Page 19 of Her Heart's Rightful Earl
“Yes.’ Arabella smiled thinly. “I must attend to something in my chambers, if you will excuse me.”
As Arabella stood, Charlotte noticed that the toast she had buttered with such commitment remained on her plate, untouched. A quick glance over at the countess confirmed she was resting again, with her eyes closed, and so when Arabella rose and strode towards the door, Charlotte stood quickly and intercepted her.
Arabella met her with a confused expression, and Charlotte ushered her sister into a small alcove just outside the dining room.
“Whatever is the matter?” Arabella asked.
“My sentiments exactly!” Charlotte shot back. “That is precisely my question for you! Please don’t attempt to fool me with protestations of good health and perfect normality, because I know you, sister, and I insist you are not in your usual good spirits!”
Arabella dropped her eyes to the floor, desperately seeking some reason for her unusual demeanour.
“You are pale and shaking, sister,” Charlotte insisted as she took Arabella’s hand and held it in her own. “You are distracted and ill at ease.”
Arabella nodded. It was clear she would be unable to pretend there was nothing amiss. How she wished she could tell her loyal sister.
But this was not harmless gossip; this was a very dangerous and precarious situation that could feasibly threaten Alexander’s life. She could not risk exposing the truth to anybody, if that meant he would potentially be discovered, arrested, and put to death.
“I must declare I have not seen you in a state such as this since the morning you heard the terrible news …”
Arabella blinked at her sister, awaiting her to continue.
“That morning, oh my sweet sister–” Charlotte gripped Arabella’s arm in comfort. “When we heard of your poor Alexander …”
“You are correct, of course, dear sister,” Arabella, squeezed Charlotte’s hand affectionately. “I cannot hide anything from you! I confess Iamsuffering a megrim.”
“I knew there wassomething!Does your head hurt?”
“It does. I ought to rest. I did not wish to disclose my complaint in front of the countess, for her woes are much greater than mine, yet she endures them with such grace.”
“This is true. I understand your concealment. However, I remain unconvinced that this issimplya megrim. Is there nothing else troubling you, Arabella?”
“Please, you must not fret, Charlotte! I do beseech you.”
Charlotte sighed heavily, watching Arabella with narrowed eyes of suspicion.
“Very well, sister. Go to rest. I will check in on you later.”
Arabella fixed her sister with a smile intended to placate her and swiftly climbed the stairs, wanting to be free of company, with space to entertain only her own thoughts.
Chapter 7
Arabella had grown tired of her bedchambers. She had spent most of her day lounging on her chaise longue and sitting in her bedside chair, reading. In truth, though, she recalled only a paragraph or two since her mind was too busy and distracted to process any fiction. Even her favourite poetry failed to permeate her imagination.
She had made the effort to attend dinner. Her absence would have been cause for concern, meaning Lady Wellwood would request a maid to tend to her, and Charlotte would visit to check on her again. She was present at dinner physically and tried to contribute some inane chatter, but quickly dismissed herself afterward, noting that her fatigue continued.
Margaret was cognizant of the real issue, of course, and did not question her; Charlotte watched her sister with mounting concern but did not raise further interrogation.
The sun had left the sky, and Arabella’s bedchambers began to feel claustrophobic in the dim light. She dragged her chair up by the window where the moonlight crept in and pulled the scrap of notepaper out of her pocket. It was well-thumbed now after she had consistently opened it up, read it, and re-folded it throughout the day.
Arabella looked down at the beautiful scrawl; words she had now memorized by heart. As the moonlight hit the words, the ink shimmered, and she read them again.
Please meet me. We need to talk. Tomorrow night in our old special place. Please …
“What were you about to write, Alexander?” Arabella whispered to herself. “I turned to leave your mother’s sitting room, and it made you stop writing in a hurry. What had you been about to say? Did you mean to finish your sentence withplease, as though you were pleading with me to attend?
Or were you poised to request something else? Perhaps asking me to keep you a secret? To tell no one? Well, I haven’t told a soul. I am keeping your shameful escapade a secret. To my own detriment …”
Arabella looked up at the moon as though she might find the answer there.
