Page 6 of Her Heart's Rightful Earl
She closed her eyes momentarily, blocking the surge of fury, sadness, and passion that had become enmeshed within her chest. It was acceptable for her to take her time—it seemed that Margaret might nap as she read; she often did so.
As she continued, Arabella whispered, “In the cold north's unhallowed ground, Because the wretched man himself had slain.”Her voice caught on this part because it resonated too personally with her own experience.
Margaret might have sensed Arabella’s struggle, as her eyes opened and, though initially milky and wandering, they found Arabella as she croaked.
“Arabella, dear, I am thirsty …”
Arabella eagerly snapped the book shut and stood, declaring, “I shall make us some tea.”
“I am sure Helen would oblige–” Margaret suggested, referring to a maid.
“Helen left, do you recall? Marcus mentioned her departure from her post, shortly before he left …”
“Ah,” Margaret seemed to remember, resting her head back against the cushion. “Another one gone …”
Arabella headed towards the door. “Besides, it can be a pleasant distraction to make tea. Quite therapeutic.”
“That’s fortunate,” Margaret mused sleepily and closed her eyes once again.
***
The wooden corridors through to the kitchen were echoing and cold, and Arabella had hurried through them briskly to reach the warmth of the kitchen.
The flagstone kitchen was vast and mostly in the dark, save for the red glow of the fire, with its pots and pans hung above on a metal pole. Usually a bustling space of staff, chopping vegetables from the gardens, bubbling stews in heavy metal pots, by night it was notably quiet and empty except for the scullery maid who tended the fire at the hearth throughout the night.
Sally stood, flustered, adjusting her white, lacy frilled pinafore, as Arabella entered, unaccustomed to family members visiting the kitchen late in the evening.
“Oh, Sally, hello there! Please—sit down. There is no need for me to bother you. I was hoping to make some tea.”
“I can make tea for you, Ma’am.” Sally was eager to assist.
“No, no, it’s quite alright, thank you, Sally. Is there a pot of water already boiled?”
“Certainly there is, Ma’am. I shall bring it over …”
Sally clothed her hands in thick linens to bring over the pot from where it hung on a metal pole above the lit fire. She poured boiling water into the teapot, and Arabella thanked her, assuring her that she could continue from this point on.
Arabella walked over to the part of the kitchen where the fine china was stored. She gathered two ornate cups and saucers that she recognized as Margaret’s favourite style and looked out the window into the darkness.
The wind was strong, and the climbing roses scratched against the window pane, making Arabella shiver despite the warmth of the fire at her back.
As Arabella turned, she heard a faint and strangely familiar sound. It sounded like the whinnying of a horse. Arabella stopped and squinted out into the gardens. She knew that the bridle path ran along the stretch of the kitchen, on the other side of the hedgerow.
She knew it well because she had met Alexander there on many an occasion when they were learning about each other and beginning their journey of infatuation.
Following a moment of straining to hear it again, she sighed. It had probably only been the wind, taunting her with sounds of promise that would never be realized.
But as she turned a second time, she heard it again, and this time it was unmistakably a horse whinnying. Only this was not simply a generic animalistic sound, but a very specific sort.
When she and Alexander had confessed their love to one another, he would often meet with her past dark. On these occasions, to signal that he had arrived, he would manipulate his sweet horse into making this awfully funny little whinnying noise that was a combination of a snuffle, a haughty laugh, and a cough. It was quite unique and had always made Arabella smile.
She almost dropped a china cup but saved it as it went to slip from her fingers. She settled the crockery down upon the wooden surface and leaned towards the window, desperate to hear it again.
Alexander is dead. She had to remind herself of this devastating fact because her heart was hammering as if it hoped to see him. He may have passed along that bridleway in years gone by, andhe may have made his horse whinny for her in an amusing fashion that the wind now replicated, buthe was dead.
Arabella experienced a wave of self-pity, a rare practice for her. As she pressed her palms into the wood, aching to hear the horse once more, her mind viciously recounted all her many woes.
She had lost the love of her life twice. Firstly, through a horrendous scandal. Marcus reported that he had stumbled upon his brother in the study, covered in their father’s blood, and he’d encouraged his brother to flee as he was sure the magistrate would not view the scene favourably. To Arabella’s keen eye, she felt there was more to Marcus’s story, even though she unequivocally trusted that Alexander could not have been the aggressor.
