Page 48 of Duke of Emeralds
Her mind had remained taut as a bowstring, running loops around the letter’s brutal words. The rain had lashed the windowpanes all night, adding to her unrest.
At the breakfast table, she gazed down at her toast, the butter knife poised just above its surface. Her hand shook, though whether from hunger or anxiety she could not say. She made herself spread the butter with the most precise swathe and bring it to her lips. She tasted nothing at all when she took a bite.
Then a small cough at the threshold broke her from her reverie.
“Your Grace,” said Mrs. Smith, standing just inside the doorway.
Hester drew herself up and took a breath. “Yes, Mrs. Smith?”
From behind the housekeeper’s sober brown skirts, the child appeared.
She wore a frock of faded rose, the hem hastily re-stitched, and thick wool stockings that puckered at her thin shins. Her face—scrubbed but still chapped at the nose and cheeks—was framed by hair that, now dry and orderly, revealed itself to be not chestnut but a pale, tawny gold. The effect, in combination with the blue of her eyes, was startling.
Hester’s hand flew to her mouth as she suppressed a gasp and disguised it as a cough.
She looks like him. Very much like him.
A cold, private panic threatened to send her from the room. Instead, she forced her hand to her lap, straightened her shoulders, and nodded.
“Come forward, my dear,” Hester said, wavering ever so slightly as she reached for the girl with her palm open.
The girl advanced one step, her gaze as sharp as a surgeon’s knife while it darted around the room. She seemed to be cautious of everything, and Hester wondered what sort of life she lived before coming here.
Mrs. Smith spoke, and her tone was softer than usual. “She has spoken, Your Grace. Only once and only to say she wished to see you.”
This news struck Hester as both disquieting and somehow flattering.Why me?She studied the girl, searching for any hint of motive or mischief, but she found only hunger and exhaustion worn deep into her bones.
“Would you like to join me for breakfast?” Hester offered, her smile as gentle as she could muster.
The girl nodded once then reached out and took Hester’s hand. The fingers were as cold as porcelain and far too thin. She guided the child to the chair beside her, and only when she was safely seated did Hester allow herself a small sigh of relief.
She poured tea into a cup then remembered herself and added sugar and milk until it was more suitable for a child. The girl did not thank her but wrapped both hands around the cup and drew it close. Hester watched her sip then offered her toast.
“Would you like some?” Hester asked.
The girl did not answer but took the toast, dipped it into the sweet tea, and ate. She consumed it in precisely three bites, every movement careful, as if she feared the meal would vanish if she faltered. Hester found herself hypnotized by the economy of it.
“Would you like another?” she asked, and when the girl nodded yet again, Hester slathered more butter onto the next slice and passed it over. She noticed now, with a clarity that unsettled her, that the child’s hands were not only thin but flecked with a faintscattering of freckles, as though even the sun itself had left its mark upon her.
She prepared a small plate with a scone, split and spread with cream cheese and a dab of strawberry preserves. The girl eyed it warily then, as if unable to resist, devoured half in a single bite.
Hester smiled then attempted another polite nibble at her own toast, but it was as if she were chewing sawdust. She set it aside and filled her cup instead.
“May I ask your name?” she ventured.
The girl paused then set the scone down. “Arabella,” she whispered. Her voice was the barest scrape, but it was there. “She sometimes called me Bella… when she was not peeved at me.”
Hester’s breath caught, but she forced a smile. Was the girl referring to her mother?
“That is a lovely name,” Hester said. “Does it please you?”
The girl nodded though her eyes had dropped to the table. Hester noticed her thumb working at the edge of the napkin, as if she were unraveling a secret message from the thread.
“Would you like some more tea?” Hester asked.
A nod was the only response.
She topped off the cup, watching as the girl immediately cupped it again, as if the warmth were more precious than the taste itself. Hester sat very still. For a long while, no one spoke.
