Chapter One

 

Mr. Forbes sat across from Arabelle in the drawing room of Hybrigge House, studying the paintings above the fireplace, running his hand along the carved arm of the settee, and patting the upholstery as if assessing the value of a racehorse he wasn’t quite impressed with. He’d been here two hours already, and Arabelle wondered if she should ask him to dine with them. Out of hospitality, not desire.

He set his tea down and crossed his long legs. A grin stretched across his handsome face. “I was surprised to find you indoors today, Miss Hyatt.”

“I assure you, I had every intention to be out of doors.” Her mother coughed. “But when I learned you were coming I canceled my morning walk to the river. All that dreadful fresh air and dirt and rush of water. What is that compared to your company, Mr. Forbes?”

“Knowing how you feel about nature, I will take that as a compliment, though I’ve never compared myself to the ‘rush of water.’ Or dirt.”

Arabelle stifled a laugh. “Do you not like the out of doors?”

“Not in December.”

“I suppose I learned to love the winterscape from my brother. George was always rambling about on some adventure with me in tow.”

Indeed, the chill of December had descended upon their valley. Christmas was coming. She and Mama had put away the black dresses of mourning for George and his wife, Jane, both lost to consumption a year ago. George had just enough time to contact their father’s cousin’s estate, as Hybrigge was entailed to that distant family. Mr. Hewitt Forbes’s family.

And now he was here. Courting Arabelle.

His brow lowered in concern. “I am sorry for your loss, Miss Hyatt.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He immediately brightened. “But what of London in winter? You’ve had a season, correct?”

Arabelle composed her near-gape at the turnabout of subject. “That is correct, sir. Two years ago.”

“Did you enjoy it?” He waited, his dark eyes alight.

“Some of it.”

“Only some?”

“I do not care much for London, sir.”

He narrowed his gaze. “Not enough dirt, I suppose.”

She smiled.

“And no offers?” he asked.

Mama had the decency to answer for her. “My daughter was very young at the time. Barely sixteen. But she was seldom in want of friends or dance partners.”

His gaze darted back to Arabelle, his eyebrows twitching upward. “I have no trouble imagining that, ma’am.”

Arabelle shivered. The truth was, she’d spent much of her time in London with George and Jane. No offers had even been hinted at. Well, except one. And that was hardly real. Yet even now, she felt her cheeks grow warm at the memory of one silly paragraph in one silly letter. It hadn’t even been her letter. It had been sent to George.

“That color becomes you, Miss Hyatt. You should wear it more often.”

Arabelle glanced at her brown wool day dress.

Mama leaned forward. “I believe he means the color in your cheeks, darling.”

Arabelle chided herself for giving Mr. Forbes the impression her blush was for him. She straightened, perturbed. She was meant to accept Mr. Forbes’s suit. She was meant to accept—should he ask—his proposal of marriage. She and Mama had discussed it and agreed. This was the best course. Because it was the only course to keeping Hybrigge House, and their way of life, and providing the best chance for little—

Clark appeared at the doors. “Mum, the babe is awake and asking rather loudly for Miss.”

Arabelle could have kissed Clark. She stood, Mr. Forbes just after. “I’ll be right up.”

Clark nodded and disappeared again.

She turned to Mr. Forbes. “Would you care to accompany us for a walk, Mr. Forbes? I think I’ll be taking one after all.”

He looked outside at the gray morning, his mouth drawn tight. “Hm. Rain threatens.”

“Doesn’t it always?” Arabelle answered cheerfully. “We are in England, you know.”

He chuckled and turned to Mama. “Mrs. Hyatt, your daughter is a delight. Nevertheless, business calls me away.”

Mama stood. “Do call on us again soon.”

“I look forward to it.” He bowed elegantly over Arabelle’s hand and bid farewell.

When she heard the front door shut, she hurried toward the stairs.

“Arabelle.”

She turned. “Yes, Mama?” The drop of her mother’s shoulders pricked Arabelle’s guilt. “I’m sorry, Mama. I was too candid with Mr. Forbes.”

“Too candid? Honesty is not a vice. Using your helpless niece to cut a visit short is beneath you.”

“He was here for two hours. It’s not as if I paid Clark to come in just then. And say what you will about your granddaughter, but that child is not helpless. Have you seen her order Edith about? She’ll have her as a lady’s maid before her third birthday. You and I will be fastening up each other’s gowns.”

At that, Mama smiled. “She is much like George.”

“He was ever the boss.”

Mama’s eyes glistened. They both turned to the sound of a wailing child who clearly wanted more attention than the spare staff could give.

Arabelle moved to go, but Mama caught her hand.

“Promise me you’ll take care with Mr. Forbes. Despite his pomposity, I believe him a good man.”

“He doesn’t show any interest in Eleanor. He talks above her, not to her.”

“As most men would. It will not matter. She will be loved.”

“It would matter to George and Jane.”

After a long pause, Mama sighed. “Arabelle, please. We have no other option.”

She squeezed Mama’s hand. “I promise.” But while Arabelle agreed Mr. Forbes appeared to be a good man, she battled the question of whether Mr. Forbes was a good man for her.

* * *

“I do not understand, Linny.” Arabelle watched her niece bend down and pick up a stick with her mittened hands. “How could anyone not be enamored with you?”

Eleanor dropped the muddy stick in Arabelle’s lap. “Fro.” They sat at a favorite gravelly bar on a calm, shallow stretch of river just before the water turned frothy and wild again.

“Yes, I’ll throw it for you,” Arabelle said. “Watch.” She drew her arm back and gave the stick a launch into the drifting water. “Watch it now, Linny. See it go?”

Eleanor’s eyes danced. “Atch.”

The stick drifted through the slower water, then bounced and spun as it hit the drop-off at the end of the bar and was sucked under where branches and larger drifts of wood gathered in the erratic current.

Eleanor lifted her hands. “Ere go?”

“Where go. Watch.” Arabelle stood and took her niece’s hand, hurrying to the end of the bar. She scanned the water, then pointed. “Look there. See it?” The stick bobbed and bucked its way downstream, reminding Arabelle much of her own life and how little control she had over it.

“Abibelle find?”

“Yes, dear, Abibelle find. Should we throw another?”

Eleanor clapped mutedly with her mittens and took a few running steps.

“No, no, hold my hand this close to the water.”

The little girl giggled and darted away, but Arabelle anticipated the move and grabbed Eleanor’s hand more securely. “I forget. Somebody says stay here and you dash in the opposite direction. Mama says you’re like George. There’s a lot of Abibelle in you too. Poor darling.”

Her gaze wandered to the wooded bank, the twiggy bushes with clinging winterberries not yet picked clean by the birds that stayed, and the high, silver clouds above. She took a deep, clear breath.

Perhaps that was her problem with Mr. Forbes. It was simply that someone was telling her to stay put, and she grappled with that innate sense to run in the opposite direction.

“Really, Arabelle,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “Time to grow up.”

“Time a row up,” came the echo from below. Eleanor blinked up at her.

Arabelle grinned. “Not you, little Linny.” She crouched down and met her blue eyes. “What shall we do next?”

Eleanor bent down and picked up a rock. She placed it in Arabelle’s glove.

“Fro.”

Arabelle gathered the girl into her arms. “I’m giving you an entire basket of sticks and rocks for Christmas. I don’t care what Mama will say.”

* * *

Isaac Linfield stared at the open fields of Hybrigge. The house remained obscured by woods. A rare bit of winter sun beamed down over the small valley sided by gentle hills and split by a river seldom wider than a rod. On one side of the lane, bramble canes mounded down the riverbank. On the other, three large oak trees stood guard, hosting clumps of mistletoe he’d helped gather during Christmases past.

He gazed into the bare branches at the clinging stuff believed to bring luck to all who kissed beneath it and remembered some of those too-brief kisses. He might have smiled, but the memories were bitter now.

He urged his horse forward. He’d made most of the trip by coach, but he would finish on horseback. His valet and trunk would arrive that evening, as planned.

He couldn’t explain the need to arrive at Hybrigge House astride a horse of his own instead of rolling up in a carriage, except that he’d always equated the maneuverability and speed of a horse with freedom and independence, two things he longed to feel right now.

As he sat waxing poetic, he’d absently begun kneading his leg just above his knee. He frowned at the mild throbbing pain setting in since he’d paused. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d pushed himself too hard. Sometimes it was the only thing that made him feel a fraction of his old self.

He crossed the old arched stone bridge, and the house came into view, a sturdy edifice of lime-washed rock with two rows of tall windows—six below and seven above, centered over an arched front entry—flanked by two chimneys. Some might consider Hybrigge small in the way of country estates. But to Isaac it was a friend’s home, and it had come into difficult times.

He passed the front doors, painted the blue he remembered, and rode around the carriage house to the stables. A stableman met him, but Isaac only required a hand down, then he gave the man orders to announce his arrival. Isaac led the horse to one of the stalls where he could brush the animal down and tend to water and feed. He told himself he wasn’t avoiding his duty, merely working up to it. Slowly. With his stomach knotted in nerves.

But before reaching the stall, he stopped altogether. Before him in the dusty afternoon light stood a woman, her forehead pressed to that of a winter-coated white mare, her eyes closed, her lips moving as hushed words left her mouth. Wisps of hair nearly as pale as the horse’s had escaped the knot at the back of her neck, and her bonnet hung loosely by ribbons in her fingers.

Denial that he knew her warred with certain recognition erupting inside him. Without another hint of who she was, one name bloomed in his mind.

“Abby.”

She turned quickly at the hushed sound he’d made, her blue eyes wide with shock.

He shouldn’t have startled her.

She stepped back from the horse, her brows knit together. He froze as if his movement would scare away a rabbit, his heart pounding under her scrutiny, and he realized with a drop of his gut . . . that the fear was all his.

“Who are you?” she asked.

* * *

The stranger opened his mouth to speak again, but he halted. He removed his hat, inviting the light to better illuminate his face. Only a handful of people had ever called her Abby. Coarse, sandy hair brushed his temples, and he squinted as his mind worked.

She swallowed. “Isaac?”

His gaze met hers directly.

“Isaac, is that you?” She stepped toward him, emotions rising up like a wild wind.

He stepped back unsteadily, as if he’d stumbled in a hole, and her gaze went to his foot and what might have caused the misstep. But instead of a tall riding boot beneath his great coat, she found a wooden leg and a short leather boot attached with buckles at each side.

Bringing her gaze up quickly, it caught on something else. The hand that held his horse’s reins was not a hand, but a narrow loop of iron, bent inward to form a hook.

She stared too long, she knew, and when she brought her eyes up, they were wet. “You’ve returned from Spain,” she whispered.

He searched her gaze without emotion, then gave a brief nod.

“You didn’t die.”

“Your mother didn’t receive my letter?” he asked, his voice tight.

She shook her head.

Concern creased the corners of his eyes. “Then you’re not expecting me at all.”

Again, she shook her head, unable to take her eyes off him.

“Forgive me for imposing,” he said.

“You didn’t die,” she repeated.

The statement finally seemed to register with him. “No. I did not.”

Before she could think to stop herself, she launched herself into him, wrapping her arms about his waist. Images flooded her mind of George and Isaac on a sunny bank playing swords with sticks, laughing in tall grass, and swinging her between the two of them. “I think we shall forgive you, then.”

It wasn’t until she realized that Isaac Linfield was not returning her embrace and had—in fact—become as stone that propriety seized her, and she let go with a jolt. She turned to Snowbird and stroked the horse’s nose to hide her mortification.

“Miss Hyatt?” he asked, his tone cautious.

She glanced his way again. “You needn’t worry about arriving before your letter. Mama will rejoice in seeing you. But do you know—I mean to say—did you hear that George, and his wife—”

“Yes. It’s why I’ve come.”

She stared at him. “You know?”

“Yes. I’m very sorry for your loss. I came as soon as I could.”

“It is your loss, too,” she offered.

“Yes,” he replied.

After a moment she blinked, glancing around. “Seth can take your horse.”

“I sent him away to let your mother know I’m here.” He donned his hat and pulled his horse closer. “This stallion’s new to me, and I wanted time with him.”

The brown stallion wore a white stripe down his nose and a mane black as ink. “Did you get him at Tattersall’s?” she asked.

“No. A breeder friend of mine. He’s a thoroughbred cross, meant for the army.”

“So you saved him,” she said.

“You might say that.”

“He’s beautiful. What’s his name?”

“He doesn’t have one yet.”

She nearly offered to help him name the horse, but after throwing herself at him she didn’t want to appear too forward.

“Is she yours?” His question pulled her out of the awkward silence.

“Who?”

He motioned to her right.

“Oh. This is Snowbird. She was Jane’s. She left her to me.”

He nodded, apparently having nothing to say to that. What did one say to that? How nice. Or, How good of her. Or, What a shame.

“I’m sure she is in the best hands,” he said.

His words drew a small smile from her.

“I’ll just use this stall, then, shall I?” He was already leading the horse past her, his limp apparent now.

“Of course. I should probably go help Mama. She really will be thrilled.”

“I hope so.”

“And Isaa—Mr. Linfield?”

He turned to her. “Yes?”

She tried to read the emotion in his gray eyes. “Your visit couldn’t have come at a better time.”

He studied her a moment, his brow furrowed, then dismissed her with a nod.