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She kept her head bowed through the whisper of skirts, the comforting fragrance, and then Mama was taking her forearm, turning it gently to study the marks, her palms dry and cool.
“Oh my darling. Why didn’t you say?”
Mama’s fingers were brisk, but not nimble, as she released the buttons on the other sleeve and pushed back the fabric to reveal the other set of marks. Mama had never been tender, and Arabella was glad of that now.
“I was wrong about Lord Sculthorpe,” her mother said.
“You didn’t know, Mama.”
“I should have.” She ran her fingers over the mottled skin. “You didn’t tell your father.”
“Papa would have blamed me for provoking him.” She looked up. “I did provoke him.”
“And you would have continued to provoke him every day of your married life.” Mama tweaked the loose lock of hair, tucked it behind her ear. “I truly believed Sculthorpe was not threatened by your strong character.”
“I said something.”
“I don’t care.” Mama’s eyes flashed. “Whatever you said or did, no man does this to my daughter. By heaven, I’ll shoot him myself. The shame is his, not yours, do you hear me? If you had discovered his true nature after your marriage, you would never have escaped him and it would only have grown worse.”
“You must tell people, Mama. I promised to say nothing, but you must. Whisper it to the other ladies, so that no one ever lets Sculthorpe near another woman. Let him die a miserable old bachelor and never know why.”
So what if she double-crossed Sculthorpe? He did not deserve her honor. She was disinherited anyway, and she would be disinherited a thousand times over before she let him do this to another bride. She wasn’t good for much, in the end, but she could be good for that. It was excruciating for society to know of her weakness, but of course, they would Not Mention it, and her pride would suffer in silence.
“Is this all?” Mama asked.
The image of that little beetle swam before her eyes, the memory of the jarring thud. She could not admit to such helplessness, not even to Mama. She could hardly admit it to herself.
“Isn’t that enough?”
Mama slid the sleeves back down and set about unfastening all of Arabella’s dress. The help made her feel young and weak, and she hated that too. Yet she longed to have someone’s arms around her. Mama never hugged her; that was not their way.
“And so I am cast out.”
Arabella clutched her unfastened gown to keep it from falling down. Falling to the grass. Fallen lady.
“We will find a solution. Have a bath now. Take your supper in your room. Tomorrow, you must face the world with your head held high and let everyone say what they please.”
“I suppose I should be grateful Papa left me that.”
Mama considered. “After the ball, you can go home with my parents. They’ll help you find someone suitable to marry. When you have a son, your father will relent.”
Arabella already knew of someone suitable to marry, but no doubt that plan too would fail. Perhaps when Hadrian Bell had received her letter, her proposition had made him roll laughing on the floor.
“Is there a man left who would take me? The promise of a great inheritance and dowry covers a multitude of sins, but now those sins are all I have.”
“Do not become bitter, Arabella. I have raised you to be stronger than that.”
Then she was failing her mother too. Only to be expected, of a woman whom no one could love.
“I am tired, Mama.”
“Rest now. We will discuss this tomorrow.”
Alone again, Arabella stripped off all her clothes and twisted before the large mirror to inspect the purple mark blossoming over her ribs.
This was meant to be her body, but only in small moments could she experience it as her own: during a hot bath in winter, a cool bath in summer, riding her horse, sliding between clean linens, donning a silk petticoat, an intimate touch.
When she was younger and her attitude unformed, gentlemen took it upon themselves to comment. “You’re too tall, Miss Larke,” they would say, as if being short were something she could accomplish, if only she practiced more. A woman should not be that tall, they said. But she was this tall and she was a woman, so surely she was exactly as she ought to be, the same as every other woman was exactly as she ought to be, simply because she was how she was.
