Page 49 of Her Heart's Rightful Earl
As if summoned, Marcus suddenly appeared at the glass door of the conservatory. Arabella felt her face flush with guilt at the conversation they had been almost caught conducting.
The two ladies looked him up and down. It was clear to both of them that he was still wearing his clothes from the day before, and a rank scent of alcohol drifted on his breath as he smiled at them. His hair was dishevelled and his usually handsome face unshaven, with heavy bags under his eyes.
“Marcus! What a pleasure!” Margaret smiled forcibly, then with concern. “Are you feeling quite well, my dear?”
“I’m marvellous, Mother!” Marcus grinned inanely, and with a sudden swipe of his arm, he deadheaded a stunning red rose that stood proudly from a plant pot next to him.
He laughed with joy, as if he were a child doing something naughty. Margaret and Arabella looked on in horror as he began chopping the other roses with swipes of his wrists.
Red rose buds and blooming heads fell to the floor as he laughed maniacally.
As he came to a sudden stop, Arabella noticed his wrist was bleeding where the thorns had caught him. He leaned in a grandiose pose against the doorway, leaving a swipe of blood against the wood.
“Oh … you’ve …” Arabella pointed out his injury.
Marcus looked at it and laughed, wiping the blood all over the front of his white shirt. The two ladies watched him with disdain, realizing the situation was spiralling out of control.
***
Teatime was slightly absurd. It was challenging to sit and have a civilized conversation with Marcus, with blood smeared over his white shirt and now also on his face. Charlotte had looked quite perturbed upon seeing him enter the dining room, and Arabella had nudged her with an imperceptible shake of the head, indicating she should not mention it.
“What happy news it is for us,” Marcus announced enthusiastically, “that the income tax was abolished in March. We have certainly seen a difference in our crop profits this past month.”
“Thatisgood news,” Margaret agreed.
“Though it is a pity,” Charlotte countered, “that candles and soaps appear to still be taxable, and it is the poor people who sell them …”
“It doesn’t affect us!” Marcus snapped. “They will work it out. Pass the butter, Maid.”
Sally startled, unused to being called by her title, and nervously walked to the edge of the table, picked up the butter, and passed it to Lord Wellwood, though he was perfectly within reaching distance.
Marcus took the butter dish, set it down next to him, and did not use it. Charlotte, Arabella, and Margaret watched him intently, but he seemed oblivious to it, now staring off to a far point in the corner of the room.
When it seemed that Marcus was neither going to speak again nor eat, Margaret appealed for his attention.
“My dear son, I wonder if perhaps you might benefit from a restful spa in Bath city?” She said it with a calm, compassionate tone, but Marcus looked over at her as if she had suggested he jump off a cliff.
A red-hot ferocity overtook his expression. He scowled at his mother, and his face became flushed with rage. His shout, when it came, was loud enough to make all the ladies and the staff jump in alarm.
“You just want to get rid of me! Is it not enough that father has gone, and Alexander has gone, and Edmund has gone! No! You make us all leave! You wantmegone, too!”
Arabella looked over at Margaret in fear that this horrific accusation might push the poor lady past her point of tolerance; she was terribly unwell and vulnerable.
Margaret’s face paled in shock, and Arabella was about to leave her chair to go to her when Marcus seemed to come suddenly to his senses.
“Oh, Mother!” he cried in remorse and left his seat in such a hurry that it upturned, landing on the thick pile carpet with a dull thud. “I am so sorry!”
He went to Margaret and bent down next to her. He clutched her hands in his own, and it seemed as though tears might fall down his face as he muttered over and over again, in a strangled voice, “Forgive me, I’m sorry. Forgive me, I’m sorry.”
He lay his head in her lap like a small toddler seeking comfort from their parent. Margaret sat entirely still, unable to process his strange behaviour and too afraid to speak or act in any way that might trigger Marcus to react disturbingly. Arabella and Charlotte watched on, stunned by the spectacle.
Eventually, Margaret took a deep breath and released her hand from Marcus’s grasp to pat him gently on the head. “Of course I forgive you, son,” she said, though her face was vacant and her voice without conviction.
Marcus straightened, looked into his mother’s face, and stood abruptly.
“I have some important business to attend to,” he claimed and very quickly left the room.
Margaret dropped her eyes to her plate in shame, and Charlotte whispered to Arabella. “That is exactly the sort of behaviour his great uncle exhibited …”
