Page 5 of Her Heart's Rightful Earl
Margaret closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the cushions. She was looking thinner and frailer by the day; her once rich brown hair now scraped through with dominant streaks of silver, and her eyes hooded, with dark circles beneath.
She still dressed respectably each day and took care of herself, but it was much more of an effort than it had once been.
“Perhaps you and your sister would extend your visit.” Margaret’s lips masticated as she spoke. “Once Marcus returns home, there is no necessity for you and Charlotte to hurry away immediately.”
“I enjoy our time together also.” Arabella smiled as she lit the final candle, catching her reflection in the gilt-framed large mirror above the fireplace. As the candle took to the flame, it illuminated her emerald-green eyes, and her pale complexion became highlighted with warm light.
Arabella seated herself in the armchair opposite Margaret. The heavy red drapes were drawn against the night sky, and they were cossetted away, safe and warm. The open hearth swelled with a comforting fire, which glinted on golden ornaments atop the mantlepiece.
A fabric, upholstered wall added to the warm, sheltered atmosphere. Security was a luxury Arabella never took for granted. Too many times, she had settled into a false sense of safe shelter, only to have it ripped away.
“I do sometimes wonder …” Margaret began and paused to take a laboured breath. Arabella waited patiently; she was accustomed to these prolonged pauses. “How life might have been if Alexander had survived … if the two of you had been joined in holy matrimony and you were my daughter-in-law…”
“Now, now,” Arabella placated Margaret softly. “We are family, regardless. Edmund was your nephew, and he was my husband. Will you be satisfied as my aunt?” Arabella teased.
Beneath the gentle banter, Arabella wished Margaret would not dredge up this topic once again; it seemed to be her favourite to revisit, and Arabella did not have the strength for it.
Whenever Margaret mentioned her son, Arabella was assaulted by visions of Alexander’s intense blue eyes and the way he would sometimes bite his bottom lip to repress a smile if she said something that amused him. It hurt her to think of him.
Thoughts of Alexander Hartwell provoked conflicting feelings deep inside Arabella. She had loved him deeply and believed, wholeheartedly, that they had a certain future together; she still missed him acutely.
But it was insinuated Alexander had some involvement in his father’s murder; Arabella did not believe the accusation for even a moment, yet she could not therefore understand why he had run.
He had escaped without contacting her to explain, and she could not comprehend why he would abandon her void of justification—she was angry at his neglect, despite being completely in love with him.
By the time word had arrived that Alexander was dead, Arabella was already battling so many contrary emotions regarding him, but devastation dominated and assumed the principal role. A part of her shut down, and she now preferred never to access it. There was too much pain to even begin processing the whirlpool of emotions.
Each time Margaret mentioned her eldest son in a conversational tone, Arabella felt her heart might explode with unexpressed emotions.
She wanted to cry, scream, run from the room, such was her desperation to see him again; to feel his hand accidentally brush against hers, to listen to him recite poetry as they walked together in the orchard. Instead, she smiled at his frail mother under the socially acceptable pretence that all was well.
Arabella applied her attention to the pages laid out across her lap when the oak door opened; she turned to see her younger sister entering. Charlotte had covered her long white night gown with a brown one, but her blonde hair hung long and loose over her shoulders, suggesting she was winding down from the formal dress of the day. She yawned as she approached them both.
“I come to bid you ladies goodnight.” Charlotte approached Margaret and bent low to gently kiss her cheek. “Thank you for another splendid day!”
Arabella appreciated Charlotte’s eternal optimism; when times had been hard, Charlotte helped her through with her joyful demeanour.
“Goodnight, sister,” Arabella mused warmly as Charlotte kissed her cheek and swept out of the room with a beautiful energy.
“Let us not read the usual scriptures this evening, Arabella,” Margaret croaked.
“You do not wish us to read?” Arabella tried to mask her disappointment as she realized an evening empty of shared literature would instil a certain sadness.
“Read, certainly. Please,” Margaret replied. “Poetry. Wordsworth …” Margaret pointed to a leather-bound book on the table beside her.
Arabella’s eyes went to the tome with a feeling of dread. This was the book she would read with Alexander. She wondered if Margaret knew this and wondered if she also knew that whilst reading Wordsworth was a comfort to her, it felt like torture to Arabella.
Her ladyship was the priority, though—she had not long for this Earth, and Arabella was determined to fulfil any wish she had, so she inhaled deeply and reached for the book.
It opened at a well-worn page ‘’Tis said that some have died for love’. There, in the margin, were scribbled notes in Alexander’s own hand. They had annotated the text together; his finger following the lines as she read it aloud. She could not bear to look upon it and moved to turn the page.
“Oh, this one! Please. It was one of Alexander’s favourites. Hearing these poems reminds me of a happier time when both my sons were home!”
Arabella looked up questioningly at Margaret, who seemed suddenly rather spirited; her eyes were bright, and she engaged with vigour. As Arabella rested her eyes upon Margaret, however, the lady seemed to surrender once again to a wave of fatigue, against the cushions once more.
“'Tis said, that some have died for love:
And here and there a churchyard grave is found…” Arabella began, trying to numb herself from feeling the emotions that came up when she spoke those words. Her mind haunted her with how Alexander would form his lips around those very same phrases. They now felt so desolately valid.
