Page 8 of The Black Lion
Arabella blinked, uncertain why he would broach such a subject with her, and on today of all days. She had heard whispers, of course, but only the little that people would allow a woman to overhear. Even if she was not treated like the delicate Eugenia, people still remembered whose daughter she was before speaking of such matters.
“A bit,” she hedged.
His gaze grew pensive as he continued watching Greenhill roll past them, the iron gates looming ahead. “I don’t want you to be afraid, for it is only talk. The slaves know what’s good for them, and an uprising will only result in blood and death. They saw that much at the end of the Second Maroon War.”
Arabella bit her tongue, when what she really wanted was to remind her father that the liberated slaves known as the Maroons hadn’t been defeated; they’d been tricked into laying down their arms and then captured. For decades before the Final Maroon War, they had freed themselves before hiding in the mountains and fending off anyone who encroached upon their territory.
The slaves currently toiling at Greenhill and Jamaica’s other plantations outnumbered their masters by the hundreds. While past slave uprisings had been unsuccessful, the volatility of the situation in Jamaica couldn’t be ignored forever. Someday, something would happen and there would be blood. Arabella wasn’t certain her father was right to assume the slaves would be so easily put down.
However, like the good daughter she was, she kept her mouth closed. Another thing her mother had taught her was maintaining the outward appearance of gentle obedience. Some arguments were better not had at all, and some fights must be won using the mind. Speaking her thoughts on this would only cause her father to grow cross with her hours before her wedding. It would free no one, help no one. It would not be worth it.
“I am not afraid,” she simply said.
“Good,” her father said with a little nod, though as they passed through the gates of Greenhill, the worry on his expression did not ease. “Well, let’s not speak of such things just now. After all, today is a happy day. You are getting married, poppet.”
She forced a smile, though she could not conjure the joy she ought to feel. In truth, she was not happy and didn’t think she would be ever again. This day did not feel like one for celebration. It felt like a day of mourning.
“Yes,” she whispered, willing herself to feel something other than despair. “I am getting married.”
Chapter Two
Arabella’s hands shook as she walked down the aisle of St. Peter’s Anglican Church. With the eyes of the guests fixed on her, she approached the altar. Her fingers tightened around the tropical array of native island flowers making up her bouquet. The sun beamed through large stained-glass windows, casting rainbow prisms of light against white limestone walls. Beneath one such window depicting the blessed virgin cradling her newborn son, stood her waiting bridegroom.
Will looked as handsome as ever in a summer suit of powder blue silk with a matching waistcoat, the garment highly embellished with silver thread and gleaming buttons. Frothy white fabric showed at his wrists and throat, and a fresh shave accentuated the sharp line of his law and the breadth of his mouth. His hazel eyes gleamed with flecks of warm honey at the center, his expression one of pure admiration as he watched her approach. An understated white wig was tied back at his nape, the simple style flattering his patrician features.
It made her feel better to lay eyes on him and see such a lack of regret in his eyes. There was only love in his steady gaze, and Arabella drew on it for succor. Unlike her, Will came to their marriage without reservation. He had always been the steady one, guiding her through grief and back to life. She would continue to look to him in the days to come—a soothing balm to her pain.
Arabella released a sigh of relief when she reached his side without tripping or otherwise embarrassing herself. Will accepted her hand from her father and flashed a brilliant smile as the ceremony began. Arabella tightened her hold so much it was a wonder his fingers didn’t break under the strain. Will gave no indication that he noticed her viselike hold, or her trembling as the priest began to speak, his deep droning voice echoing from the high ceilings.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together in the sight of God …”
Arabella’s head began to swim as the weight of what she was about to do fell onto her with crushing force. Her heart hammered wildly in her chest, blood rushing in her ears and drowning out all other sound. She could see the lips of the priest moving, but heard none of his words. Will’s handsome face swam before her, and she feared she might grow faint. He squeezed her hand, keeping her with him, though her mind retreated farther from the proceedings the longer they went on.
A sudden noise from outside grabbed her attention and she flinched. Will’s eyes widened, and he followed the path of her gaze to the double doors leading outside. The sound was distant, muffled through the thick walls. The priest had gone silent, seemingly caught off guard by the disruption as well.
Had that been … gunshots?
After a moment passed in silence, Will cleared his throat and turned back to the priest.
“Please go on, Father.”
The priest gave a nod. “William Albert Throckmorton III, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to have and to hold …”
Arabella swallowed past the lump rising in her throat and tried to force some movement into her heavy, useless tongue. In a moment, it would be her turn to speak and any hesitation on her part would shame both her and Will in front of their guests. The last thing she wanted was to embarrass Will after all he’d done for her.
Her groom’s voice rang out clear as a bell, breaking through the fog of her convoluted thoughts. “I will.”
Dear God, it was her turn. Her knees weakened as the priest turned to her.
“Arabella Katherine Baines, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy state of—”
The priest cried out when the sounds came again, far closer and unmistakable. The crack of gunfire, this time followed by the outcry of men’s voices. Brow furrowed, Arabella looked to the doors, wondering what on earth could be happening out there. It was too early in the morning for any sort of disorderly conduct from the taverns, but such happenings weren’t unheard of. Or, perhaps some criminal had found himself at the mercy of Falmouth’s auxiliary militia.
The guests murmured to one another, some sending nervous glances to the doors as if they expected the conflict to spill into the church.
Will’s thumb stroked her wrist, the touch soothing even through the layers of their gloves. He turned to the priest and squared his shoulders.
“It is nothing to trouble ourselves over. Do go on.”
