Lord Deverill's Heir (6 page)

And it is my property, ma’am. As of this morning, as of the reading of your father’s will. I am master here and you are nothing at all.” Arabella suddenly felt quite sick. Her stomach was tied into knots, and bile rose in her throat. Her well-ordered, quite satisfactory world as the favored daughter of the Earl of Strafford had crumbled, like the old abbey ruins. He was right about one thing—she had nothing left, nothing at all. He was the master and she was nothing. She fell to her knees in the soft grass lining the drive and retched. Since she had eaten very little during the day, the spasms were dry heaves, making her quake and shudder.

The earl drew up in astonishment, looked within himself, and saw a good deal lacking. He cursed himself in far more descriptive language than had ever made its way into Arabella’s vocabulary. He had mistakenly read her disdainful bravado as vain, prideful arrogance. Her father’s death, his own unexpected entry into her life, the terms of the earl’s will—all had been a great shock to her. He had blundered, he had ridden her too hard.

God, but she was young and wretchedly confused. She had to feel betrayed by the one person on earth she loved and trusted the most—her father.

He steadied her, closing his long fingers protectively about her heaving shoulders. He gently pulled black masses of hair that hung loosely about her face. She seemed unaware of him. When she stopped retching, he drew a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and handed it silently to her. She clutched it in her hand, and without looking up, wiped her mouth.

“Arabella—”

“Ma’am.”

He had to smile. “Ma’am, then. Can you rise if I assist you? It is nearly dark now and your mother will be quite worried. I promised her that I would bring you back to her unscathed. You are only a bit scathed.” How calmly he speaks, as if we had stopped to admire the daffodils.

Unscathed? She felt scathed from the inside out. Come on, Arabella, stand up. See how dark it becomes; he cannot see the shame etched in your eyes.

He can see nothing that is really you, nothing.

She drew a deep breath and with an effort of will locked her knees to support her weight.

The earl slipped his hands beneath her elbows and held her upright, her back to him.

She tried to pull free of him but he had a good grip. “I don’t need you.” The naked pain in her voice sliced through the still evening air. Her hands clenched into fists, and in a swift, totally unexpected movement, she whirled about in his arms and smashed at his chest with all the mindless fury of a trapped animal.

He dropped his arms and sucked in his breath, more from sheer surprise than from any pain she caused him. “That was a good blow. Thank God you didn’t go lower.”

She ran from him, thick masses of hair streaming out about her shoulders and down her back.

Sharp gravel bits dug into the thin soles of her kid slippers, sending stabs of pain up her legs. Blind, unreasoning panic blurred her vision, yet she ran on as if death itself pursued her. A gently rising slope rose before her, but her mind did not tell her legs to adjust for the abrupt unevenness. She went hurtling forward, clutching frantically at the empty air to balance herself. Instinct brought her arms in front of her face to cushion the impact as she sprawled facedown onto the drive. Gravel cut into her arms, tearing her gown, digging into her flesh. She cried out just once. The pain from her body seared through to her mind, unleashing the unshed tears for her father. They coursed down her cheeks, burning tears that had not touched her face since her father, with grim resolution, had put his pistol to her pony’s head, and pulled the trigger. Years of stoic discipline, of scorn for such despicable weakness, were stripped from her.

The earl loomed above her within an instant of her headlong plunge. It is becoming quite a habit with me, he thought almost inconsequentially as he knelt down beside her. Her gown was grimy and rent with small jagged tears; blood welled up and spread, blending into and encrusting the black material. He knew with an uncanny sense that the deep rending sobs were not from her fall; nor, he guessed, did tears come easily to her. He did not attempt to speak to her or soothe her. Rather, with a sigh, he grasped her about her waist, hauled her upright, and swung her into his arms.

She went rigid and he thought wearily that she would lash out at him again. He tightened his grip and strode on, not looking down at her.

It did not occur to Arabella to fight him. She had tensed with shock at the touch of a man’s hands. No one save her father had ever before held her. She felt the strength of his arms, and for a fleeting instant sensed an inner strength in him, a calm self-assurance that heightened the stark emptiness deep within her.

The earl halted a moment at the edge of the front lawn, staring thoughtfully ahead at the bright candlelit mullioned windows.

“Is there a staircase to your room through the west entrance?” He felt her nod against his shoulder.

As the earl turned to skirt the front doors, they were suddenly flung wide and Lady Ann waved to him. She looked frantic.

“Justin, thank God. You have found her. We’ve been distraught with worry.

Bring her here, quickly, quickly.”

He leaned his face close to Arabella’s and said, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but there seems to be no hope for it. I would have spared you if I could have. But she is your mother. I would never disobey a mother. I’m sorry for it, but there it is.”

She said nothing at all, but she was as still as a board in his arms. He called out, “Yes, Ann, I have found her. I’ll bring her to you.” Lady Ann did not shriek or fall into hysterics. Her blue eyes fastened with disbelief on her daughter’s ravaged face. She saw the tear streaks trailing through the dirt and blood down her white cheeks. “Dear God,” she managed, then fell silent.

The earl felt Arabella clutch at his coat as if she wanted somehow to disappear inside of him. He sensed her deep shame and said quickly, “She isn’t hurt, Ann, merely cut up a trifle from an accidental fall. It is nothing more than that. Is. Dr. Branyon still about? I think it wise that he see her.”

Arabella gathered remnants of pride and struggled in the earl’s arms to face her mother. “I do not wish to see Dr. Branyon. Mother, I am perfectly fine. It is as he said, I simply took a stupid fall and hurt myself just a bit. If you will please let me down, sir.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He dropped her to the ground.

She staggered against him and would have fallen had he not slipped his arm around her waist. She had dignity, she simply had to dredge it up.

She raised her chin, placed her hand calmly upon his arm, and walked stiffly beside him into the house.

* * *

Dr. Paul Branyon straightened over a now clean Arabella and said with his charming smile, “Well, my little Bella, though you were a rare mess to be sure, I can find nothing in particular wrong with you that your bath did not cure. You will be a trifle sore here and there for a couple of days, but nothing of consequence. I do, though, insist that you have a good night’s sleep.”

This evening the lurking twinkle always present in Dr. Branyon’s brown eyes didn’t draw a smile from her. She adored him, always had, for he had been a part of her life since she was born. Still, he had seen her fail, even though he didn’t realize it. She hated herself. She also felt sore from the top of her still-damp head to her bruised feet. She eyed him as he carefully measured out several drops from a small vial into a glass of water. Like her father, Arabella hated sickness, the earl having convinced her over the years that weak persons used various illnesses to gain attention. Succumbing to common complaints showed lack of character.

“I will not take that laudanum, for that is what it is, isn’t it, sir?”

“Yes, just a bit, my dear.”

“No. Give it to Mrs. Tucker. I know she uses it in her tea. She says it makes her feet relaxed.”

“Always giving orders,” Dr. Branyon said, smiling at her. “You do it well, but it doesn’t matter this time. I do not wish to have your mother shred me into pieces, and that is what would happen if I don’t take thorough care of you. Isn’t it, Ann?”

Lady Ann stepped forward. She said with a firmness that Arabella found unnerving, “Be quiet, Arabella. It has been an extraordinarily trying day. There is much change and much for you to think about. I will not have you bleary-eyed and in a snit all for want of a good night’s sleep.

Drink the water.”

Arabella could not believe it had been her own dear mother speaking to her all hard and calm like that.

“Mother? Is that truly you speaking? It isn’t right, Mother. You never raise your voice, you always fade away. You never fight or argue. It isn’t what I’m used to. I don’t understand any of this.”

“Perhaps you will, in time,” Lady Ann said, her voice just a bit sharp, but there was amusement there as well. “Come, Arabella. You have far more need of this than do Mrs. Tucker’s feet. Drink your medicine. Do it now or you will have to deal with both Paul and me.” Arabella, still stunned by her mother’s unlikely behavior, downed the entire glass without pause. Lady Ann could scarce restrain a chuckle. Had she been so weak then? Had she but to be firm and Arabella would obey her? “I will send Gracie to you now, my love. Just ring if there is anything you need.” Lady Ann bent swiftly over her daughter and kissed her lightly on the cheek. She said softly, “Forgive me for not telling you of Justin’s existence. I have grown more and more concerned about your not knowing, yet it was a promise I made to your father. I did try to get him to change his mind, but he never changed his mind about anything, once he’d made it up, you know that.”

“Didn’t he? About anything, Mama? Surely Papa wasn’t that certain of himself all the time, was he?” Then she sighed in the face of her mother’s silence. Perhaps he had been. She had always prayed that she would have her father’s strength of will. But look at where his strength of will had brought her. She had two months to marry a man who looked like her, who looked like her brother and her father as well, was more arrogant and cold than her father at his most displeased, and she hated him.

What to do?

“Good night, little Bella.” Dr. Branyon smiled and patted her cheek. His hand was firm and strong. She remembered his hands from her earliest years.

She was asleep before they were out of her bedchamber, their heads close together, their talk too quiet for her to hear.

Dr. Branyon couldn’t prevent his chuckle. “I now believe I have seen everything,” he said, grinning down at Lady Ann. “You telling Arabella what to do? By all that’s holy, that was Arabella obeying? It boggles the mind. Perhaps you have become a witch. If I look about closely will I find a black cat who is your familiar?” She remained silent, and he knew she was thinking. He knew that look, he knew her every look. “You have stolen the indomitable will from your daughter. Never before have I observed you having the last word. It pleased me, Ann.”

Lady Ann sighed. “You are right. I was a Milquetoast, wasn’t I?”

“Well, no, not that, exactly. It’s just that the earl and Arabella—they seemed somehow to smother you with their vitality, their boundless energy. And both of them autocrats, no denying that. I could never quite feel Lady Ann’s personality in Evesham Abbey.”

“They are terribly alike. Sometimes, Paul, I wonder what I did all those years, what I thought.” She frowned a moment and gazed almost unwillingly down at the huge Deverill family ring on her third finger. Somehow it did not seem to weigh so heavily as usual on her hand. She drew a deep breath and looked up with absolute trust into a face whose every expression she had memorized long ago. “Many times I have felt that I am the child and Arabella, the fond, yet dominating mother. I have felt sometimes very out of place with her, as if she regarded me with a sort of affectionate condescension. You know, of course, how the earl felt.” She found, surprisingly, that she spoke without bitterness.

Dr. Branyon fought down the familiar surge of anger that had gnawed at his belly so many times during the past years. “Yes, I know.” She didn’t see his jaw tighten or his eyes darken, but he knew that even if she had, it wouldn’t have surprised or dismayed her.

Lady Ann stopped in the middle of the entrance hall and looked dispassionately about her. There were grand Renaissance screens, with two archways divided by fluted pilasters and enriched with elaborate paneling of splendid craftsmanship. All the trappings of war were displayed on and about the walls—hand breastplates and morions, buff leather jerkins, matchlocks, and many other articles of equipment worn or used by the foemen of the civil wars. Faded Flemish tapestries depicting scenes of battle shimmered in soft glowing patterns. Ancient flambeaux sent spiraling threads of blue-black smoke upward to the blackened beamed ceiling.

“It is really quite strange, you know,” she said aloud, “but I have always hated Evesham Abbey, though I cannot deny its incredible beauty.

The history of England still lives in this hall, yet I have no pride in it, no flights of fancy over its grandeur. You said, dear friend, that I am drawing upon Arabella’s strength. I will tell you that if she were forced to leave Evesham Abbey, I would dread to think of what would happen to her.” Lady Ann waved her hand out about her. “Every panel, every armament, shield, every nook and cranny of this house is a part of her. Much of her indomitable will, as you call it, is tied up with this house. So, you see, I must be firm with her, try to make her understand that her father didn’t betray her, that he did what he could so that she would remain here.”

“So you believe she should marry the new Earl of Strafford as her father demanded?”

“Oh yes, Paul, she must marry Justin.”

He hadn’t quite expected this. He looked down at her, wishing for just an instant that he could touch the soft blond hair over her ears. He cleared his throat instead and said, “Judging from the events of the day, I would say that you have your work cut out for you.”

“Arabella cried,” Lady Ann said. “I could not believe it, but she did.

Did her rage at Justin bring it out of her? Or were they finally tears for her father? She never cries, you know. I don’t know about this time, but it seems a good sign.”