“Something simpler, then. He seems steady and is very strong. What about Oak?”
“Hm. He’s certainly the coloring for it.”
She watched him consider. He sat handsomely in his beaver hat and high-collared coat. His sandy hair had always been neither blond nor brown, but the color of the pebbles along the river’s wider places. While George had always been more particular about his hair, Isaac had not, and it still worked for him.
“What are you thinking of, Miss Hyatt?”
She blinked. “Oh. Um. I was thinking of your hair.”
He pulled his horse to a stop. “My—hair?”
She stopped as well. With a quick glance back at Edith, whom she’d persuaded to bundle up and act as chaperone for their ride, and who was keeping a good distance behind them, Arabelle mustered the words to finish her thought. “I remember your mother often wondering aloud how you’d managed to escape the hairbrush again. The mussed look is quite in style.” She smiled. “Who would have known that your disdain for a hairbrush would make you the height of fashion?”
The corner of his mouth lifted, and he dropped his gaze to his horse. “And to think I took extra care with my coiffure this morning.” He threw her a good-natured glare.
She laughed. “It is good to have you home, Mr. Linfield. It is healing, in a way.”
He urged his horse forward, and she followed the motion.
“Your mother said something similar last night. I admit I didn’t know what my presence would bring here.”
“We have many happy memories with you and George. I can scarcely think of an unhappy one—oof, maybe dance lessons.”
He chuckled. “Dance lessons. Yes, not our favorite way to pass time. Though . . .” he paused as they ducked beneath some low-hanging boughs.
She waited for him to finish as they righted themselves, but he didn’t. “Though what?” she asked.
“Though . . . had I known how few years I’d have to dance, I would have welcomed every quadrille.”
Arabelle’s heart tightened for him as she chastened herself for bringing up dancing. “That was thoughtless of me. I—”
“Don’t, Miss Hyatt. Don’t apologize for remembering better times with me. As you said, it has been good to be here. Healing, in a way.”
His smile eased her chagrin. “I’m glad to hear it.”
She sensed Isaac remembering similar images, ghosts of children barely recognizable as themselves.
“You were in his last thoughts, you know,” she said. “You were like a brother to him.”
“I felt the same.”
“He expressed his worry—we’d not heard from you in so long. He hoped that you were healthy and alive.”
“An excellent combination.”
“To be sure.”
He frowned at the water. “I fell short by half.”
She frowned as well. “By half? Are you unwell, Mr. Linfield?”
“Surely you jest.”
“Indeed not. The term unwell denotes physical or mental illness. You show signs of neither.”
“The term healthy denotes a state of being whole. A term you can’t possibly use in reference to me.”
She turned to him. “If I were to lose my arm tomorrow, would you think me unwhole?”
He looked away. “No.”
“And neither do I.”
He met her gaze directly, his expression stern. “But you would believe it of yourself, Miss Hyatt. You would be reminded of it, haunted by your dreams, waking to reach for something only to come up empty-handed with a hand that no longer exists.” His voice deepened as if pained. “You’d battle constantly between a desire for who you were and who you must now become. Wondering who would consider going down that path with you when all others have fled.”
Arabelle steadied herself, taken aback by the emotion their conversation had stirred. “Forgive me,” she said, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I cannot pretend to understand.”
“No. You cannot. Pretending is for the past.” He turned his horse as if to ride on.