Page 30 of Her Heart's Rightful Earl
As she entered the library, she was instantly warmed by the glow from the open fire and approached Margaret, who sat in an armchair next to the hearth.
Arabella loved the atmosphere of the library; the dusty, leathery smell of the books, the papery stillness of the space. It was a calm haven and felt cossetted away like a little world of its own.
The Wellwood library had leather-bound books in every shade of brown, grey, and green, on all four walls, stacked in neat linesalong wooden shelves that reached way above her head. The very sight of them excited her: the prospect of all the stories, knowledge, and adventures hidden within their pages.
Arabella turned her attention to Margaret; she looked younger somehow—more alert and vital than she had in months.
Her back was straight and her eyes bright when she turned to Arabella with a smile and gestured for her to sit in the armchair opposite.
“Arabella,” she began, and her voice was no longer husky with lethargy. “Thank you for attending to speak with me.”
“But of course,” Arabella nodded, keen to understand why her presence had been requested.
“I am fearful for my son …”
“For Alexander?” Even saying his name aloud and being able to speak of him provoked a flush upon Arabella’s chest and a juddering of erratic heartbeats.
“No!” Margaret’s eyes darted towards the door. “Ssshhh …!”
Arabella’s eyes went immediately to the door, frightened that a servant might have overheard, but there was nobody there.
“We must not speak of my older son.” Margaret held a finger to her lips and blinked kindly.
Arabella repressed a sensation of disappointment that she had considered Margaret was eager to speak of Alexander and how they might extricate him from his ghastly predicament. Surely that was theonlyrelevant conversation between them just now, she thought with frustration.
“It is my youngest,Marcus,who is my greatest concern,” Margaret whispered and waited for Arabella’s response.
“Marcus?” Arabella thought of his enthusiastic, dramatic nature and wondered which element of it caused Margaret concern.
“You have noticed, I know. He is erratic—one moment, jovial and chaotic with enthusiasm, and the next, exploding with anger.”
Arabella nodded slowly, agreeing with this summary.
“I am aware he was always the more sensitive, dramatic child. But I worry now that he is falling foul of the same disease that killed his Uncle …”
“You mean–?”
“Yes. My dear husband’s late Uncle Ernest. Did Alexander ever tell you about him?”
In truth, Arabella had heard rumours of Ernest throughout her childhood; his bursts of insanity at social occasions her parents and their circle of friends had frequented. Alexander confirmed it when they were courting.
“He was committed to an asylum, was he not?”
Margaret dropped her eyes regretfully to her lap. “He was. Such a tragic fellow. In the beginning, he was fraught with anxieties, which evolved to a point where he was overly happy all the time, only for it to finally crescendo in acts of unpredictable anger.”
Arabella inhaled sharply, for this did sound familiar.
“I fear that my sweet son, Marcus, has this hereditary madness in his blood. It would be devastating for me to lose my dear husband and both my sons …”
“But Alexander is not–”
“Shh. Really, Arabella, we must not discuss him. It is too dangerous,” Margaret leaned forward conspiratorially.
Arabella pursed her lips, cognizant of the risks involved.
“You mentioned yourself, the other evening–” Margaret continued. “That one of the servants left. And the following morning, Marcus dismissed another. I am aware of at least three we have lost this past fortnight. I can only assume it is due to Marcus’s aggression and behaviour that seems void of boundaries.”
In truth, this had not occurred to Arabella, and she mentally noted that Margaret was much more aware of the household circumstances than she generally seemed daily.
