Her Heart’s Rightful Earl (Preview)

Chapter One

Alexander Hartwell crouched, shrouded in the shadow cast by the leafy London Sycamore tree that towered above him. Across the street stood the familiar tall townhouse with its windows glaring back at him like unseeing eyes. He felt watched, always.

Inhaling a deep breath, Alexander braced himself to step into the pool of light dappled onto the pavement by the gas street lamp, a new installation since he had last visited, but as he conjured up the courage to surge forward, a carriage clattered noisily around the corner of the street. Alexander darted back into the depths of shadow just as a pale face peered out of the passing barouche-landau. If he hadn’t thrown himself instinctively backwards, his presence would most certainly have been witnessed.

He was grateful for his dark hair, as he bent his head low so as not to be seen. His hair was mussed from his long journey, and his light blue eyes were wide and alert as he hid in the shadows.

As the late-night travelers rattled away over the cobblestones, Alexander reprimanded himself for his carelessness, questioning how it was possible he did not hear its approach. His mind was entirely distracted by this most important of missions and the critical nature of his concealment. He was so eager to get into the house that he had neglected to engage all his senses, though he knew such a blunder could cost him his freedom.

Alexander needed to cross the street and access the house without being seen. He closed his eyes and momentarily savored the prospect of being received warmly by his most fond and loyal friend, Viscount Lord Thomas Carrington, and the luxury of being in a home of opulence, comfort, and familiarity, after so long away from home.

Alexander ached to once again be in the company of friends and to feel secure; his body, his mind, his emotions—his whole being pined for affectionate exchange. Remembering the last time he was home, his body seized up with ripples of anxiety. It had been the worst night of his life.

Screwing his eyes tight, the horrific vision revisited Alexander—three years ago in 1813, his father slumped over the desk with his head lolled in a pool of his own blood. Alexander had received a handwritten message from the late Earl of Wellwood, requesting his attendance as a matter of urgency. Always prompt to assist his father, Alexander had rushed to the Wellwood residence and into his father’s study only to be faced with this very scene, so brutal and bloody that it still haunted his dreams each night.

He had desperately run to his father’s body, already knowing—from the cloying metallic scent and copious quantity of blood—that his father was past saving. He had bent over him in a desperate embrace before pulling away his hands in horrified realization that his hands and clothes were soaked in blood.

It was at that inopportune moment that Alexander’s younger brother bound into the room. As he processed the horrendous scene laid out before him, a guttural yelp of anguish left his throat, and as he approached the desk, where Alexander leaned over his father’s bloodied body, Marcus declared ‘Murder! Our father has been murdered!’

It seemed an impossibility to Alexander; his father who was so well-loved and highly regarded. He could not fathom why anybody would want to harm him.

‘Brother,’ Marcus had taken his elder brother by the shoulder in earnest, ‘this scene does not cast a favorable light upon you …’

Alexander had not immediately comprehended Marcus’s concern, but as he watched his brother’s eyes roam, panicked, over the blood smeared on Alexander’s shirt and hands, the grim realization hit him. Alexander understood that he would appear guilty of patricide.

‘You must depart, directly,’ Marcus advised.

Alexander stared at his brother, unable to register his instruction.

‘The magistrate will attend, Alexander.’ Marcus was lifting his brother’s arm, coaxing him towards the door. ‘This is a matter of extreme urgency. I will fabricate some narrative to salvage the family’s honour, but it will be futile if you are discovered here, plastered in Father’s blood spill …’

Alexander had fully comprehended, then. He’d thanked his brother profusely for risking his own reputation and had bolted out. But even as he’d fled—with shock visions of his father’s lifeless body, horror at the prospect of evading the magistrate and heartbreak at leaving his mother and the family home—his heaviest concern was Arabella. He was now obliged to abandon his betrothed, void of explanation.

Alexander came to, shaking his head, finding himself still ensconced within shadow. Whenever his mind revisited that terrible night, he found himself entirely transported back. He blinked, grounding himself in the present with the essential task ahead.

He shivered slightly. It was milder here in London than it had been in Scotland, and the daytime had been all blue skies and bright sunshine, but the early April night saw the air drop into a chill, and Alexander pulled his worn jacket around him.

Alexander knew that if a member of the household staff were to answer the door, he must obscure his face with his collar, keep his head bent low, and introduce himself as James MacLeod—the name he had taken as his own these past three years. Upon his announcement, Thomas would recognize his alias and attend presently, ushering his staff away.

Alexander took a deep breath, pulled his collar up around his face, looked both ways up and down the street, engaging his ears this time, and—satisfied that the area was quiet and empty—lunged forward, darting across the cobbles and ascending the steps in determined leaps. Lifting the knocker to bring it assertively down upon the wood of the door, he was startled as the door opened before he even knocked.

Standing in the warmly lit hallway, Thomas gasped at the sight of his old friend upon the doorstep. His face drained of color as the severity of the situation hit him.

Without a word, Thomas pulled Alexander inside the house and ushered him into his study, the first door off the grand hallway.

Alexander quickly took in the familiar entrance as they passed through; the highly polished mahogany banisters that snaked up the staircase with their thick red carpet runner bordered by a glossy wooden finish. An extravagant bouquet of flowers cascaded from a small round table in the centre of the parquet-floored hall.

Thomas urgently locked the study door behind them both and turned, leaning against the wooden door with an enormous sigh. He stared for a moment, taking in the appearance of his visitor; Alexander had a naturally pale complexion, but his skin now told of lengthy exposure to sunshine, and the tanned tone only accentuated the paleness of his panicked eyes. He was only in his late twenties, a couple of years younger than Thomas, but his face was set in the manner of a man who had experienced some perils.

Alexander saw Thomas’s eyes flick to the window, assured by the drapes covering them, and then his eyes rested back on the face of his much-missed companion.

“What on earth are you doing here!?”Thomas asked, exasperated, pushing his dark hair away from the strong bone structure of his pale face.

“Your letter, old friend.” Alexander stepped towards him. “Regarding my mother’s ill health. Did I understand correctly? I did not misinterpret your code?”

Thomas closed his eyes at the realization. “No, you are correct. She is suffering, I regret to say. However, it was not my intention that you attend physically, Alexander,” he reprimanded gently.

“It was inconceivable to consider I should stay away,” Alexander said with a shrug.

“I meant only to advise you. I would not be a dear friend to you should I conceal such important family news. These three years past, I have relayed to you all relevant details through our coded letters. I do not believe the secrecy has been compromised at any point.”

Alexander shook his head, wishing to convey gratitude at Thomas’s covert efforts to help him through his exile.

“It would have been severely remiss of me to neglect this most crucial information regarding your poor mother,” Thomas continued.

“I am grateful to you for advising me, Thomas. Surely, though, you did not expect me to stay away under such circumstances?”

Thomas looked at the floor, shaking his head slightly. “I suppose I must have known you would return, loyal son that you are. But what risks you are taking, Alexander! The people of London believe you to be dead. If you are seen, not only will there be public outcry, denouncing your supposed deceased status, but the magistrate will hold you responsible for the murder of your Father!”

“I am aware of the risk, Thomas. Yet I cannot allow my poor mother to die believing she will never see me again.”

“I understand, Alexander. Though I cannot proclaim I believe this action to be within your best interests.” Thomas’s dark brow furrowed in concern.

“Regardless, I am here.” Alexander spread his arms wide as if in announcement, and Thomas allowed a smile to break through, despite himself.

Thomas closed the gap of a few short steps between them to heartily embrace his friend, with a laugh broadcasting relief. He embraced Alexander fondly, and Alexander smiled for what felt like the first time in years.

“And regardless, I am overjoyed to see you, friend!” Thomas laughed. “How I wish the circumstances were better in our favor—I would have Cook prepare you a sumptuous welcome home dinner. I would offer you a bath and a soft bed in the guest bedroom. Followed by a morning of a jaunt on the horses along Rotten Row, just like we used to, remember?”

Alexander nodded with a sad smile, and Thomas sighed regretfully.

“The best I can offer you, I fear, is a Cognac. Will you partake?”

“Certainly, I will. Thank you. In Scotland, whisky has been the only choice available to me for the past three years. A brandy would be pure heaven!”

“Laird MacLeod has treated you well, I trust?” Thomas asked as he poured two fingers of Cognac from a mahogany drinks cabinet in the corner of his study.

“The man has been my saviour. I am so grateful to you for the placement.”

Thomas batted the gratitude away with his hand. “He owed me a debt and was only too happy to have another land steward about the estate to help out, I’m sure.”

“I have worked hard for him to earn my keep. I have learned a wealth of knowledge tending his land. But I simultaneously appreciate it is a lot to ask of a man—hiding a fugitive?” Alexander asked doubtfully as he took the glass Thomas held out for him.

“You are nothing of the sort, Alexander, and we both know it.” Thomas shook his head mournfully. “That night was the most sinister and deplorable. When Marcus told me how he had found you, covered in your father’s blood, I knew at once you had simply had the misfortune of discovering his body and had no hand in the wretched deed. Marcus expressed to me how damning the scene would look to a magistrate, and we simply had no choice but to assist in your concealment.”

“My faithful brother, Marcus. I owe him my life.” Alexander clutched his chest as he thought fondly of Marcus.

“He worked tirelessly to find the real killer, in the hope that we might bring you home. Alas, to no avail …” Thomas explained woefully.

Alexander hung his head, nodding his understanding.

Thomas narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “I regret I cannot allow you to stay here. My staff would undoubtedly see you, and I cannot ask them to harbor such a secret. Whilst I trust them, their sense of justice may outweigh their loyalty to their roles …”

“I would not ask that of you, Thomas. I am merely passing through–”

“Where will you stay?”

“I’ll get a room in Whitechapel. Somewhere shabby where nobody will know my face.”

“Be sure to use the name ‘James MacLeod’,” Thomas reminded him as they both sipped their drinks.

“Certainly. He is who I must be, now,” Alexander declared sadly.

“This is not the life you should be living,” Thomas asserted, angry on his friend’s behalf.

“What choice do I have?” Alexander shrugged.

“And from there? How do you intend to proceed? You cannot simply appear at your mother’s bedside …”

“She knows I am alive–”

“Of course. Marcus wanted nobody else to know, but I had to betray his instruction. When I saw how heartsick your mother became when she believed both her husband and her son had died … I had to tell her you were safe but forced into hiding. I truly do not believe she would have survived if she thought she had lost you too …”

“She has Marcus,” Alexander asserted.

“She does. And your brother is a good fellow, to all intents and purposes, but—forgive me, Alexander—he is not the earl you would have been.”

Alexander blinked at this, processing how his brother had prematurely inherited the role as Earl of Wellwood, upon his father’s death and his own personal staged demise. It had never occurred to him to consider whether his brother would thrive in the role.

“I do hope I will be able to see my brother, as well as my mother …” Alexander mused.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Alexander. It is not a social visit,” Thomas warned. “The Wellwood estate is full of people, all of whom would know you at a single glance and would question the presence of a stranger, should you arrive in disguise.”

Alexander sighed, realizing he had perhaps neglected to fully think this through.

“We need a plan.” Thomas placed his cognac glass on his desk and paced the length of his office, running his hands through his hair.

“My return was not intended to cause anguish to you, Thomas. I will see my mother briefly. Embrace her, express my love, and bid her farewell …” Alexander’s voice caught with emotion. He took a moment to swallow it back before continuing, “And then I will begin my return journey to Scotland to live out my days on MacLeod’s estate, with discretion and anonymity.”

Thomas regarded his friend in consternation. “You received my letters regarding Arabella?”

Alexander dipped his eyes, and a lump bobbed in his throat as he swallowed hard. “Indeed.”

“While Marcus is away on business, she is presently residing at Wellwood with your mother …” Thomas said tentatively.

Alexander nodded once, knocked back the remaining Cognac, and placed the glass decisively on Thomas’s desk.

“Right! To Whitechapel!”

Thomas acknowledged his friend’s evasion with a sad smile.

“I wish I could offer you a ride …”

Alexander shook his head, business-like. “I will send you word of when we should meet to discuss how best to proceed.”

“Do.” Thomas opened his study door, checked both ways in the hallway to ensure no members of the household would witness Alexander leaving, and quietly ushered him out the front door.

As Alexander descended the steps, Thomas called out in a whisper.

“Oh, and Alexander!”

He turned back to look at Thomas.

“Keep to the shadows.”

“I always do,” Alexander confirmed, dipped his head, and silently disappeared into the night.

***

Alexander had dodged a rather large rat as he’d climbed the dark wooden stairwell of the tavern to the rooms above. Having passed several rooms that had doors practically hanging off their hinges, he was relieved when he arrived at his own, to note that it had a door intact and a lock that worked.

“Here y’are, Mr MacLeod,” the landlady had said with a smirk as she’d handed him his key. ‘Don’t mind the neighbors!’

Sitting on the thin mattress, he now understood her meaning. The walls must have been as thin as cardboard, since he could feel the vibrations of the raised voices and every word was clearly audible, as if they were standing in the same room as him. A man bellowing about money and a woman shrieking back at him about his roving eye in the pub earlier that evening. It seemed to Alexander they were arguing over completely different things, and he was primed to cover his ears with the pillow before noting it was stained yellow and pungently scented from previous occupants. He placed the pillow on the floor and stretched out on the bed that could easily double as a table. Staring up at a maze of thick cobwebs strung to the coving around the narrow wooden room, he hugged his arms about himself in the hope of getting warm.

His eyes fluttered closed, exhausted from the journey, but sprang open again as his doorknob abruptly turned and somebody attempted to push the door open. He sat upright and listened as two voices whispered.

“Nah. It’s locked—try the next one. That woman might have jewellery …”

Alexander frowned despondently; whilst he had shelter, sleep may be futile in this place. He reached instead for his most treasured possession. His leather-bound book of poetry. Carefully, he turned the well-worn cover and gently touched the small, shriveled violet that had been dried and pressed between the pages. His first gift exchange with Arabella, beneath the old oak tree where they would walk, their chaperone nearby. It felt so long ago—the moment he first quoted Wordsworth to her as they walked, and she had confessed he’d chosen her favorite poem. He closed his eyes as he felt the papery dryness of the violet beneath his fingers. He reminisced about his time with Arabella—the coy, vulnerable sparkle in her eye as she’d bent low to pick something from the grass and the small smile that had bothered her lips as she’d presented the violet to him. He had wanted to kiss her, but their chaperone stood just yards away, and he would never risk the scandal, though he could tell she longed to close the gap between them as much as he did. Opening his eyes, he realized with distress that the petals crumbled at his touch, symbolic of his hopes for reconciliation.

He may be within mere miles of her, but he could not see her.

Flipping to the back of the book, Alexander removed a floating page—a letter he had inserted there. Of all the coded letters Thomas had generously sent him during his years in exile, this was the one that had sealed Alexander’s acceptance of his new, unfortunate life.

Until that letter had arrived at the MacLeod estate, six months into his stay in Scotland, Alexander had entertained fanciful thoughts that he and Arabella might one day be reunited; that some benign twist of fate would bring them back together and their love might continue to blossom on from the point he had been forced to leave.

The letter declared, however, that Alexander’s kind and benevolent cousin, Edmund Spencer, had taken such pity on Arabella following the scandal of the Hartwell family that he had wanted to save her from the social ruin associated with Alexander’s presumed murderous crime and subsequent disappearance.

Edmund had married Arabella. If Thomas’s reporting were to be believed, it appeared to all as though the marriage lacked passion and affection but was built instead on kindness and respect.

It had taken Alexander a year to reach some form of acceptance. It should be he who took Arabella Sinclair as his bride and treasured every moment he was fortunate enough to bathe in the glory of her presence. Instead, his cousin had assumed the role, and his jealousy seethed, despite his knowledge that this was a fortunate outcome for Arabella. It was a marriage of convenience, as were so many, and Alexander worked out a way to feel grateful that Arabella had married a man who was gentle, considerate, fair, and wealthy. Her life would be comfortable, as it should be, and that was all he could ask for.

Folding the paper back up, Alexander thought back to the letter that he received eighteen months after this one. The dreaded communication that his cousin, Edmund, had died, leaving Arabella a grieving widow. Alexander mourned the loss of his good cousin, who had been a healthy, fit, middle-aged man with no expectation of premature death.

This grief was teamed with the hard reality of Arabella’s new, unenviable status. Knowing she was out there, sad and alone, made staying away in Scotland, hiding out, even harder than it had previously felt. Even though Alexander knew that—should he have any opportunity to transition back into his old life—there would be no hope of salvaging his relationship with Arabella. All hope of anything between them was dashed the moment he had been compelled to run.

The yelling couple in the next room had quietened down a little, but chaos and activity constantly disturbed the corridors.

Clutching the book of poetry close to his chest, Alexander lay down to think of how he could possibly visit his mother without being seen, recognized, and inevitably reported. Daytime would be too difficult—there would be too many people around. He sat up suddenly at the realization; it would have to be night.

Chapter Two

“Are you quite comfortable?” Arabella asked as she plumped the burgundy silk cushions behind the Countess of Wellwood.

Margaret took a shuddering breath and smiled weakly, patting Arabella affectionately on the back of her hand. “I am content, Arabella. Thank you, sweet girl …”

Arabella returned the smile fondly and busied herself around the room, her silky auburn hair falling over her shoulder like a curtain.

“I do so enjoy these evenings together.” Margaret watched Arabella as her petite form whisked about, lighting candles to prepare for their evening reading.

Margaret closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the cushions. She was looking thinner and frailer by the day; her once rich brown hair now scraped through with dominant streaks of silver, and her eyes hooded, with dark circles beneath. She still dressed respectably each day and took care of herself, but it was much more of an effort than it had once been.

“Perhaps you and your sister would extend your visit.” Margaret’s lips masticated as she spoke. “Once Marcus returns home, there is no necessity for you and Charlotte to hurry away immediately.”

“I enjoy our time together also.” Arabella smiled as she lit the final candle, catching her reflection in the gilt-framed large mirror above the fireplace. As the candle took to the flame, it illuminated her emerald-green eyes, and her pale complexion became highlighted with warm light.

Arabella seated herself in the armchair opposite Margaret. The heavy red drapes were drawn against the night sky, and they were cossetted away, safe and warm. The open hearth swelled with a comforting fire, which glinted on golden ornaments atop the mantelpiece. A fabric, upholstered wall added to the warm, sheltered atmosphere. Security was a luxury Arabella never took for granted. Too many times, she had settled into a false sense of safe shelter, only to have it ripped away.

“I do sometimes wonder …” Margaret began and paused to take a labored breath. Arabella waited patiently; she was accustomed to these prolonged pauses. “How life might have been if Alexander had survived … if the two of you had been joined in holy matrimony and you were my daughter-in-law…”

“Now, now,” Arabella placated Margaret softly. “We are family, regardless. Edmund was your nephew, and he was my husband. Will you be satisfied as my aunt?” Arabella teased.

Beneath the gentle banter, Arabella wished Margaret would not dredge up this topic once again; it seemed to be her favorite to revisit, and Arabella did not have the strength for it.

Whenever Margaret mentioned her son, Arabella was assaulted by visions of Alexander’s intense blue eyes and the way he would sometimes bite his bottom lip to repress a smile if she said something that amused him. It hurt her to think of him.

Thoughts of Alexander Hartwell provoked conflicting feelings deep inside Arabella. She had loved him deeply and believed, wholeheartedly, that they had a certain future together; she still missed him acutely. But it was insinuated Alexander had some involvement in his father’s murder; Arabella did not believe the accusation for even a moment, yet she could not therefore understand why he had run. He had escaped without contacting her to explain, and she could not comprehend why he would abandon her void of justification—she was angry at his neglect, despite being completely in love with him.

By the time word had arrived that Alexander was dead, Arabella was already battling so many contrary emotions regarding him, but devastation dominated and assumed the principal role. A part of her shut down, and she now preferred never to access it. There was too much pain to even begin processing the whirlpool of emotions.

Each time Margaret mentioned her eldest son in a conversational tone, Arabella felt her heart might explode with unexpressed emotions. She wanted to cry, scream, run from the room, such was her desperation to see him again; to feel his hand accidentally brush against hers, to listen to him recite poetry as they walked together in the orchard. Instead, she smiled at his frail mother under the socially acceptable pretense that all was well.

Arabella applied her attention to the pages laid out across her lap when the oak door opened; she turned to see her younger sister entering. Charlotte had covered her long white night gown with a brown one, but her blonde hair hung long and loose over her shoulders, suggesting she was winding down from the formal dress of the day. She yawned as she approached them both.

“I come to bid you ladies goodnight.” Charlotte approached Margaret and bent low to gently kiss her cheek. “Thank you for another splendid day!”

Arabella appreciated Charlotte’s eternal optimism; when times had been hard, Charlotte helped her through with her joyful demeanor.

“Goodnight, sister,” Arabella mused warmly as Charlotte kissed her cheek and swept out of the room with a beautiful energy.

“Let us not read the usual scriptures this evening, Arabella,” Margaret croaked.

“You do not wish us to read?” Arabella tried to mask her disappointment as she realized an evening empty of shared literature would instill a certain sadness.

“Read, certainly. Please,” Margaret replied. “Poetry. Wordsworth …” Margaret pointed to a leather-bound book on the table beside her.

Arabella’s eyes went to the tome with a feeling of dread. This was the book she would read with Alexander. She wondered if Margaret knew this and wondered if she also knew that whilst reading Wordsworth was a comfort to her, it felt like torture to Arabella.

Her ladyship was the priority, though—she had not long for this Earth, and Arabella was determined to fulfill any wish she had, so she inhaled deeply and reached for the book.

It opened at a well-worn page ‘’Tis said that some have died for love’. There, in the margin, were scribbled notes in Alexander’s own hand. They had annotated the text together; his finger following the lines as she read it aloud. She could not bear to look upon it and moved to turn the page.

“Oh, this one! Please. It was one of Alexander’s favorites. Hearing these poems reminds me of a happier time when both my sons were home!”

Arabella looked up questioningly at Margaret, who seemed suddenly rather spirited; her eyes were bright, and she engaged with vigor. As Arabella rested her eyes upon Margaret, however, the lady seemed to surrender once again to a wave of fatigue, against the cushions once more.

“’Tis said, that some have died for love:

And here and there a churchyard grave is found …” Arabella began, trying to numb herself from feeling the emotions that came up when she spoke those words. Her mind haunted her with how Alexander would form his lips around those very same phrases. They now felt so desolately valid.

She closed her eyes momentarily, blocking the surge of fury, sadness, and passion that had become enmeshed within her chest. It was acceptable for her to take her time—it seemed that Margaret might nap as she read; she often did so.

As she continued, Arabella whispered, “In the cold north’s unhallowed ground, Because the wretched man himself had slain.” Her voice caught on this part because it resonated too personally with her own experience.

Margaret might have sensed Arabella’s struggle, as her eyes opened and, though initially milky and wandering, they found Arabella as she croaked.

“Arabella, dear, I am thirsty …”

Arabella eagerly snapped the book shut and stood, declaring, “I shall make us some tea.”

“I am sure Helen would oblige–” Margaret suggested, referring to a maid.

“Helen left, do you recall? Marcus mentioned her departure from her post, shortly before he left …”

“Ah,” Margaret seemed to remember, resting her head back against the cushion. “Another one gone …”

Arabella headed towards the door. “Besides, it can be a pleasant distraction to make tea. Quite therapeutic.”

“That’s fortunate,” Margaret mused sleepily and closed her eyes once again.

***

The wooden corridors through to the kitchen were echoing and cold, and Arabella had hurried through them briskly to reach the warmth of the kitchen.

The flagstone kitchen was vast and mostly in the dark, save for the red glow of the fire, with its pots and pans hung above on a metal pole. Usually a bustling space of staff, chopping vegetables from the gardens, bubbling stews in heavy metal pots, by night it was notably quiet and empty except for the scullery maid who tended the fire at the hearth throughout the night.

Sally stood, flustered, adjusting her white, lacy frilled pinafore, as Arabella entered, unaccustomed to family members visiting the kitchen late in the evening.

“Oh, Sally, hello there! Please—sit down. There is no need for me to bother you. I was hoping to make some tea.”

“I can make tea for you, Ma’am.” Sally was eager to assist.

“No, no, it’s quite alright, thank you, Sally. Is there a pot of water already boiled?”

“Certainly there is, Ma’am. I shall bring it over …”

Sally clothed her hands in thick linens to bring over the pot from where it hung on a metal pole above the lit fire. She poured boiling water into the teapot, and Arabella thanked her, assuring her that she could continue from this point on.

Arabella walked over to the part of the kitchen where the fine china was stored. She gathered two ornate cups and saucers that she recognized as Margaret’s favorite style and looked out the window into the darkness.

The wind was strong, and the climbing roses scratched against the window pane, making Arabella shiver despite the warmth of the fire at her back.

As Arabella turned, she heard a faint and strangely familiar sound. It sounded like the whinnying of a horse. Arabella stopped and squinted out into the gardens. She knew that the bridle path ran along the stretch of the kitchen, on the other side of the hedgerow. She knew it well because she had met Alexander there on many an occasion when they were learning about each other and beginning their journey of infatuation.

Following a moment of straining to hear it again, she sighed. It had probably only been the wind, taunting her with sounds of promise that would never be realized.

But as she turned a second time, she heard it again, and this time it was unmistakably a horse whinnying. Only this was not simply a generic animalistic sound, but a very specific sort. When she and Alexander had confessed their love to one another, he would often meet with her past dark. On these occasions, to signal that he had arrived, he would manipulate his sweet horse into making this awfully funny little whinnying noise that was a combination of a snuffle, a haughty laugh, and a cough. It was quite unique and had always made Arabella smile.

She almost dropped a china cup but saved it as it went to slip from her fingers. She settled the crockery down upon the wooden surface and leaned towards the window, desperate to hear it again.

Alexander is dead. She had to remind herself of this devastating fact because her heart was hammering as if it hoped to see him. He may have passed along that bridleway in years gone by, and he may have made his horse whinny for her in an amusing fashion that the wind now replicated, but he was dead.

Arabella experienced a wave of self-pity, a rare practice for her. As she pressed her palms into the wood, aching to hear the horse once more, her mind viciously recounted all her many woes.

She had lost the love of her life twice. Firstly, through a horrendous scandal. Marcus reported that he had stumbled upon his brother in the study, covered in their father’s blood, and he’d encouraged his brother to flee as he was sure the magistrate would not view the scene favorably. To Arabella’s keen eye, she felt there was more to Marcus’s story, even though she unequivocally trusted that Alexander could not have been the aggressor.

His abandonment was painful, but yet to come was the worst—Marcus’s secondary news of Alexander’s untimely death. It was unclear, Marcus had reported, how exactly he had met his death. Whether it was from exposure to the elements, as it had been a harsh winter when he ran, and, without any preparatory clothing or sustenance to aid him on his journey, he could have frozen or starved to death. It was also possible, Marcus advised, that bandits had killed him. Dressed in his finery as Alexander had been, bandits would have assumed he was monied, and when he was unable to produce any coins to fend them off, they would have slaughtered him. Either way, Marcus had regretfully told Arabella, Alexander had not sent word of having arrived safely at his agreed place of refuge. It must therefore be assumed that he had not, and Marcus must reluctantly accept the role of earl in his brother’s rightful place.

Arabella had mourned for Alexander in a torrent of unremembered grief. Six months had apparently passed when Edmund made his proposal. She had married out of convenience and social expectation, the only alternative to being ostracized by society. It was obvious to everybody that being the betrothed of a man rumoured to have committed patricide and fled the scene would commit one to a life of insolvency.

She had therefore compromised a loving relationship with a man she adored for one of steady sensibility with a gentleman who was kind but did not stir her emotions in any particular way.

The conscious effort Edmund always made with her also reinforced her awareness that he did not feel marital love for her either. Their partnership was civil and vaguely formal. She felt eternally indebted to him for having saved her from ruin, though Edmund himself never fortified this notion; he did not flaunt his charitable gesture. It was merely a feeling within Arabella—that he had sacrificed his own chance of love and freedom to grant her a secure and comfortable life. They appeased one another constantly, but it brought neither party any joy. This cheerless existence was a constant reminder that Edmund married her as a nod of respect to his deceased cousin, and this fact alone painted Alexander as the catalyst of her everyday comfort, even though he could not be there to live it with her. Most days, the conflict in her heart felt unbearable.

As if these sadnesses were not abundant enough, the world had sent her further heartbreak when Edmund had succumbed to some unknown illness and died quite suddenly. Arabella grieved again, though the depth of her melancholy did not hit as hard—losing Edmund was a tragic sadness, where losing Alexander had been catastrophically soul-destroying.

Why now, Arabella thought angrily, must the wind howling over the bridlepath mock her sorrow by contributing false hope in a dark, cold night?

Composing herself and throwing a polite smile in Sally’s direction, Arabella continued to prepare the tea, breathing through the palpitations and concentrating on her hands, which could not stop trembling.