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Papa hauled himself out of his armchair and took the few steps to the parrot’s perch. Pleasingly, he had regained weight while she and Mama were in London, though his coat was still loose on his tall frame. He soothed Queenie and ignored Arabella, though she could feel all the other eyes on her. Forty-seven other eyes, belonging to the twenty-four stuffed birds that perched throughout the room, an unforgiving jury that heard and judged her many failings. She knew them all: the green woodpecker, the cockatoo, the jay of Bengal. The falcon on the center table had only one eye. She called it Pirate. They got along quite well.
Forty-nine eyes, if she counted the portrait of Oliver dominating one wall, that perpetual eight-year-old angel with his rosy cheeks and fine dark curls.
What is it this time?she silently asked the little boy, who smirked at her.Smug little worm.If you’d lived long enough, you would have disappointed him too.
Finally, Papa deigned to acknowledge her, studying her with eyes so like her own.
“Congratulations. You have managed to stay engaged to Lord Sculthorpe for more than one day. I should have let him have you back in the spring. But oh no, you insisted on waiting for Guy Roth. You misjudged that one, my girl.” Papa lifted one thin hand; Queenie rubbed her beak against his finger and made that little purring sound in her throat. “But you’ve done well this time. With that illness last winter, I truly feared I would die without a grandson. I’m nicely recovered now, but I refuse to let you waste more time.” He shot her a sharp look. “I daresay marrying you off would have been easier had you grown up to be sweet and demure.”
Arabella clasped her hands. “I am exceedingly sweet and demure. And if anyone says otherwise, I shall strike them with my crop.”
“You and your jokes.” Papa shook his head wearily. “This betrothal to Sculthorpe had better not be a joke.”
The door opened and shut with a swish of skirts and air of fragrant calm. Papa continued as though Mama had not arrived.
“Sculthorpe arrives here tomorrow, I understand, and will stay until the betrothal ball. The sooner you marry, the sooner you’ll have sons. Your second boy will come here to live with us.”
Well. She had not yet birthed any children, and already they were being taken from her. Up on the wall, Oliver sang,At least you’ll be useful for something!
Oh go jump off a cloud, you tiresome cherub, she snapped at him.My only crime was to live when you did not.
“And let me tell you, my girl, if you don’t get Sculthorpe to the altar, I will cut you off and give the whole lot to Archibald Larke. You will not botch this. No excuses.”
“The wedding will take place, Papa.”
He lowered himself into his chair. His winter illness had worried them all. There were so many things Arabella still wanted to say to her father, so many words she still wanted to hear. In a month, she would leave this home for her loveless marriage.
Yet her parents had cooperated well together for a quarter century in their appropriate, cordial arrangement: wealthy Mr. Larke, cousin to a duke and renowned ornithologist, and Lady Belinda Misson, beautiful, unflappable daughter of the Earl of Keyworth.
“Papa, Mama, perhaps…”
Two faces turned toward her expectantly. Arabella’s heart lurched in her chest. Wretched, stinking emotions.
“Why don’t we spend some time together? The three of us. We could perhaps—”
“What for?” Papa looked truly baffled. “I already have many demands on my time, as do you both.”
“You have not yet seen my work onThe Illustrated Guide to the Vindale Aviaries.”
“That can wait. More important that you plan the wedding and prepare for your new home.”
High on the wall, Oliver was gloating.Next time, just ask for a slap in the face, he chirped.
Shut up, you pestilent putto. I hope the angels molt their feathers into your tea.
“I understand you invited Sir Walter Treadgold and his family,” Papa said. “Which means the Roth girls will be here. I don’t want Guy Roth—Lord Hardbury, I mean. He had better not show his face. He broke his father’s promise that he’d marry you, and that’s not something I can forgive or forget.”
No, Papa never did forget. Arabella touched Pirate’s beak so she wouldn’t look at Oliver.
“It is highly unlikely that Lord Hardbury will even learn they are here,” she said. “Even if he does, he will surely stay away, given all the bad blood. He has feuds not only with you, but also with Sir Walter, Lord Sculthorpe, and me.”
“Lord Hardbury is a marquess now,” Mama broke in gently. “If he does show up, I can hardly turn him away, but must offer him every hospitality.”
Mama met Arabella’s look serenely. How odd. The Russian Tsar could show up with an army and if Mama didn’t want him here, she’d find a way to make him leave.
Papa waved a hand irritably. “Yes, yes, I suppose so. But I’ll allow him only the barest of civilities should he choose to stay under my roof.”
“He won’t show up,” Arabella repeated, and yet another pang stabbed her, at the punishing memory of Guy’s gentle, generous hands, of the loathing and disgust in his eyes. Guy would never come near Arabella again.
