The Heir - Catherine Coulter [79]
He said to her in an even voice, “You will not need your gun tonight, Arabella. I merely came to wish you a good night. You were an excellent hostess. I was pleased. I believe the evening was successful.”
“Thank you. I agree,” she said, nothing more. She stood there unmoving until he had strode from the bedchamber and into the adjoining room, closing the door behind him.
Rain slashed against the windows and cascaded in thick sheets onto the rows of rosebushes, flattening them against the outside wall of the library. Arabella sighed in frustration at her enforced inactivity and hurriedly scanned the dark-paneled shelves for a suitable book to while away the afternoon hours. How very strange it was that she, the Earl of Strafford’s favorite daughter should be roaming furtively about the abbey, purposely avoiding nearly all of its occupants. Even Dr. Branyon, who was expected later in the afternoon for tea, had joined the ranks of those whose penetrating stares made her feel like a guilty intruder in her own home.
“Oh, damn, how absurd it is.” She grabbed the first colorfully bound book that caught her eye. Once in the earl’s bedchamber she realized she had selected a book of plays by the French writer Mirabeau. As her French was as deplorable as her efforts at the pianoforte, deciphering the lines word by word was about as pleasurable as having a splinter in her finger. After a while she looked up from her shadowed corner and rubbed her eyes. She was struck again by her desire to be alone, be hidden away from everyone. Had she not unconsciously selected the darkest corner of the room to pass the afternoon?
By the time she had forced herself to translate the supposedly witty lines in the first act, the book lay open on her lap and her head fell against her arm.
Arabella was not certain what awakened her, perhaps her fear that the earl had come into the room to find her, but in an instant she was alert, her muscles tensed for action.
She gazed across to the more lighted portion of the room and saw with some confusion the stooped figure of Josette, Elsbeth’s maid. The old woman moved to The Dance of Death panel, looked quickly about her, and began to run her gnarled hands over the carved, uneven figures on the surface.
Arabella rose from her chair and walked from her shadowed corner, a question already framed on her lips. “Josette, whatever are you doing here?”
The old woman jumped back from the panel, her arms flopping to her sides. She gazed in consternation at the young countess, her throat so dry with fear that only jumbled incoherent sounds erupted from her mouth.
“Come, Josette, whatever is so very interesting about The Dance of Death panel? If you wanted to examine it, you had but to ask me. Surely it is no excuse for you to be sneaking about.” Arabella frowned at Josette, her mind suddenly alert to the trapped, confused look on her face.
“Forgive me, my lady,” Josette finally managed to say in a strangled whisper, “it is just that I . . . that I . . .”
“You what?” Arabella said, her head cocked to one side. Goodness, the old woman looked as if she expected the grim laughing skeleton to reach out from the panel and grab her by the throat. This was all very odd.
The old woman wrung her hands, clasping them over her thin chest. “Oh, my lady, I had no choice. I was forced to do it, forced.” She broke off suddenly, her eyes rolling upward. Before Arabella could question her further, she ran from the bedchamber in a frenzied, loping gait.
Arabella made no move to stop her. She stared at the closed door, wondering what the devil the old woman had meant. After a few moments she walked to The Dance of Death and stood for a long while looking at the bizarre panorama of grotesque carved figures. She moved her fingers lightly over the surface. The skeleton screamed his soundless commands to his demonic hosts. The panel was as it always was. Arabella stood