The Heir - Catherine Coulter [6]
“I noticed nothing amiss with Sir Ralph’s presentation. He was quite proper. But, dearest, surely you are in no fit condition to go out now. Surely you would wish a cup of tea? Perhaps a rest in your bedchamber? Perhaps, although it is a bit far-fetched, you might even like to talk to me, Arabella?”
“I am not tired or weak or lily-livered,” Arabella said over her shoulder. “I always talk to you, Mother. We speak at least three or four times every day.” But she didn’t slow. She was consumed with bitter, raging anger and boundless, helpless energy. She was suddenly pulled from her own pain at the sight of her mother’s pale, pinched face. “Oh, God, I am such a beast.” She dashed a hand across her forehead. She would not cry. She would not. Her father would send a lightning bolt down to dash her to the dirt if she cried. “Mother, you will be all right without me, will you not? Please, it is something I must do. I could not bear that Father not be given a proper service before there is any disposition of his estates. I will make the arrangements to leave London. We must return to Evesham Abbey, I will see to it, I must see to it. You do understand, do you not?”
The countess held the stormy gray eyes in a steady gaze and said slowly, with only a hint of sadness, “Yes, my love, I understand. I shall be quite all right. Go now, Arabella, and do what you must.”
The countess felt immeasurably older than her thirty-six years. It was with an effort of will that she dragged herself to the front bow window and sank down into a winged chair. Thick gray fog swirled about the house, twining itself about tree branches and obscuring the green grass in the small park opposite the house.
She saw John Coachman holding the skittish horses. And there was Arabella crossing the flagstone in her long, sure stride, looking dismal in her black gown and cloak. Arabella would arrange everything and no one would know that her determined, implacable energy cloaked a despairing grief.
Perhaps it is better that she will not even seek comfort from me. For then I, too, would have to feign sorrow. She cannot even see that his death means only the end of my imprisonment. Her furious energy will burn out her grief. It is just as well. Dear Elsbeth, innocent elfin child. Like me, you are now to be freed. I must write you, for now you belong at Evesham Abbey. Now you may return to your home, to Magdalaine’s home. Such a short time you lived, Magdalaine. But your daughter will know my care. I will take care of her, Magdalaine, I promise you that. Thank you, God. He is gone. Forever.
The countess rose from her chair with such a spurt of activity that her blond curls trembled about her face. She threw back her head and walked purposefully to a small writing desk in the corner of the parlor. It was a curiously odd gesture, one of confidence, reborn as if by instinct after eighteen years. With crisp, almost cheerful movements, she dipped the quill into the ink pot and plied her hand to a sheet of elegant stationery.
4
EVESHAM ABBEY, 1810
Lucifer’s massive hooves sent loose gravel pitching from the lime tree-bordered drive. The rhythmic, powerful beat brought little comfort to his rider.
Arabella turned in the saddle and looked back toward her home. Evesham Abbey stood proudly in the hazy morning light, its sun-baked red brick walls extending upward to innumerable chimney stacks and gables. There were forty gables in all; she had counted them. As a child of eight she had eagerly announced this arithmetic feat to her father, received a startled look, a hearty laugh, and a powerful hug that had left her small, sturdy ribs bruised until Michaelmas Day.
So many years ago. And now there was nothing. Nothing at all, except those forty gables. And they would remain until well after she was dead.
They had buried an empty coffin in the marbled family vault. After the women, save for Arabella, had left the cemetery, four of her father’s farmers heaved a huge stone slab over the coffin and the local smithy set about