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Sculthorpe thought her body had belonged to him. When Arabella had tried to claim it for her own, he sought to destroy it in response.
But with Guy, it was different. By some odd alchemy, when she gave him her body, he gave it right back to her.
She provoked Guy too. Their entire relationship consisted of them provoking each other. He did not seem to mind; an eager glint entered his eye. For her part, she rather enjoyed it when he provoked her. It made her feel more alive, more herself.
The door opened and Holly came in. Arabella did not move, watching the maid’s approach in the mirror. Her eyes were on Arabella’s ribs, which were beginning to throb.
“Oh, miss,” Holly said. “Her ladyship never said about your side. And him a war hero too.”
“Please don’t tell her about that one.”
Holly bustled about, mercifully unsentimental. “We’ll pretend it was a horse that did this. You’ve had worse from a horse, you recall, and you survived that.”
Arabella would rather have been kicked by a horse. A horse was not malicious. It did not seek to own or diminish or control.
“We’ve a fresh batch of your orange-blossom water for your bath, and how about some nice hot chocolate with a bit of orange grated in, you like that. And some supper.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“A quick egg and some hot buttered toast.”
Holly’s practical busy-ness was soothing. Arabella sought something else to think about, to force her mind off the ache starting in her muscles, as though they had just received news of their own abuse and wished to lodge a complaint.
“How fares the search of Sir Walter’s room?” she asked.
“Slowly, miss. It has to be Joan or Ernest, because they read well enough to pick anything with Lady Frederica’s name. They can only search a bit each time. If he’s got something, he’s hidden it well.”
So either Sir Walter knew he was up to no good, or Arabella was seeing schemes where there were none.
“Tell them to keep searching. And reassure them they’ll suffer no consequences if caught. But we must look after Freddie.”
“You can’t be worrying about Lady Frederica right now,” Holly said.
“Don’t be absurd. I never worry. I merely plan for every possible outcome.”
“Right you do. Worrying about Liza when her babe came, and old Mr. Niles when they tried to take his house, and the head gardener’s boys when their ma was sick. You stop worrying about others and let someone look after you.”
Arabella was too tired to pretend anymore, so she let herself be coddled and bathed and fed until finally, finally, she was allowed to slide into bed and close her eyes on the world.
* * *
The next morning,after a maid lit the fire and opened the curtains, Arabella rose to use the chamber pot and wash, but then she stood in the middle of her bedroom and could not think of anything to do.
Outside the windows, the world had dissolved into nothing but gray fog. Perhaps her room was floating in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps her room no longer existed. Perhapssheno longer existed. Maybe Sculthorpe had murdered her after all, but she was too proud to admit it.
She opened a drawer for a kerchief, but her fingers fell on her miniature of Oliver. She traced the frame, recalling one of their squabbles, when he had pushed her and she’d landed on her rump, only to trip him so he fell too. They’d wrestled, then, until someone had intervened. Only Arabella had received a scolding, because she was a girl, but Oliver had insisted on sharing the punishment.
She shoved the miniature back in the drawer, closed the curtains on the fog, and went back to bed.
Mama came in and sat on the side of Arabella’s bed. Mama knew Arabella was not ill. She never was. The last time she was ill, she had risen from her sickbed to learn that Oliver had died, leaving a hole inside her and their family forever changed. Better to not get ill again.
“Do you need help with the guests?” Arabella asked, though she did not care. She meant to stay in her floating room forever. “The final preparations for the ball.”
“Mrs. DeWitt has agreed to help.”
Her neighbor at Sunne Park, amiable Cassandra DeWitt. Cassandra would be kind to Arabella, and Arabella did not know if she could bear that. Her pride would take over, make her mouth say horrid things; she would be unkind to Cassandra, who was the kindest person she knew. Arabella would hate herself for that, but Cassandra would never hate her, and that would make it even worse.
“You will not tell her,” Arabella said. “Everyone must know, but not yet.”
