THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF
by Kim Strattford
The house dominated the
hillside, looking far darker in the fading light than it probably was. Arabella
stood at the bottom of the serpentine drive as the wind whipped her hair free from
the pins she'd carefully done it up with and would have blown her hat away if
she wasn't holding it down. "Well, it's certainly
something, isn't it?"
"It is that, Miss."
She saw the coachman swallow nervously before he turned to her and asked,
"Ready to go up there, then?" He sounded like he thought she
shouldn't.
"Ready." She
climbed back into the hired carriage, nearly tripping on her woolen skirts as
she found her seat. She was used to lighter material, suitable for the tropics.
She'd lived her life with bare feet and her hair pinned up haphazardly to let
the breeze blow through.
Until her parents died,
leaving her alone on Martinique with no funds once the creditors had finished
pillaging the accounts. Her whole world now fit into the small valise at her
feet and the battered trunk tied to the back of this carriage headed for the
forbidding English house on the cliff.
Or it should be. Why hadn't
the coachman started up the hill?
Reaching out the small
window, she patted the side of the carriage. "Drive on."
There was no one waiting for
her as they pulled into the portico. She climbed out of the carriage and stared
up at the imposing door so soundly shut.
"You're sure they're
expecting you, Miss?"
She saw movement out of the
corner of her eye, a flicker of light in a window. Someone was watching her.
Then she felt it. Magic:
warm, slightly dangerous. Someone was taking her measure. She closed her eyes
and let the power wash over her.
Then whoever it was went
deeper. Too deep. She felt as if tiny fingers were
reaching into her, looking for memories of the things she'd loved and lost.
Anger flared, and she
channeled it the way her nurse Nathalie had taught her, turning it to fire and
sending the flames down the mystical connection, which was standing wide
open—whoever was testing her was clearly not expecting a reaction.
She heard a shout, saw the
coachman startle, and smiled. "I think they know I'm here now."
The door banged open, and a man
strode out. On first look, he bore no mark from her magic. But
inwardly—she had to bite back a laugh as she ran her own little check of
him—inside he felt a tad singed, like damp shoes left too long to dry
near the fire.
"Miss Carruthers?"
"Mister Landham?"
His eyes flashed, and she
decided not to push him. Instead she dropped a small curtsy, one of politeness,
not obeisance. He was her new employer, not her master.
He studied her. "When I
hired you as a governess for my children, I did not realize you were
so...advanced."
"It was not listed as a
concern in your prerequisites for employment."
"I shall have to be more
mindful of that."
Or perhaps he should not
leave the interviewing to those with no magic. She smiled as gently as she
could and pitched her voice low, so the coachman wouldn't hear. "Please
don't worry. I'm perfectly housebroken."
His eyebrows went up, thick
and dark, a perfect frame for his angry brown eyes. "That remains to be
seen."
The coachman coughed softly,
then louder, as he discreetly held his palm out.
For a moment, Landham's
expression softened. "I suppose you lack funds?"
She looked down, making a
helpless gesture with her hands. Did he think she was seeking employment for
the fun of it? Her passage was supposed to be paid for—it was part of the
contract. Was he the type of man to renege on his obligations?
Landham paid the man and
watched as he manhandled her things from the carriage. Several servants
appeared at the door, then hurried to take over the
task.
As they moved her bags into
the house, the sun started to set, and the wind became more chill—and
even stronger—blowing salty air from the sea so far below them. She'd
lived on the water all her life, but it had been warm water, blue-green like
the turquoise stones in her favorite necklace—gone now, no doubt adorning
the wife of one of the creditors. This sea was gray and stormy, the cliffs
harsh and forbidding.
She had to grab for her hat
again. Perhaps she would give up wearing one here if the wind was always like
this.
"How do you find
Devon?" Landham murmured. He seemed to be making an effort to keep his
magic to himself. Not one brush of it touched her as he moved to stand next to
her. But she could still sense it around her. Power that reeked
of ironclad control of both it and the man's emotions.
"It's very cold
here."
"You're a surprisingly
strong woman, Miss Carruthers. I'm sure you'll get used to the chill." He
looked out to sea, his gaze changing, turning soft again for a moment. "Devon
has a beauty all its own."
The wind grew even colder.
The sea melded with the blackness of the falling night. Soon the only light
came from the dark and silent house. She followed him in, but glanced back at
the sea one last time, as she used to do in Martinique. There her eyes would
have been met with the orange ball of the sun disappearing into the sea. Here,
it was just murk and cold, and stinging grit flung at her by the chill gusts.
She couldn't see that Devon
held any beauty at all.
* * * *
Did you sleep well, dear? The
wind was blowing so hard last night. I think it was to welcome you."
Arabella followed the
housekeeper, Mrs. Morton, down the hall and presumably toward the nursery and
schoolroom. The other woman chattered on in a sweet way that reminded Arabella
of Nathalie.
"Is the wind always so
loud?"
"North Devon is a hard
land. With rough seas and winds. But no, that was strong even for our
standards." Mrs. Morton winked at her, her round face beaming. She
radiated warmth in a house that last night had seemed devoid of it. Was the
woman impervious to the atmosphere here? Or was she new? "Have you served
Mister Landham long?"
"I've been with him
since he was a boy. I feel a certain...possessiveness I suppose is the right
word."
"Like in some way he's
your son?" Arabella knew Nathalie had felt that way about her. She'd
certainly considered the woman a mother of sorts. Her parents were loving and
kind, but in a distracted way, as if at times they had a hard time remembering
who she was and how they'd come to be saddled with her. And they'd been
frivolous, fond of parties and going out. She'd been left behind many times
with Nathalie.
Which had worked out well for
her magic, but perhaps not so well for the part of her that wanted her parents
to be, well, parents. On the other hand, Nathalie had been everything she'd
ever wanted, had loved her unreservedly, so it was unfair for her to think
she'd been deprived of affection in some way.
Instead of answering, Mrs.
Morton glanced at a door that lay ahead on their right, her mouth tightening.
Arabella reached out with her
magic and felt a rush of power come back, pushing her away. Something precious
must be inside to be guarded with that much of Landham's power.
"What's in there?" she
asked, careful to keep her voice low.
"The...mistress is in
there." Mrs. Morton took a deep breath. "She's very sick."
This wasn't the kind of power
you used around someone with a wasting illness. But then sick could mean so
many different things.
"She doesn't come
out?"
"Never. The master goes
in."
Arabella was about to ask
more when a small girl came barreling around the corner and down the hall to
them. Without exactly meaning to, Arabella checked her for magical power.
Nothing.
"Lily, this is Miss
Carruthers who's come to teach you."
Lily shot her a huge,
gap-toothed grin. "I've been waiting all morning to meet you."
Arabella was charmed by her
energy. She knew from the interview that Landham had two daughters. One
six—this little blonde moppet—and one eleven.
"So you've
arrived." An older voice, resonant like her
father's.
Arabella looked up and saw
the other girl watching her from the end of the hall. This was Rose. Unlike her
sister, she'd moved around the corner silently, and her face held no smile. She
pushed back a strand of red-blonde hair and stared Arabella down.
Arabella didn't have to reach
out for this one. Rose was pushing on her hard, magic hitting her in an
undisciplined way.
"That's very rude,"
Arabella said, taking the opportunity to give Rose a
quick, magical swat, and saw Mrs. Morton give her an odd look.
Rose's attack stopped
abruptly as she rubbed at her shoulder. She looked afraid, and Arabella
wondered if she was hiding the power from her father. "Don't tell," the
girl said, confirming it.
She held Rose's eyes, forcing
her to wait, to wonder, to want to
behave if it meant Arabella wouldn't tell. "I trust you'll give me a
reason not to?"
Rose nodded quickly.
"Well, I wasn't sure you
two would get on. But look at you. Like two peas in a pod." Mrs. Morton
beamed at them, her confusion seemingly gone. "Rose, you show her the
classroom, will you?"
Arabella felt Lily take her
hand and smiled down at the child.
Rose waited for them to catch
up, watching her warily. "You're prettier than the last one."
"And the one before
that." Lily beamed at her. "She had dark hair, too, but her eyes
weren't as pretty as yours. Your eyes are like the sea."
She'd always considered her
gray eyes dull, had grown up wanting the azure eyes of her mother or her
father's hazel ones.
"Pretty doesn't build
character," Rose said with a small smirk. "Or provide backbone."
She looked secretly pleased with herself—and not a little bit mean.
"Ran out the other governesses,
did you?"
Rose shrugged, but Arabella
knew she was right. Magic, in small doses could be like nails run hard against
a chalkboard. A constant barrage of it—perhaps accompanied by more
mundane pranks—would send any normal woman packing.
Rose led them into the room
that was set up with everything Arabella thought she might need. She wasn't
entirely sure; her tutors had been excellent but informal. The island had been
their classroom. Trips to the beach, to the volcano Mount Pelee, to
Saint-Pierre or Fort-de-France had served as teaching opportunities for
history, biology, French, and English.
"Have you actually ever
taught anyone?" Rose looked sullen.
"Have you actually ever
learned anything?" Arabella nodded at one of the chairs. "Go sit
down. It's time to begin. We're going to start with French." It was a bit
of a retreat, falling back on her mother's native tongue, but the children
wouldn't know that.
"I love French,"
Lily said with a little laugh. The child probably loved everything.
"I don't," Rose
muttered as she took her seat. But she worked hard at it despite her supposed
antipathy. Arabella could feel her trying to fold her magic around her and
wasn't surprised when the girl did a very good job of it—she'd have to be
clever to keep her power from her father—although she did wonder where
Rose had learned to do it. Natural talent usually didn't get you as far as Rose
had progressed.
In any case, Rose seemed to
be very motivated to keep him from finding out and was behaving far more
pleasantly now than she had before. Arabella smiled as she set them to
conjugating verbs. Blackmail might not be the most tasteful way to achieve her
means, but it was a terribly useful educational tool.
* * * *
Arabella sat in a sheltered
corner of the yard, watching as the wind blew past and set the tree branches
waving. She pulled her shawl around her and tried to imagine she was back in
Martinique, under the gentle sun, with the swish of bathwater-warm water
lulling her to sleep.
The cold wind found her, laying
waste to her imaginary moment. She shivered and reached for her magic, letting
it settle around her like a downy quilt.
"Where did you learn to
control it?"
She twisted around on her
bench; Landham was standing behind her. He studied her, then
seemed to come to some inner resolution as he walked over and sat next to her.
He went on as if she owed him
no answer. "Were your parents talented?"
"Only a little."
Their magic had run to as frivolous a use as their funds had: they'd used their
ability to bind and charm others, keeping the
creditors at bay all the years they were alive. "I learned from my
nurse."
She turned to study him. His
features looked hard and forbidding, yet he sat easily, his posture relaxed, as
if they were old friends. She reached out ever so slightly with her magic to
see what his was doing. It was calm, lying coiled like a great serpent. Ready
to strike, but with eyes closed as it dozed. "And you, sir?"
He shot her a look as if to
let her know he knew she'd been probing his power. "My father taught me.
As his father taught him." He turned, and his eyes seemed to be drilling
into her. "And you are no doubt wondering why I have not taught
Rose."
Arabella was not sure what to
say.
"She thinks I do not
know that she is using magic." He laughed softly, a terrible sound.
"But I do."
"Then why are you
negl—" Neglect was such a harsh word, and Arabella hadn't been in
the house long enough to judge that. Besides, there might have been days in her
own past when some thought her parents were neglecting her. But she'd always
had Nathalie—until the woman had died two years ago. It had been her
first taste of loss. In some ways, it had been the hardest taste.
"Was—is her mother talented?"
"No. She's like
Lily." He made a sound, one almost of exasperation. "I mean, only in
the magical sense. Lily in no way takes after her mother other than hair
color."
She wondered if that was
true, or if he just wanted his youngest to be nothing like her mother.
"You keep your wife locked up. The magic is stronger on that room than
anywhere."
"Yes. It is." He
rose. "Curiosity is very unbecoming in a governess." He bowed
slightly and strode off.
She watched him go, then turned back to the sea, not even bothering to try to
imagine Martinique this time. She did feel warmer, though, as if some remnant
of his magic was joining with hers, giving her a native's tolerance for the
cold. If he had shared anything with her, she imagined it was an entirely
accidental kindness on his part.
* * * *
"All right, girls, come
along." Arabella had them both outside, walking along the trail that led
through the woods to the neighboring property. "I want you to identify
that tree up ahead."
Lily ran on, but Rose hung
back. Arabella waited, but the girl said nothing.
"The tree is waiting,
dear."
"I haven't seen my
mother in two years." Rose met her eyes, and Arabella was struck by how
old the girl's expression seemed. "Your mother's dead, isn't she?"
"She is. And I miss her
very much." Although she missed Nathalie more and had been without her for
two years, a loss made fresh again with the death of her parents. Why did some
people experience loss so early in life while others evaded tragedy altogether?
"I don't miss my
mother," Rose said, the words coming out as if she was spitting them.
"I'm glad I don't have to see her."
"You don't mean
that."
Rose unbuttoned her cuff and
pushed up her sleeve to bare her right forearm. A long, raised scar marked the
skin on the inside. "She did this to me. She was trying to hurt Lily, and
I stopped her. And she got mad and grabbed the iron from the fire." She
swallowed hard. "I hate her."
Arabella wasn't sure what to
say.
"I'd rather have a dead
mother I loved, than one I hate who won't die." Rose's lips set in a tight
line that looked like a replica of her father's.
"She probably didn't
know what she was doing, Rose." Arabella took a chance and reached over,
pulling the girl in so they were walking together.
"That doesn't make it
any easier to bear." The girl pressed against her, then she broke away and
went to join her sister. She didn't pay attention during the rest of their
nature walk, refusing to identify the tree or anything else for that matter.
Arabella didn't have the
heart to chastise her.
* * * *
The wind whined through the
windows, and Arabella plucked out a melody on the piano, trying to mask the
moans of the storm.
"Afraid?"
She jumped. Landham was
awfully fond of sneaking up on her.
She didn't turn to give him
the satisfaction of seeing that he startled her. "Where are your
girls?"
"Isn't that something
you should know, Miss Carruthers?" His tone failed to convey if he was
jesting or if he really thought she should spend every waking moment with his
daughters.
She picked out a few more
notes, then looked up at him in a sudden movement he
clearly didn't expect. He was watching her with an expression she couldn't
read, but it seemed to lack any censure. "Are you joking?"
"Yes but I confess I'm
out of practice. No doubt doing it badly." He shook his head. "The
girls are with Mrs. Morton. She makes warm milk and cookies, and sits with them
while the storm rages. She has her own magic when it comes to calming
them." He moved to the window and stood staring out into the blackness.
"Your wife should be
calming them, though—that's what you're thinking, isn't it?"
"Is that what I'm
thinking?"
"Isn't it what any good
husband would think?"
"You're a very
presumptuous young woman."
"That doesn't mean I'm
not right." She hit a few more notes, then closed
the piano cover. "Do you ever talk about it? About her and what's
happened?"
"What possible purpose
would talking serve?"
"It might make you feel
better." She realized his control had dropped; she could feel pain radiating
off him. Old pain, like the healed-over ache of an infected
wound. She didn't think he was even aware how much distress he was
broadcasting.
"There are many things
that might make me feel better. I'll choose one of them over talking, if you
don't mind." He walked to a side table, poured himself a glass of
something, and drank it down quickly. Then he poured another, finally looking
at her. "Claret? Or do you prefer sherry?"
What she would have liked was
some rhum, served the way Nathalie had preferred with cane syrup and
lime—or some of the aged spirit, which to her almost tasted like her
father's beloved whisky, except less smoky. But she doubted Landham had any
rhum, and even if he did, it would be most improper for her to ask for such a strong
spirit. "Claret, please." Why did the English insist on calling
Burgundy wine by such a strange name? So many things that
didn't make sense in this country.
"Claret it is." He
poured her a glass and handed it over.
She wasn't sure it was proper
to be indulging, to be alone with him like this. She should excuse herself, go
up to her small, lonely room and sip her wine in solitude and try to observe
the boundaries of her new situation. But she missed the freedom of her old
life. Nevertheless, etiquette dictated she at least give nod to the fact that
she knew she should not be indulging with him. "This is most irregular, I
imagine. Did the other governesses enjoy spirits in your company?"
"No." He studied
her. "Do you wish to do the proper thing and retreat to your room?"
She closed her eyes and shook
her head, then she took another sip of the wine.
"Very good, my dear.
Rebel at staid principles." His laugh was harsh, and he moved closer than
he usually did and seemed to be raking his eyes over her.
"You're being
rude."
"That's because I'm
drunk."
But he wasn't drunk. She
reached out with her magic and felt him immediately shield. The lascivious look
fell away, wariness replacing it. She pushed at him again, felt him weaken for
a moment, and the sensation of pain grew stronger.
"I hope you teach better
manners than you employ—are you
teaching my daughter magic?"
"You didn't hire me to
teach your daughter magic. You could teach her—in fact, it would probably
be better if you did."
He sighed.
"If left untaught, her
power will become undisciplined. Shouldn't you take an interest
and—"
"Children are a blend of
their parents, are they not?" He wasn't looking at her, was gazing at the
fire. He sounded as if he was miles away.
"Of course. But we don't
inherit everything." She took a deep breath and forged ahead. "Your
wife is mad, isn't she?"
He nodded, apparently too
captivated by his memories to lie or rebuke her for her bluntness.
"Rose isn't."
"Are you suddenly an
expert on madness and sanity? Are you Doctor Carruthers now?" His voice
turned bitter, his lips inching up in a cruel way. "Tell me, little
Arabella of Martinique, how do you know anything at all about my
daughter?"
"She doesn't feel
mad."
"Oh, doesn't she? And
you know what made feels like? You poor ignorant girl." He threw the glass
of claret into the fire, and flames roared up for a moment. Grabbing her hand,
he yanked her after him, up the stairs, then down the hall, to the shielded
room.
The web of magic slid aside
for him, and he dragged her into the room. She expected him to slam the door,
but instead he closed it so gently it made no sound at all.
"Tell me, Miss
Carruthers. Does my wife feel mad to you?"
Arabella glanced at the woman
in the bed, lying so still, breath coming easily. "She's asleep."
"No, she's not."
The woman sat up. She looked
at Landham and laughed softly. "You've brought me company, Papa. I've been
a good girl. See." She held out a hand scratched raw.
"I used to try to make
her stop," Landham said. "But she wouldn't. And she never knows it's
me. I have no idea what she sees when she looks at you." He took a deep
breath. "Yes, Violet. Company at last." Backing into the corner, he
left Arabella to stand at the edge of the bed.
"You're very pretty. Like a holiday. I love the holidays. The
singing and the candles. And the smell—have you ever had a yule
log rot from the inside?"
"Tell me what she feels
like if you're so blasted wise," Landham muttered.
Arabella reached out with her
magic, expecting that the woman's aura would give her some hint of her madness.
But there was nothing. She probed deeper and deeper.
Violet laughed. "That
tickles."
Arabella turned to Landham.
"I thought there would be something."
He was staring at his wife
helplessly. "I did, too. It's why I let her go on so long before I took
steps to lock her in here. I kept thinking that I'd know if something were
wrong with her."
"She hurt Rose."
He looked at her sharply.
"How do you know that?"
"Rose told me."
"Rose doesn't talk about
her mother."
"Perhaps it's only that
Rose doesn't talk about her mother to you." She didn't mean her words to
strike deep and realized too late they had. "I mean—"
"Please go. I'm going to
build the shields up."
"I could help you. It might
be easier with two."
"I said go." He
stared at her with absolutely no emotion. "Good night, Miss
Carruthers."
She quit trying to make
things better. Nothing was going to do that at this moment. "Good night,
Mister Landham."
* * * *
Lily ran along the surf-line,
dodging waves and picking up shells as they caught her eyes.
"She's lucky. She's too
young to remember we used to have a mother." Rose drew patterns in the sand, lovely intricate whirls and then flowers.
"You're talented. You
should study art."
"Are you an
artist?" Rose wiped them out and started again.
"No." Magic was the
only creative thing she knew how to do.
"I figured."
"Arabella," Lily's
voice got louder as she sped toward them. "Look at this." She flopped
down next to Rose, leaning against her sister, her little hand tightening on
Rose's skirt as she dumped her shells into Arabella's lap.
Rose pulled her close and
kissed the top of her head. Not for the first time, Arabella felt a pang. In so
many ways, Rose was the mother Lily had never had. But what was the price of
that devotion. A lost childhood? The bitter, raging
heart that Rose had stopped trying to hide from Arabella?
"Do you like my
father?" Rose asked softly.
"Of course. He's a good
man and—"
"I didn't ask what kind of
man he was. I asked if you liked him."
Arabella met her eyes.
"I don't know. I haven't spent that much time with him." Not since
that night that he pulled her into his wife's room. He hadn't even apologized.
The next morning he'd nodded pleasantly and his voice had been even as he'd bid
her good morning. It was as if the whole awful encounter had never happened.
Rose hugged Lily closer.
"He is a good man, though?"
"I think so. Yes."
Rose sighed, and Lily looked
up at Arabella and smiled. "He likes you."
With a laugh, she asked,
"And how do you know that, little mischief maker?"
"He has to like
you." Lily looked up at Rose as if seeking support, but it was clear her
older sister had no idea what she wanted from her. "Because if he likes
you then he can marry you, and we'll have a mother."
Rose looked away, her jaw
set.
"You have a mother, dear
heart."
"But she never comes out
of her room. We need a new mother."
"It doesn't work that
way, Lily. I've told you over and over. We're stuck with her. Stop trying to
pretend we're not." Rose let go of her sister and pushed herself up, then
strode off.
"What did I say?"
Lily looked like she was going to cry.
"Nothing, sweet one.
Nothing at all."
She saw Rose turn, and their
eyes met. Rose mouthed something.
"What?"
"I wish that, too. All
right? I wish she was gone." Rose shouted it at them, then she bolted,
running headlong into the wind, her reddish blonde braids streaming behind her.
Arabella sighed. She imagined
that if wishes were horses, both girls would ride forever.
* * * *
"Rose seemed pensive at
dinner." Landham's voice was close to her ear, his breath warm.
"I wish you'd stop
sneaking up on me." She moved away from the window and took a seat at the
piano.
"Don't evade the
issue."
Having eaten with Mrs. Morton
in the housekeeper's room, Arabella wasn't sure what Rose had done. But she
could imagine what her mood might have been like after their afternoon on the
beach. "Lily said something that upset her. She'll get over it."
"What did she say?"
He walked to her and sat down next to her on the bench.
"What are you
doing?"
He didn't answer, just lifted
the cover off the keys, and began to play softly. She was surprised—for
some reason, she'd assumed the pianist was his wife. She started to rise, to
leave him alone with the music.
"Don't go," he
murmured.
She settled back down.
"I noticed she was
pensive because, I think, she has been happier of late. I've become accustomed
to seeing a smile alight occasionally on her face." He glanced over at
her, and his playing slowed. "I believe I have you to thank for
that."
"I've perhaps been some
kind of friend to her in addition to governess."
"Yes, you have."
"You play
beautifully."
"I wish I conducted all things
so gracefully. I am sorry—truly chagrined—about the other night.
Please, tell me you forgive me."
He sounded so distressed, she
murmured, "Of course I forgive you, Mister Landham. I spoke carelessly. I
don't know what you've been through with your wife. IÕm just sorry things are
so difficult."
He shifted, and she was
suddenly acutely aware that his leg was pressing against hers.
She swallowed hard.
He glanced over at her.
"Are you all right?"
She nodded. Then was sorry
she did when his leg pressed even harder. "Sir, what are you doing?"
He stopped playing, his hands
hovering over the keys. "My name is Marcus, Arabella. No one ever calls me
by my name anymore."
"Mister Landham, I can't
call you that."
"In Martinique, we'd
have been equals. You'd have easily called me Marcus." He let up on her
leg. "You make my daughters happy. Is it such a stretch to think you might
make me a little happier? It's only a name. And we are quite alone."
She felt the pain again,
emanating from him, calling to her. Reaching over, she took his hand, trying to
send support and warmth and some kind of healing magic to him, the way Nathalie
had done for her whenever she'd been hurting.
"You are kind," he
whispered.
"But very unwise."
She was sending so much magic out to him that it was making her dizzy. The air
felt close and hot, and she had to lean against him to keep from toppling off
the bench.
She heard him murmur,
"Arabella." Felt him move toward her. "Stop what you're doing,
my dearest. Stop before I lose any will to fight what is happening."
"What is
happening?" She'd never felt this close to anyone. Her power encircled
him, was being drawn in by his own magic. She felt him rubbing her back then
move his hand up to the back of her head, pushing her toward him.
She moved ahead of his hand,
so that she was the one who kissed him. Her mouth opened to his by instinct,
and she heard him groan.
"It has been so
long," he said when they finally pulled apart. "And you are so
lovely."
"I have never..."
She was afraid she was blushing.
"I know." His magic
licked up and down hers. It felt possessive. As if he'd laid
claimed to more than just her lips. "I can feel it in the weave of your
power."
She wasn't sure what that
meant, was sure her face colored even more at what it might signify.
"You have a wife,"
she whispered. In Martinique, there had been a name for women who behaved as
she was now. A name her mother would have washed her mouth out with expensive
soap for using.
He let her go. "I would
apologize, but I find I am not sorry." He looked at her. "Are you
sorry?"
"I don't know what I
am."
But that was a lie. She did
know. And she didn't like it.
It was almost painful to pull
away from him. She felt as if she was ripping off skin, not just unpeeling her
magic from his.
But she did it anyway.
* * * *
Arabella stood at the door to
Violet's room, feeling the magic in front of her. She thought she could get
through, but what would be the use?
"Do you have business
with my sister?" A harsh voice. High-pitched for a man and very nasal.
She turned and saw a portly
man standing a few feet away, watching her. "I'm sorry. I don't believe
we've met."
"And as you're no doubt
the new governess, I doubt we ever shall. Be gone at once." He reached for
the door and she sensed the shielding giving way to him. Not because of magic.
Marcus—Mister Landham had obviously built it to let this man in. As
Violet's brother unlocked the door, he glanced at her. "Are you deaf as
well as ill mannered?"
She fled, hurrying down to
the kitchen where Mrs. Morton sat sipping a cup of tea as she worked on the
accounts. Without asking her what was wrong, the housekeeper got up and poured
another cup, setting it down in front of Arabella. "He's a right prig, he
is. Mister Masterson is the mistress's brother."
"So I gathered."
She sipped at her tea, enjoying the tang of the bergamot. Nathalie had favored
Earl Grey, too. "He comes here often?"
"No, thankfully."
The sound of laugher drifted
in from outside and Mrs. Morton grinned at her. "They're happier children.
That's because of you."
Arabella smiled at the
compliment.
"The master's happier,
too. Makes an old woman's heart feel good. To see him smile again."
"I haven't seen him
break into any earsplitting grins." She shot the woman a look, hoping
she'd temper her hyperbole.
"Well, I've certainly
seen a change." Mrs. Morton shook her head. "It's been no life for
him. Having her here this way. She should be in a place where they can watch
her. And he should be free."
Arabella frowned. Divorces in
Martinique had been rare but not unheard of. Certainly it would have been
understood in circumstances like this, where the woman was a danger to her own
children. "He could end the marriage."
Mrs. Morton laughed bitterly.
"Oh, yes, he could. And he'd wind up on the street with nothing to his
name if that man upstairs had his way. And he usually does."
"I don't
understand."
"I guess you wouldn't,
would you? You've settled in here so well, I forget that you don't know the
history." She sighed. "This house belongs to Charles Masterson. He's
loaned it to Violet. But if anything were to happen to her or if Mister Landham
divorced her..."
Arabella understood too well.
"No wonder he walked around as if he owned the place."
"Yes. He hates the
master. With a great deal of fervor." Mrs. Morton shook her head. "I
hate to think what he'll do to us—how much pleasure he'll get out of
it—once she's gone."
"He'd do that? Turn out
the girls, too?"
"Oh, no, dear. He's made
it quite clear he thinks the girls belong with him in Exeter if they can't be
here. He has far more resources to pursue this in the courts if things turned
ugly."
Arabella heard the girls'
cries turn more strident and tried to imagine them living anywhere but here. They
weren't made for the city anymore than she was. "But he hasn't pushed it
so far."
Mrs. Morton gave her an odd
smile. "No. Not yet."
"Well, it's time for
lessons. I'd hate for Mister Masterson to think I didn't earn my pay."
"No, we can't have him thinking
that." Mrs. Morton favored her with a warm smile before turning back to
her accounts.
Arabella hurried upstairs to
get a wrap—the girls might think it was warm today, but her blood was
still tropics' thin—and passed the study as she headed for the door. She
heard loud male voices, could only catch snippets of the conversation:
"She's getting worse, and I..." "You'll do nothing, or I'll send
you packing, so help me God."
Magic seemed to roil around
the door, and for a moment she was afraid for Violet's brother. Then Marcus
seemed to control himself, and she walked away, realizing as she did that she
could feel his "touch" on her.
Had he been drawing from her
magic to maintain control?
It warmed her to think he
trusted her that much. It made her afraid, too. Primarily, because she'd never
thought to stop him. In fact, she hadn't even noticed he'd linked his magic
with hers—she was that open to him.
He was married and she was
letting him in—in a way that almost felt more intimate than when he'd
kissed her. What was wrong with her?
She heard loud footsteps
coming her way and fled before Masterson discovered her lurking at another of
his doorways.
* * * *
Lily and Rose sat on the ground,
drawing detailed versions of the flowers in the garden, and Arabella sat
watching them. She felt Marcus coming long before she heard or saw him, and
knew he'd done that on purpose, that he'd wanted her to know he was on his way.
But she could also tell that
he liked being able to let her know,
this secret way that more mundane people would never feel.
He sat down next to her.
"Thank you for not
startling me this time."
He nodded. "But I reach
for you without thinking this time and before. It is very nearly a primal
thing." He sighed. "I'm sorry. It was an unforgivable breach to draw
on your magic that way."
"If I hadn't stopped to
see what the shouting was about, I wouldn't have been available for you to use,
so it's probably my fault."
"Arabella." He
leaned in, his voice pitched low. "I'd have found you, I think. No matter
where you were. It was just easier to take it with you standing right
there."
"That's far less
comforting."
"I agree." He
leaned back against the bench. "My brother-in-law and I do not get
on."
"Yes, that was evident.
He didn't like me much, either. Caught me in front of your wife's door."
He turned to look at her.
"What were you doing there?"
"I don't know." She
met his eyes, trying to let him see she was being honest.
He nodded, as if accepting
her answer.
"Father?" Lily
threw her drawing pad down and ran to him, but stopped short of launching
herself into his arms.
Arabella thought she wanted
to, though.
"Hello, dearest."
He pulled her onto his lap, and she cuddled into him, her face transformed by
quiet joy. Then he turned to his eldest daughter. "Hello, Rose."
"Father." She
didn't look back, just kept drawing.
"You seem quite absorbed
in that."
"Miss Carruthers makes
sure we have absorbing lessons."
"What are you
drawing?"
"A flower." Rose's
tone was just this side of surly.
"She's really quite
talented. You should consider bringing in someone who's actually skilled in art
to tutor her. I'm quite capable of admiring but I don't know the first thing
about technique." She smiled gently, sorry that Rose wasn't giving him
more, but wanting him to know how proud he should be of her.
Arabella felt something go
out from him. Magic, barely touching her this time, headed for his daughter and
loaded with love and regret.
Rose stiffened as it reached
her, and Arabella could tell she was doing her utmost to shield.
"I've known for some
time, Rosie. You can let go."
Rose shot her a wounded look.
"You promised."
"Rose, I swear, I didn't—"
"She didn't tell me. I
knew before she came." He handed Lily to Arabella, stood, and walked over
to Rose. He studied the drawing. "But this is beautiful." He looked
back at her, then reached down, lying his hand on Rose's hair. "Would you
like an art tutor?"
Rose seemed unsure what to
do, but finally she nodded.
Holding his hand out to her,
he said, "Perhaps it's time for other types of lessons, as well?"
Rose eyed Arabella, as if unsure
whether this was a trick or not. Arabella nodded slightly and sent a rush of
magical reassurance to the girl, and she could tell by the frown on Marcus's
face that he knew she'd done it, and that it bothered him that his daughter had
to think about this.
But then a smile broke out on
his face as Rose took his hand and let him pull her up. They walked off
together toward the stables, and Arabella could just make out Rose's
energy—let loose at last around her father—jumping off her like a
happy puppy.
"Rose doesn't smile
enough," Lily said, content apparently to stay in
Arabella's lap.
"What about your
drawing, Lily?"
Lily made a dismissive sound.
"I'm not as good as she is. But if she's getting a special lesson, I want
one, too. Tell me a story that Rose doesn't know."
So Arabella told her about
Martinique and Nathalie and a little girl who played in the sunshine and the
sea.
Lily seemed to love it.
She stopped before the story
grew sad.
* * * *
Arabella looked at herself in
the mirror, studying her reflection. Her skin had grown so pale here. In
Martinique, she'd been outside often, riding or swimming or just lazing in the
late afternoon breezes and her skin was always golden. Here, she was outside,
but she'd not been offered the use of a horse, the water was bone chillingly
cold, and the wind was far too harsh to sit for long in.
She looked older. Her skin
seemed tighter, her mouth less free. But then she'd never had a thing to worry
about in Martinique except to wonder where her parents were and, once she was
older, which party she would accompany them to. Her life had been frivolous,
and it probably would have continued that way if she'd married before they
died. She'd had suitors but hadn't felt in a hurry to choose one. They'd all
melted away once she was penniless.
Taking a deep breath, she
pushed those memories away. She was here now. In this dark house where there
were people who needed her. No one had ever needed her before, except for
Nathalie when she was dying. It was the one time she'd felt useful, reading
from the stories Nathalie had once read to her.
A knock sounded on her door.
She hurried over and opened it.
Mrs. Morton stood with a
tray. "I'm so sorry, dear, but Mister Masterson's visit has Cook at sixes and
sevens in the kitchen. He's asked for some special dishes and—"
"It's all right. I can
eat in here tonight." She took the tray, trying not to think about how
much she hated to eat alone in her room. But that was how it was supposed to be
for a governess. She was lucky that Mrs. Morton had taken a liking to her and
invited her to sup with her most nights.
"I'll be so happy when
that man's gone back to Exeter."
"So will I." She
smiled at Mrs. Morton, then carried her tray over to the little table by the
window and ate quickly.
She was reading when she
heard the pounding of feet on the main stairs, then loud voices. Opening her
door a crack, she thought she heard Marcus directing the servants to call the
doctor. She hurried into the hall and down the stairs toward the source of the
sound.
Marcus looked over at her as
she walked up. Rose and Lily were at the end of the hall, being kept back by a
maid.
"What's happened?"
She realized they were
standing at a guest room door and moved so she could see what was going on
inside. Mister Masterson lay on the floor, his face florid, eyes
open and staring. "Is he...?"
"Yes." Marcus
pointed to his daughters. "Stay with them? They'll feel better with you or
Tressa—Mrs. Morton, and she's busy helping me."
Mrs. Morton looked up,
meeting Arabella's eyes as if telling her not to blame Marcus for the
familiarity of using her given name. "He's had a shock. We all have. But
the man wasn't healthy, if you ask me. Ate too much rich food."
"I'm sure that's what
the doctor will say," Arabella murmured. As she passed Marcus to go to his
daughters, she let her hand brush his.
He jerked away as if she'd
burned him. She got an impression of suppressed rage. And of
relief.
She suddenly wondered if
Masterson had heirs of his own. And if not, would the house—and all his
other possessions—revert to Violet?
She met Marcus's eyes.
Realized for all the attraction she felt for him, he was still very much a
stranger to her.
"Please," he said,
his voice taking on a desperate tone. "Stay with my daughters."
She hurried away, relieving
the maid of Rose and Lily and urging them back to their bedrooms. They all
ended up in Rose's room, sitting on the window seat and watching as the doctor arrived
on horseback, followed a while later by a wagon.
"I never really liked my
uncle," Rose said softly.
"He gave me
presents." Lily curled with her head in Arabella's lap.
"But you never liked
him. You just took his presents."
Arabella had a feeling Rose
had thrown his presents back in his face. She was so like her father.
"He's been sick before
when he visited here."
"Really?" Arabella
saw them load Masterson's body into the wagon.
"He ate too much. Mrs.
Morton always had to lay in extra fine things when she
knew he was coming. And he drank and smoked a stinky pipe."
"Did he have a family
back in Exeter?"
Lily nodded, the movement
barely felt against her skirts. "My aunt Elizabeth. And cousins John and
Richard."
Arabella felt herself
relaxing. There were other heirs. Masterson's death would have gained Marcus
nothing.
It pained her to realize how
much that meant to her.
* * * *
Mrs. Morton seemed to be
walking on air. She'd been so tense since Masterson's death,
nothing like the cheerful woman Arabella had enjoyed being with. But now she
found the housekeeper humming softly as she did her accounts. She looked up as
Arabella entered and beamed at her.
"What's happened?"
Arabella waved her back into her seat and fixed them both a pot of tea.
"I shouldn't tell you,
but I know you'll keep it to yourself." Mrs. Morton waited until Arabella
had sat down, then leaned forward. "The house is
ours."
"I don't
understand."
"Mister Masterson left
it to his sister in his will. With her incapacitated, the master has control.
I've been so worried we'd end up in the cold."
"Did Mister Landham
know?" She felt her stomach clench at the thought.
"Know what?"
"That the will was
written that way?"
Mrs. Morton gave her a
searching look. "Why, I can't imagine how he could have."
"Of course not."
But what if he had? What if Violet had known and had said something about it,
thinking she was talking to her dead father or her brother?
She didn't want to think that
of Marcus. That he could be capable of...of murder. But she didn't know him,
not really. She knew what his magic felt like, and it didn't feel evil, but
she'd been unable to read any trace of insanity from Violet, either. Her
ability to tell things just by feel was more limited than she'd ever imagined.
Or maybe it was just off
here, in this cold place, where her blood ran slowly through her veins and she
grew paler each day.
Arabella rose, no longer able
to sit and make cheerful small talk. "I need to prepare my lessons."
"Are you all right, my
dear?"
"Why wouldn't I
be?" She gave her the most brilliant smile she could, then walked away as
if she hadn't a care in the world.
But she did have a care, and
her control wasn't what it should have been. Marcus found her in the library,
staring numbly at the same page she'd been looking at for minutes.
"What is it? Your magic
is whirling about you—I could feel it from the stables."
She turned and studied his
face. "I heard."
His face fell. "Damn
Tressa."
"Don't blame her. She
was just so happy for you."
He moved closer, his magic
crawling freely all over her. She knew he could tell what she was feeling, how
conflicted she was.
"Arabella, do you think
I did this?" He sounded utterly betrayed.
"Of course not."
But she looked down and could feel his magic retreating.
He sighed. "You'll
excuse me, my dear. I'm expecting the doctor. Violet is quite agitated. If I
didn't know how disconnected from life she is, I'd swear she understood that
her brother is dead."
"Agitated." She
tried to reel in her feelings, to not let him see how much she doubted him.
"You think I'm behind
that too, Miss Carruthers?" His voice had gone cold, colder even than the
way he'd said her name so formally.
She had no answer for him, so
she just fled.
* * * *
The wind blew like a thing
possessed, slamming leaves and small twigs against the house. Arabella sat in
her room, shivering, remembering the storms that used to come up in Martinique,
the way the sand had been blown all around, filling the house, making them
sweep for days to clear it and the palm fronds littering the courtyards.
A soft knock sounded on her
door. She opened it, expecting to see Mrs. Morton with an extra lamp or perhaps
a glass of warm milk, but it was Marcus.
"I don't like how things
ended between us this morning." He pushed her gently out of the way and
stepped into her room, shutting the door.
"You should not be
here."
"I know that."
Running his fingers down her cheek, he stared at her with the most helpless
expression she'd ever seen him wear. "Are you going to leave me?"
She pulled away, just enough
to free herself from his caress. She couldn't think when he was touching her
that way. Even if he seemed to be making an effort to keep his magic contained.
"Arabella?"
"You should go. At
once."
He moved closer and freed his
magic. It licked at her in a concerted attack, wearing down her resistance,
until she let it in and felt as if she might fall from the sensation. He
steadied her, his hands warm on her back.
"I need you. I have not
let myself need anyone for years, but you are so strong, and I cannot resist
what you offer."
"I have offered you
nothing," she murmured, but she was pulling him to her, mirroring what
their magic was doing as she kissed him, as she wrapped her arms around him and
gave in to feelings she did not entirely understand.
He lifted her, carrying her
to her small bed. "You mustn't leave me." He began to undress her,
tossing her garments to the floor.
She knew she should tell him
to stop, tell him to leave her in peace. And then she should go. She should
flee this man and his house on the cliff.
But she couldn't. It wasn't
that she had nowhere to go. She was intelligent and could find another post.
But she loved his children. And she—she wanted him.
Moaning, she began to tear
his clothes from him. They fell onto her bed, and she felt as if the magic
controlled them instead of the other way around. She was doing things to him
that should have made her blush. He was doing things to her that should have
left her just as embarrassed. But she didn't stop, and neither did he.
They finally lay still,
pressed together on the small bed, and he kissed her forehead and held her
tightly. She looked up at him, and he gave her such a sweetly lost smile that
she had to pull his face to hers, had to kiss him again.
It was light out when they
finally stopped making love.
He dressed slowly, staring at
her as she lay naked on the bed. She knew she should cover
herself. That only a wanton would lie as she was, letting him enjoy looking at
the body he'd possessed all night. But she was too tired to move—and she
liked how it made her feel to let him look.
Sitting on the bed, his back
to her, he pulled on his shoes. "Are you going to leave me?"
She knew he'd saved the
question till now so she could answer without the press of his eyes on her,
without so much of last night intruding. "I don't know."
He nodded, and she wished she
could see his face. Without turning to look at her, he got up and headed for
the door.
"Marcus?"
He turned then.
She slipped off the bed and
walked to him naked and aching and lost in the delicious and base combination
of pleasure and guilt. He smiled, and she saw her emotions reflected in the
twist of his expression.
"I love you," she
said. It wasn't a promise not to leave. But it was something.
He took her in his arms,
kissing her with more tenderness than passion. "I love you, too, my
Arabella." Then he let her go, gently pushing her out of sight of the door
as he opened it carefully and snuck a look into the hall. The coast apparently
clear, he slipped out, closing the door softly.
The room felt empty without
him, and she was suddenly chilled. Slipping on her nightdress, she crawled back
into bed, trying to get warm.
She woke hours later, still
cold.
* * * *
Standing at the sitting room
window, Arabella saw Marcus out by the stables with Rose,
working with what seemed to be an unbroken horse.
"He has a way with them.
A magical touch to put them at ease." Mrs. Morton was as bad as Marcus,
slipping in with no warning.
"Rose seems to have
inherited that touch."
"She's very like him.
Lily is more like the mistress." Mrs. Morton closed her eyes for a moment.
"Only not in that sense, please God."
Arabella sighed.
"What's wrong, my
dear?"
"I'm just tired. I
didn't sleep well." At least she'd finally warmed up.
"This house is a
different place since you've been here, Arabella."
She looked up, surprised at
the woman's informality. It had been Miss Carruthers and Mrs. Morton up to now.
She wondered how long it had been since someone called the housekeeper by her
given name. "I don't know that I've done anything special, Tressa."
The woman beamed at her.
"Of course you have. You've given them something to smile about."
Arabella wondered if Marcus
was smiling today. Was he remembering their night together? With pleasure or
regretting it?
Tressa took her hand and held
it lightly. "This place has been a dark house. And then you blew in here
like a breeze from that tropical land you love so much. You brought light and
hope." Her smile faded, and she stared hard at Arabella. "Whatever
happens, you need to stay with them."
"Really, Tressa.
Eventually the girls will outgrow me."
"They'll outgrow their
governess. But they won't outgrow their friend." She let go of Arabella.
"And the master'll never outgrow you. He's met his match in you, I
think." With a wink, she left Arabella alone.
Images of the night before
flooded through her. The way he'd learned her body. The way she'd traveled over
his, exploring with lips and tongue. He had indeed met his match. But was that
anything to be proud of?
* * * *
Marcus was in her bed again,
making love to her in the agonizingly slow way he seemed to like best, making
her squirm and beg him to finish what he was doing. He settled down beside her,
kissing her and running his fingers down her body, easing her back into the
life that existed outside of this heady pleasure.
"You are my world,"
he murmured, as he pulled her closer.
"As you are mine."
She hated that it was true. Hated that she could not say no to him. She hated
herself for being so weak, but she didn't hate him. In fact, her feelings for
him grew with each touch, with each blending of their magic.
"I know this is hard for
you, Arabella. The secrecy. The hiding. It will end, I promise you." But
he sounded defeated, as if he wasn't convinced of the truth of his words.
She was about to pull him to
her, to kiss him and tell him to stop trying to make their situation better,
when a scream rang out. It was terrified and had the high-pitched sound of a
child's fear.
"Lily," he shouted,
flinging the bedclothes off and pulling on the nightclothes they'd scattered
all over the room.
She grabbed her nightdress
and robe and followed him out, not caring who saw them.
But no one did. The hallway
was deserted.
Then the scream rang out
again and Marcus ran for the stairs, heading for the main bedrooms. She
followed him and felt a moment of panic when she saw Violet's door standing
open. She reached out, sensed how the magical barrier was shredded. Felt
something...familiar in the feel of the damage. But she didn't have time to
stop and assess it because Lily screamed again and there was an answering cry, more wild beast than human.
She nearly crashed into
Marcus as she rounded the corner to the girl's room. He was standing stock
still as Violet stood between them and Lily. They were all frozen in this
strange tableau, the silence broken only by Lily's frightened whimpers and the
sound of harsh breathing from Violet and from them.
Rose's door crashed open, and
Rose walked out, putting herself between her mother and Lily. She was holding a
long knife she must have taken from the kitchen. Arabella wondered how long
she'd had it in her room.
"Go back to your room,
Mother." Rose sounded far older than her years. Her voice came out as a
growl, and her eyes were dead and dangerous as she added magic to the threat of
the raised knife.
Violet slapped at her head.
"Get out. Get out of me."
Arabella frowned. Rose was
strong, but the warning shot of magic she'd just sent didn't warrant Violet's
reaction. Glancing at Marcus, Arabella saw he looked as confused as she did.
But he was quite a good
dissembler. She had reason now to know that. Every time they met in the hall,
for instance, with witnesses present and acted as if they were just master and
employee was evidence that he could pretend one thing and feel something very
different.
But she didn't sense any
magic going out of him to make Violet act that way. And she knew the feel of
his magic at a soul-deep level now.
Violet sank down to the
carpet, crying softly. "I'll be good, Mother. Please, I'll be good."
"Rose," Marcus said
very quietly, "get your sister into her room and lock the door."
Rose didn't stop to argue.
With a last angry glare at her mother, she turned and hustled Lily into her
room. Arabella heard the click of the lock.
"The wards you put up on
her room were ripped through, Marcus."
"I know." He was
staring at Violet as if he was unsure how to deal with her now that the
immediate danger was over.
"There are only three of
us who could have done that." And it had taken Rose an awfully long time
to come out of her room. Had Violet reacted that way to an ongoing attack, not
to the blast of magic Rose had sent as they watched?
The girl hated her mother.
The question was how much and what was she willing to do for hate's sake?
Or was it just easier to
think it was an angry daughter and not the man she loved who had freed the
weeping woman who lay before them, clawing at the carpet as if she could dig
her way out of the house?
Arabella pulled her power as
tightly around herself as she could and tried to block out everything but the
need to think clearly about this.
Marcus glanced at her.
"You're shielding from me."
"We need to get her back
in her room."
"Can I help?" A soft voice. Tressa, behind them.
Had she been there all along, afraid to move for fear of upsetting the delicate
balance of their standoff? And how much had she heard?
"Tressa, thank God. Yes,
please help." Marcus pushed past Arabella, dragging Violet up.
His touch set her off, and
she began to scream and kick. But Tressa was there, surprisingly strong, and
she grabbed Violet's legs and hefted them up. She looked at Arabella and said,
"There's a bottle of laudanum in my pocket. Take it out and go on ahead.
The small glass on the table, fill it halfway."
Arabella did as she said, hurrying
into Violet's room, which smelled musty and of unlaundered clothing. She found
the glass and filled it half full, holding it to Violet's lips once they
brought her in.
Violet thrashed with her
head, nearly knocking the glass from her hand. Then Arabella felt Marcus's
magic reach out. There was anger in it, and fear, but also some remnant of the
love he must have felt at one time for this woman.
Violet calmed and opened her
mouth, and Arabella poured the contents in slowly, not wanting her to choke.
When Violet had taken it all, Arabella moved away, letting them get her back
into bed. She found herself near the door, and closed her eyes so she could
examine what was left of Marcus's shields. There was something so familiar
about the remnant of power. She began to follow it and—
"Are you all right,
Arabella? Do you need to sit down?" Tressa was staring at her in concern.
"You're swaying on your feet."
She was, but it was the magic
making her do it, not fatigue. "I'm all
right." Looking over at Marcus, she saw that he was watching Violet
closely, his hands clenched. She knew he would stay until his wife fell asleep,
so that he could build the wards back up again.
"Good night, sir,"
she murmured, as she followed Tressa back to the part of the house they shared.
If he heard her, he did not
reply.
* * * *
Arabella sat outside with the
girls and tried to divert them as the doctor rode up.
"Afternoon, miss,"
he said seeing her. "Girls."
They echoed pleasantries, but
Lily moved closer to her, her hand tangling in Arabella's hair in a way that
was almost painful. "Is he here for Mother?"
"Yes, dearest." She
glanced at Rose.
"They should lock her up
now. Father can do it now that Uncle Charles is gone."
Lily perked up. "Would
she not be our mother anymore?"
"She'll always be your
mother, Lily." And always present, in some sense, for Arabella and Marcus.
They'd never be able to come out of the shadows as long as she was still his
wife.
She realized Rose was staring
at her. "What?"
"You feel different.
Have for some time. More...sure of yourself."
Arabella could feel herself
flushing. "I'm just getting used to this place."
"Oh. Is that it?"
The look Rose gave her was far too knowledgeable.
Had Marcus been seen coming
out of her room? Had Rose heard some gossip from the servants?
"I'm glad you're
happy," Rose said, surprising her with a kiss on the cheek. "I'm glad
you came to us."
Arabella smiled at her, but
she wondered if happy was the right way to describe how she felt.
* * * *
"She's getting
worse," Marcus murmured as they lay spooned
together on her bed. "The doctor thinks an institution may be the best
option."
She knew she'd tensed at his
words by the sigh that escaped him.
"I'm sorry, Arabella. I
don't know what else to do."
"You must do what's
right for her. And for all of you." Nathalie had taught her that long ago.
That hard choices sometimes had to be made in order to
do what was right. That what you wanted might not be what you got, not even
with magic on your side.
"What's right is being
with you. This: the way I feel when I walk with you and the girls on one of
your little nature lessons. I look at the spot you should be sitting at the
dinner table and feel an emptiness I've never known. I want you with me, Arabella.
In every way that you could be with me."
"You want me as your
wife?"
"More than
anything."
She turned and snuggled into
his chest. "That's a problem, my love, as you already have one."
"I know." His voice was muffled by her hair. "I know that too well."
She felt a surge of nausea,
said, "Let me go," and slid off the bed, pulling out the chamber pot.
She threw up several times, then felt him run a cool
cloth over her forehead.
"This is not good,"
he said, worry clear in his voice.
"I must have eaten
something that didn't sit well. That's all."
"When was your last
monthly flux?"
She colored at the frankness
of his question, then looked down at the chamber pot and felt horror fill her.
"No."
"I don't remember it
impeding our joining."
She met his eyes. They hadn't
spent every night together, but he was right. Her hand seemed to find her belly
by instinct, and she swallowed hard.
Had she thought magic would
protect them from this eventuality? They'd taken no precautions, caught up in
the passion and fire.
"We will sort this
out," he said softly.
"I don't think there's
anything to sort out, is there? In no time at all, our child will make an
appearance."
It was his turn to swallow
hard. "I will divorce her."
She went on as if she hadn't heard
him. "There may be something I can take." People had gone to an old
former slave for that in Martinique. The woman would make them a packet of
herbs to steep into tea. A few days later, the people looked much relieved.
But did she want that? Her
hand curled protectively over her belly, and she brought her other one up to
lie over it. She met his eyes. "What are we going to do?"
"I will divorce her,
Arabella."
"Masterson was smart. He
may have left the house to Violet, but I imagine he put some caveat on that,
didn't he? That if you left her...?"
He looked down and she knew
she was right.
"We'll make this
work," he murmured as he pulled her up and eased her into bed, as if she
was fragile now and needed to be protected. His magic settled around her like a
mystical coat of armor, and she sighed at how safe she felt.
Even if she knew it was an
utterly deceptive security.
* * * *
Tressa sighed as the doctor
rode away from the house. "He's here more and more."
Arabella knew that soon she
might be the one needing his services.
"My mother used to tell
me not to borrow trouble," Tressa said, taking her by the arm and leading
her to the table. "And I'm going to follow that fine advice."
Arabella wished with all her
heart that she could do the same. But hiding her head in the sand wasn't going
to help things. In fact, failing to plan for herself and her child would
undoubtedly make her situation even worse.
"Here, I saved you some
lunch." Tressa pushed a small plate with a roll, some cheese, and an apple
on it.
The tangy smell of the cheese
hit her nose immediately, making her stomach clench. She ran for the privy,
barely making it before her guts started to heave. She escaped as soon as she
was done, the smell of the privy almost worse than the nausea.
Tressa was standing outside.
Without a word, she put her arm around Arabella and helped her back inside.
"Something you
ate?"
"Yes," Arabella
barely got out. She noticed Tressa hastily removing the plate of food.
"Nothing to worry about,
then." Tressa gave her a searching look.
She tried to answer her, but
the words would not come. For a moment, she was dizzy, as if something was
pressing in on her. She felt if she didn't tell someone else the truth, she'd
explode. She heard herself whispering, "Not for eight months or so."
Tressa was staring at her in
confusion. "What did you say? You mumbled."
Breathing a sigh of relief
that her stupid blurting of the truth hadn't been heard, Arabella shook her
head. "I was agreeing with you. Nothing to worry about."
"Good." Tressa got
up and put the kettle on. "I'll make you something to drink. Plain, weak
tea always helps me when my stomach is upset."
She sounded so like Nathalie
that Arabella almost started to cry.
"My dear. Everything
will be all right. We all get sick now and then—nothing to be worried
over." She fussed with some herbs. "Some fortifying ingredients.
Since you're not eating. And this for the upset stomach." She dropped a
root into the teapot.
Arabella could feel her eyes
closing as the tea steeped; she felt safe and warm, and Tressa sounded like
Nathalie again as she said, "Here, my darling, drink" and held the
cup to her lips.
It tasted nothing like
Nathalie's concoctions, but somehow it still reminded her of home.
* * * *
Arabella lay awake, tossing
and turning in her bed. Marcus hadn't come to her. He'd been busy with the
doctor, and then she'd seen another man show up. A stranger.
The door opened, and she
turned to see Marcus. Reaching out for him, she smiled as he came to her quickly,
shedding his nightclothes as he walked.
He crawled into bed and
pulled her close.
"Who was that man with
you today?"
He kissed her cheek, his hand
coming to rest on her slightly swelling belly. "My solicitor. I wanted to
know my—our options."
She could feel herself tense
and heard him sigh, but he didn't say more.
"We don't have many, do
we?" she finally asked.
"No. We don't."
There was an odd note in his voice.
"What?"
"We might do fine on our
own. America is a place to start over, from what I've read. For those who might
not have much."
"No. I won't deprive the
girls of their birthright just to make this better for us." She sighed.
"There are stories that could be put out. I could be a girl who made a
mistake. You the kind master who did not turn me out for lack of discretion
with one of your servants."
His hand tightened on her
belly. "You're talking about my child. Not some by-blow of the stable
boy."
"The story would let me
stay. We'll just have to be more careful in the future."
"I won't live that way.
I won't have my child go unacknowledged."
"I could leave, you
know. Take on a new name. Be Mrs. Someone or
Other—the widow of a low-ranking soldier. Perhaps one
in India—who would check that? And it might be for the best,
I—"
He shut her up with a kiss.
"Go to sleep, Arabella. We will sort this out. And soon.
I promise."
She didn't think she'd be
able to sleep. But between his baby making her sick
and his body keeping her safe, she soon fell asleep and slept till morning.
He was gone when she woke.
* * * *
She went down for breakfast,
truly hungry for the first time in a while, but was surprised to find no one in
the kitchen so she went upstairs to look for the girls, taking the stairs two
at a time in a burst of energy, but they weren't in their rooms. Walking to
their window, she glanced outside, but saw no one.
She sighed and made her way
further down the hall then stopped in her tracks, dread filling her.
The door to Violet's room
stood open. The magical barrier was in tatters, sending a pulsating barrage of
energy that was just...wrong. Again she felt the slightest tinge of something
familiar in the magic.
She checked the room but as
she feared, there was no one inside.
The girls. Where were the
girls?
She turned and ran down the
stairs, nearly colliding with Tressa who was just coming in. "Where is
she?"
"We don't know."
"And the girls?"
"Rose is out looking
with Marcus." If Tressa was upset enough to call Marcus by his given name,
Arabella knew things were bad.
"And Lily?"
"We don't know."
Tressa took her hand. "I was just coming in to get you. We're all out
searching, and the doctor is on his way with more men. We'll find them. I saw
Lily at breakfast, so if she's with her mother, they couldn't have gone far."
"How could she have
escaped from that room?"
Tressa shook her head.
"It's an old lock. Not that hard to pick if one has time and patience. She
never had the patience before."
Arabella knew better than to add
that she'd gotten through the barrier, too. For the second
time. Was Marcus absolutely certain that his wife had no talent? Maybe
she was feeling something familiar in the magic because it was like Rose's.
There were plenty of people
in the woods, but she wondered if Marcus had spent any time really scrutinizing
the barrier. She eased away from Tressa. "I want to help but I need to
change my shoes to something more suitable for outdoors. I'll only be a
moment."
Tressa nodded.
She hurried back up the stairs,
stopping to put on sturdier shoes before heading to Violet's room. Between the
stale smell emanating from the room and the unpleasant twinges of magic torn
apart rather than released more naturally, it was difficult to stand too close
the door, but she did it anyway, holding onto it, trying to find the echo she'd
sensed before, to go deeper this time.
Magic from someone she knew
but she didn't think it was Rose or Marcus. She tried to go deeper but what was
left of the barrier oozed away like quicksilver leaving only the tantalizing
hint of something she knew she should recognize.
Finally giving up, she
hurried outside and walked with Tressa, combing ground. A bit later they heard
the sound of horses, and the doctor rode up with a group of men. "No
luck?" he asked.
Tressa shook her head.
He glanced around almost
helplessly. "Mrs. Landham's been in such a state lately. But I never
expected her to do this."
"None of us did, Doctor,
or we'd have had her moved to a safer location." It was bold of Arabella
to speak that way, but the doctor seemed to accept it.
He wheeled his horse and
motioned for the men to follow him. "We'll send someone back for you if we
find them."
Tressa nodded and seemed to
sink into herself. Arabella could feel Marcus from far off, the touch of his
magic infused with panic. She searched for Rose and found her easily, no longer
bothering to shield. Pure emotion filled the girl. Hatred for
her mother and terror for her sister.
"They're up ahead."
"I know." Tressa
met her look. "Where else would they be?" There were cliffs on one
side, the empty heaths if they went far enough on the other. Only by going
straight ahead would Violet find cover.
Arabella reached out for
Marcus and realized he was closer than she'd thought. Then his magic surged in
time with a growing panic, and Arabella didn't think, she just ran toward where
she felt him Tressa close behind.
They came out of the trees
into a clearing. Violet was holding Lily and was standing dangerously close to
the cliff edge.
"Put her down,"
Marcus was saying, and Arabella felt him unleash his magic, pressing on Violet,
trying to make her do what he said. But he was being careful. Too much and he
might spook her right over the cliff.
"Let her go, Mum."
Rose's voice was soft. "Please, let her go."
"You're so pretty, my
darling." Violet's voice was raspy, as if she'd been deprived of water for
a long time. She pulled Lily closer.
The stream of power got
stronger, and Arabella realized Rose had joined her father, their magic so alike
it was almost impossible to tell the streams apart. And there was less
restraint in hers—less unwillingness to hurt. Her hatred flared and
Violet cried out in pain.
Lily scuttled away, running to Rose, who
ceased her magical attack on her mother and picked up her sister, retreating to
where Arabella and Tressa stood, murmuring to Lily until she finally pulled
away and said, "Leave off, Rose. I'm all right."
"What do we do
now?" Rose asked, and Arabella was about to answer when she realized Rose
was talking to Tressa and heard her say, "We wait for the doctor to get
here."
"How will he know where
we are?" Arabella asked, but then she felt it. A distinct tingle of magic
going out toward where the doctor and his men had ridden, calling the men back
to them even though they wouldn't know why they were suddenly headed back to
them.
Following a trail of magic
leading straight to Tressa.
Arabella stared at her. Then at Rose. She'd known that learning to hide magic the
way Rose had done wasn't usually something a person could discover by trial and
error. She'd known it and she'd let it go because...
She remembered something
pressing down on her the other day, when she'd blurted out words that could
only be taken one way. She'd thought Tressa hadn't heard her say she was with
child, but realized the other woman had only pretended not to hear.
"This is for you,
Arabella," Tressa said, a gentle smile on her face. "For you and the
baby you carry."
Rose looked at Arabella in
shock.
"And for the man who is
like a son to me. For my dear, dear girls." She ruffled Lily's hair and
let her hand settle on Rose's shoulder. "Violet is just in the way at this
point."
Arabella desperately scanned what
she could of the magic leaking now from Tressa. Had they been living with a
monster? But all she could feel was relief that she didn't have to hide her
power any longer.
And then
guilt. But only
a little.
"You killed her brother,
didn't you?"
Tressa looked away. "His
appetite for rich things would have killed him eventually. I just hastened the
process. We needed him gone, for this to work. For you to
have any kind of future. For my boy to be happy."
She turned to stare at
Violet. "We need her gone, too," she said so low Arabella was sure
the girls couldn't hear her.
"Tressa, no."
But she could feel power
gathering, so much power. How had she ever hid it from them?
Hoof beats behind them
startled her and Tressa, too, because the power eased a little. The doctor rode
into the clearing and dismounted, saying, "Mrs. Landham, please let me
help you."
"I know your kind. Poke
and prod and never give a body a moment's peace. There's no help from such as
you." Violet moved like a caged animal with nowhere to go.
Nowhere to
go but behind her, over the cliff.
Arabella felt Marcus let go
of the magic that had been keeping Violet in place. He backed off, and she
could tell he didn't want to panic his wife into jumping.
But Tressa's magic went
screaming past Arabella, magic intended to hurt, magic that probably felt to
Violet like a swarm of bees.
"Don't, Tressa. This is
wrong." She put a hand on her belly and apologized to her child, but she
knew that she was right.
"She stands in the way
of your future. No one will question that she is mad when she jumps."
"I will always know what
you did." She turned and met Rose's eyes. Calm eyes now that her sister
was out of danger. Arabella didn't think Rose would shed a single tear if her
mother danced off the cliff, but she also wasn't joining in to push her.
But Violet was getting closer
to the edge, clawing at her hair as Tressa's magic did its work, her fingers
bloodied.
"Tressa, stop this
now." Arabella gestured for Marcus. "Help me."
He strode over to them,
staring at Tressa as if he'd never seen her before. "You're the one who
broke through the barriers."
"I'm the one."
Tressa touched his cheek. "I love you, Marcus. You know that, don't you?
I've always been a second mother to you."
"She's going to kill her,"
Arabella said, and Marcus stared at his wife. He seemed like a man torn between
what was right and what would make his life begin again. She knew how he felt.
For a moment, it seemed like
he was going to do nothing. Then he turned and looked at Arabella.
"Promise you won't leave me. Promise that we'll start
over, all of us. We'll do whatever we have to do—but not
this."
"I promise."
He sent his magic toward
Violet, enveloping her in it, calming her.
Arabella looked at Rose.
"She's your mother. You have to help her."
"I don't care if she
dies."
"Then do it because I'm
asking you to. Because your father wants this."
Rose looked at Tressa.
"I'm sorry." Then she added her power to her father's.
Violet was still inching
backwards.
Arabella added her own
magic—it felt as if it was coming from a place of pain and loss and
guilt. She was giving up her future for this woman's. She wasn't sure it was
fair, but she knew it was right.
Violet stopped moving backwards
and stood sobbing, finally letting her hands drop from her bleeding scalp.
Arabella felt Tressa's hands
on her shoulders. She whipped her around, and Arabella's magic was cut off.
"You're a good person,
and I'll honor your choice," Tressa said. "I have no right to demand
her sacrifice so that those I love are happy."
Arabella sagged in relief.
"But I do have the right
to sacrifice myself for you." Tressa leaned in and kissed her cheek,
laying her hand on Arabella's stomach and whispering something that sounded
like a blessing. "It would be nice if you called her Tressa."
She turned, and Arabella
reached for her sleeve, but the wind came up and whipped it the other way. The
crash of the waves seemed to intensify, and she heard Marcus roar, "Tressa,
no!" as Tressa ran across the clearing, slamming into Violet and carrying
her the short distance to the cliff's edge.
Violet screamed, and the
sound echoed as she fell. Tressa made no sound, but Arabella could feel the
jolt when she hit the water, as every bit of her magic was snuffed out in the
cold sea.
Rose fell to her knees,
gasping and then crying—Arabella knew it was for her teacher, not for her
mother. Marcus seemed to be holding himself like a column of marble, as if he
would break apart if touched or talked to.
Lily just stood, staring at
the place where her mother and the woman she had loved like a grandmother had
gone over. "Tressa?"
Arabella picked her up and
murmured to her, stupid things about Tressa and her mother being in a better place,
but she didn't know which of them she was trying to soothe.
And while it might be true
about Violet, Tressa had been happy here. Loved.
The doctor looked at Marcus.
"We'd better get down there. Tide'll change soon."
Marcus nodded stiffly.
"I'll just get my girls and Arabella home first."
Arabella. Not Miss Caruthers.
The doctor didn't seem to notice, just said, "Of course. We'll wait for
you."
Rose pushed herself to her
feet and walked over to Arabella. She held her hand up and let it hover over Arabella's
stomach. "May I?"
She nodded, felt the girl's
hand press down. "Your brother or sister."
"She was right. It will
be a girl." Rose looked up at her. "Will you call her Tressa?"
Marcus was looking at her, waiting
for her to answer. She realized he wouldn't press the issue if she said no.
"I...I'm not sure."
She glanced back at the cliff, afraid that it would take a long time before she
remembered Tressa as anything but the woman who'd taken such a drastic step to
free them all.
Would it have been better to
let her push Violet over with her magic? Had Arabella been wrong about what was
right? She knew what Nathalie would have said; she always said if what you
wanted meant someone else had to suffer, then you
needed to rethink what you wanted.
Marcus took Lily from her,
and led them off, but Rose held her hand tightly, hanging back a bit.
Arabella let her slow their pace enough to put some distance between them and the
others. "What is it?"
"When I was four, my
mother made Father take us to a farm in Dartmoor for me to pick out my first
pony. She and Father were laughing. They were happy once."
"And so were you,
dearest."
"I was. I loved her back
then." She looked up at Arabella, her eyes dry. "I should try to
remember those times, shouldn't I?"
Arabella nodded. "The
last few times she tried to hurt Lily, I think it was because Tressa was
pushing on her."
"Maybe. But not the
first time." Rose touched the sleeve that covered the burn scar. "The
first time was all her."
* * * *
Arabella waited in the
library, sitting at the piano and picking out the melody of a song Nathalie had
taught her.
She caught a taste of
Marcus's magic; he was exhausted, emotionally and physically. She could sense him
coming back to her and waited for him, her hands in her lap.
The main door opened,
footsteps clomping down the hall. The doctor followed Marcus in and came to
stand in front of her. "Miss Carruthers. I'm Doctor Penwhite. Gordon
Penwhite. I don't believe we've formally met."
"I don't believe
so." She took his hand.
"Gordon's an old friend,
Arabella," Marcus said. "I told him you'd be needing his services
before too long."
She looked down.
"I'm not one to judge,
my dear. I know the hell Marcus has lived through the last few years." He
patted her hand, then let her go. "I'll leave you
two alone."
Marcus sat down next to her,
his shoulder pressing against hers. "Even if he weren't my friend, we need
him on our side. We'll have to wait a short while to get married. I want this
to look respectable."
"As respectable as it
can," she said, putting her hand over her belly.
"The child will be born
early. He'll put that on the documentation."
She nodded, knowing he was
right to worry about such things.
Turning, he pulled her into
his arms, holding her tightly. "Tressa was a second mother to me. I can't
believe she's gone."
"I can't either."
She turned and buried her face in his chest. "How did she hide her
magic?"
"The stronger you are,
the easier it is. I don't think my parents would have hired her on if they'd
known. She must have figured that out and started hiding it then."
They sat in silence for a
moment, the Arabella whispered, "You found her body?"
"We found them
both."
Arabella drew a ragged breath.
"It's my fault, Marcus. I wouldn't let her use her magic to push
Violet."
"No, my love. We wouldn't let her use her magic to
push Violet. Even Rose helped stop her. It wasn't just you." He put his
hand over hers, pushing lightly. "We don't have to name her Tressa."
"I was thinking Nathalie
Tressa. If it's a girl."
"That would be
nice." He kissed her forehead. Then leaned in again and
kissed her gently but quite thoroughly on the lips. "I love you
so."
She pressed against him, her
arms around his waist. "Play something for me. Something sad."
"I wish you wanted
something happy. I wish I wanted to give you a happy song. But tonight..."
He began to play, a haunting
melody that seemed to sink inside her and rip the pain out. She realized she
was crying and felt him cradle her in magic even as he played on.
"Are you sorry you came
here?" he whispered when he finished.
"No." She met his
eyes, smiled and shook her head. "No, I'm not sorry."
She heard the wind whipping up, the sound of leaves hitting the window. "Storm's coming."
He nodded. Then he looked at
the stairs, and she could imagine what he was thinking. Tressa always took care
of things—always made everything all right.
She rose. "I'll ask Cook
to bake some cookies and warm the milk. So the girls aren't scared." She
took his hand.
"Thank you." He
pulled her hand up and settled his cheek against it.
"We can sit the storm
out together."
They had weathered much worse
together than that, after all.
"Are you ever sorry that
you came here?"
She leaned down, kissing him
as tenderly as she could. "No. Even if you were quite cold to me when I
arrived."
She got a small laugh from
him before his smile slipped away.
It was enough.
END
© 2011 by Kim Strattford