DISCOVERIES
“Och, lass! Where have you been? We were going wild with worry!”
Arabella glared at Mrs. Merrick, the cook. She was exhausted. She was cold. She had been riding all day in the wet and she was shivering. She was starved. The last thing she needed right then was a barrage of questions.
“I was pursued,” Arabella said tightly. “Now, if you can draw some hot water? I need a bath or I shall die of a chill.”
She headed toward the door and saw the woman's eyes widen with surprise as she pushed past, uncharacteristically unfriendly. The last thing she needed was rebuke.
I am an outcast from my own family. I cannot trust my father. Now I'm also ruined.
The thought had struck her like a blow as she entered the stone-carved gateway of the manor. She had spent the whole night away from home, unchaperoned, in the company of a lone soldier. The fact was they had slept on either side of a stone wall. However, who would know that? Who would believe it? And the fact was, she thought flushing, I did not necessarily want the wall between us.
She went red as she went up the wooden staircase, reaching her bedchamber and opening the heavy wooden door. She sat down on the bed, then winced and stood again as the ruined velvet left a wet patch on the covers.
Stripping it off, she sat down on a wooden, carved chair by the fire and curled up, shivering.
She was utterly ruined.
She wished she had someone to talk to.
“Ari?” a voice called through the door. She went stiff. Douglas.
“Douglas, I'm not decent. Wait a moment,” she called. She reached for a brocaded night robe, wrapping it around herself. “Very well,” she called, standing by the fireplace, trying not to wince with cold as the door opened a fraction, letting a draft through into the room to shift the flames. “Come in.”
“Ari!” Douglas said. His handsome face was drawn and pained. “Whatever happened? When we couldn't find you among the living, we sought you among the dead and...” he trailed off. “Thank Heavens you're alive!”
“I wonder if Father gives thanks,” Arabella snapped, unable to hold back her intense anger. “I would think that, since he seems to delight in conflict and chaos, an extra death would merely add some spice to the event.”
“Ari!” Douglas stared at her, aghast. “You don't think...” he trailed off. Behind them, her maid came in bearing a bucket of hot water, which she poured into the small wooden bath tub.
“Don't think what?” Arabella asked wearily. “And do make haste, Douglas. I want to bathe.”
“Oh,” Douglas looked wildly round at the bath, seeming distressed. He licked dry lips. “You...” he paused. “You think Father did that?”
“Yes!” she almost laughed. “Douglas, what am I supposed to think? A noted Jacobite invites English officers, Hanoverian supporters, to his hall, and then they are all slaughtered. And you want me to believe it wasn't him? I'm no child, Douglas. You can't fool me anymore.”
She said it bitterly, reaching for her nightgown as she did, studiously not looking at Douglas as she made ready to take a bath.
“He didn't.”
He spoke very quietly. Arabella whipped round, sodden wet hair flagging heavily behind her as she turned.
“What?” she asked, horrified.
“I said, he didn't,” Douglas said quietly. “It wasn't him.”
Arabella stared. That made no sense. She blinked at him like he'd turned blue. “Who, then?” she asked, frowning. Dash this headache! Why was her poor head so sore?
“It was Lord Arnott” he said. “Not Father. He tried to stop him, but, well...” he shrugged. “What could he do?”
“Murdoch Arnott did that?” she stared at him. Lord Arnott, Earl of Doncaster. He was an ally of their father, a Jacobite bordering on fanaticism. He had always scared Arabella. Francine had long said their father should distance himself, but he never listened to anyone.
“Yes,” Douglas nodded. “Seeing as he's Father's ally, when he gave the order, what could he do?” His face was stiff with sorrow.
“He could have stopped him!” Arabella said, voice intense with feeling. “What was he thinking?”
It was the worst thing their father could possibly have done for the cause, Arabella thought, disbelieving. Not only would he risk bringing retribution on their heads, but he would draw British ire here before they were ready to face it. It was completely wrong.
And what can I do? I will never see Richard again .
She sighed. “Douglas, I want to bathe,” she said tiredly.
“Sorry,” Douglas said, flushing slightly. “I'll go. I'll be in the solar, if you can talk after?”
Arabella nodded. “Mayhap,” she said.
As soon as he had gone, she undressed and sank into the boiling water, the tension draining out of her as she floated there in the warmth. What was she going to do?
“I should go and find Cook and see if she can give me something to stave off a chill,” she thought sensibly. “Then, I need to find out where we stand.”
She was too tired to leave the bath immediately, though, and stayed where she was, floating in the warm water, letting the heat sink into her bones.
The larger problem facing her – the one of her own situation and her own disgrace, or lack thereof – she didn't consider. Right now, it wasn't worth considering.
I can do nothing about it.
All she could do was to hope that nobody besides her immediate family was aware she'd gone missing. Failing that, she would have to invent a tale.
Even if I tell them I was abducted against my will, I am still ruined.
She pulled a face. It was unfair beyond measure, but nonetheless true. A woman would always be ruined, whether by her own choice or not, she was seen to cross beyond the boundaries.
“Fie to all of this,” she spat. The anger did little to overcome the cold lump of fear that had settled inside her however. She sighed and got out of the bath, reaching for the towel her maid had left for her.
She selected a white dress of velvet, with a long, narrow bodice and wide skirt, the underskirt pale green, almost yellow. Then she headed up to the solar.
“Francine?”
Her sister looked up from her sewing, her face pale and drawn. She wore white as well, only with an underskirt of blue.
“Sister!”
Her sister ran to her and embraced her and Arabella felt her heart melt somewhat. At least someone seemed to have been genuinely worried about her! They stared at each other and Arabella felt her heart melt a little.
“Sister! I'm so glad you're safe,” she murmured into the fragrant hair that brushed her cheek as they embraced. “I thought you were, but so much better to know for sure...” she trailed off, hugging her fiercely to her.
“I was in the gallery when the fighting broke out.” Francine looked into her eyes, her own blue ones wide with remembered horror. “I tried to get down to you, but Henry and the other guards blocked my way. It was terrible...” she shook her head.
“How many are dead?”
“Twenty of our own,” Francine said in a small voice. “All the officers, save two.”
“All the officers?” Arabella stared. This was far worse than she'd thought. “And Father? What did he say?”
What will he do?
Francine shook her head sorrowfully. “Father is worried, I think. He knew it for a foolish act, one bound to bring down retribution on our heads. However, what could he do? The man's our ally.”
“The man's a fanatic,” Arabella said, sinking wearily onto the cushioned bench. Her own embroidery lay in a small pile on the edge of it, but she had no stomach for it now. She stared across into the shadows by the long table, thinking.
As she thought, the first thing that came to her was Richard's face. Where was he? Was he well? What was he doing now?
She sighed. What business of hers was his life? Whatever he was doing, she would never know. It was better that way – better that she lost him now before she really knew him.
All the same, I cannot help but worry over him.
Was he safe and well? Had he lost comrades here, and had he learned of it? Would that man leave him be?
She shivered, recalling Rowell, and drew her shawl about her shoulders, feeling unsafe.
“Is aught amiss, sister?” Francine asked solicitously. “You are not taking a chill?”
“No,” Arabella said softly. “At least, I really ought to ask Cook for some of her special tisane, if I am to be sure not to get one.”
“Yes!” Francine nodded, eyes round. “Come on. Let's go down at once. And mayhap while we're there, we'll think of something we can do should...difficulties arise.”
“Yes,” Arabella nodded. She knew her sister meant retributions against the family and the clan, but in her heart she had her own private worries. What would she tell her father, when he asked about her whereabouts that night?
He will ask.
Sure enough, after they returned from the kitchen, Henry, the head guard, appeared in the stair.
“Milady?” He bowed to Arabella though he looked, if anything, slightly nervous. She frowned.
“Yes?” she asked, heart already thumping against the tight bodice of her gown. “Is aught amiss?”
“Your father the earl sent fer ye, milady. In the turret, if ye can go at the soonest moment?”
“Yes,” Arabella nodded. “I'll go now.”
She glanced at Francine, whose slender, pale face seemed worried. “I'll be in the solar,” Francine said softly.
Arabella smiled fondly at her sister. “Thank you,” she said.
She headed off upstairs.
“Daughter?” her father called when she reached the threshold. A tall man, he was hunched over his desk, hair dark red in places where it was not white, the wan candlelight making his face more gaunt than it usually was.
“Yes, Father. It's me.”
“Your absence was noted, Daughter,” he said, shifting to face her in the chair. She was shocked by how old he looked, how wintry his dark eyes had become. “It won't do.”
“My absence was not of my choice, Father,” Arabella said softly. As hurt as she felt by the comment, she did her best not to react to it.
“It doesnae matter,” her father said harshly. “It has the same outcome. And it means I'll not find a fellow among my allies to wed you if we don't move fast and think quickly.”
“Father!” Arabella stared at him, outrage mixed with horror and a kind of awful inquisitiveness. “What do...who do you mean?”
He shrugged aridly. “How about Bruce Grayling? He's been on the list of suitable allies long enough. The fellow's soft on you, what's more. He'd overlook anything he needed to.”
“Father!” Arabella felt her blood drain from her head. She thought she might faint, clutching at the chair for stability. “You...you don't mean that, do you?” Bruce Grayling was the son of one of the most fanatical, most unprincipled Jacobite leaders. The man was known for his cruelty and she had no reason to believe Bruce would not exceed him, or at least not seek to emulate his way.
He chuckled grimly. “Of course I do. In fact, I took the precaution of getting word sent to Grayling manor already. He should be here the day after tomorrow for a hand-fasting. If you and your maid could do something to make ready for ‘t, it'd be suitable.”
Arabella stepped back, heading out of the room.
“Daughter?”
“Father,” she said, her voice tight. “I have no intention of marrying – Bruce Grayling or otherwise – to further schemes I cannot approve. You know you went too far with this. Now you seek to remedy it, and my...situation. But I tell you, I will not take this remedy. I would rather enter a convent and die a maid than have myself shackled to someone so unprincipled.”
“Daughter!” her father didn't raise his voice – not ever. Yet there was a dangerous catch in it as, swifter than she would have thought possible, he stood and walked toward the doorway. However, she was already gone. Her booted feet quick and echoing in the hallway, Arabella half-ran back the way she'd come.
She heard someone shout her name as she headed upstairs to the gallery and thence to her bedchamber. She didn't heed a word of it. She opened the door, went in and slammed it shut. Curled up on her bed.
“I can't do this,” she said to the silence.
Richard, her heart cried as she curled into a ball, her face wet with silent tears. Come and help me!
She sniffed. Reached into her sleeve for where she'd tucked a linen square and dabbed her nose and cheeks, wiping away tears.
“Foolish thought,” she scolded herself harshly. “Why would he help you?”
Sniffing fiercely, she sat and leaned back against the wall, looking around the room, unseeing. She was trying to think of a plan.
Run away, her mind told her. Run to Brookfield abbey and take your vows. Then no one can harm you more.
As appealing as the refuge seemed, Arabella had no desire to take holy orders. She wanted a life beyond the walls of seclusion. A life where she could see Francine and Douglas often and one where she was free to find love, and have a family of her own.
I should not lose that, simply for one man's obstinacy.
She sniffed. She wasn't going to let her father do this to her. One way or another, she was going to fight.