Chapter Twelve

July 1817

L ast summer had been unseasonably cool, but more typical weather patterns returned this year, and the month of July was as torrid as ever. By the time the borrowed carriage rolled off the high road towards Pendleford, Arabella felt absolutely miserable. She’d felt thirsty for what seemed like hours, and longed for a cup of cool water or iced lemonade. Or even a handful of tepid pond water, she’d grown too parched to be choosy.

Though the carriage roof shielded the travelers from the rays of the sun, the cabin also blocked out most of the breeze. Even with the windows opened, the inside of the carriage felt like an oven. Sweat trickled down Arabella’s back, making her chemise cling to her and causing itching in the most impossible-to-reach places. The heat drove her frantic with discomfort, but all she could do to combat it was fan herself and pray the torture ended soon.

She glanced out the window at the Pendle Water. The opposite bank was lined with trees, and the shaded stretches of the river looked particularly inviting. What would happen if Arabella stopped the carriage, bolted outside, and threw herself into the river? She swallowed, imagining how cool the cool water would feel. Would it really be so terrible to jump in if no one saw her do it?

“Almost there!” George interrupted her fantasy of cool water by affectionately resting his hand over hers. The gesture would have been comforting if she hadn’t been sweltering. Instead, the warmth of his hand added a new, unwanted layer of discomfort.

Don’t touch me! Arabella bit her lip to keep from snapping at her new husband. But she must not have adequately hidden her distress, because George removed his hand and turned his face to look out the window.

Had she hurt his feelings? Probably. But right now, she felt too miserable to try making amends. She turned her head to stare out her window again. She at least had a good view of the river limpidly flowing between high banks. George only had green fields to observe. Given how much traveling up and down the country he’d done over the last few weeks, she doubted he found that view interesting.

“Ah! There it is!” George said eagerly.

“Where?” All Arabella could see were trees. Once they reached the end of the field, an orchard began. But the coach horses jogged along at such a slow pace that it might as well take an eternity to reach the shade of the trees.

“You can see a bit of the chimney there.” George pointed in the direction of the orchard.

“Oh.” He was right. A bit of red brick peeked out from between the trees. “Is there something special about the chimney?”

George chuckled. “Only that it’s the chimney of our very own home!” He turned to grin at her, his eyes alight with sudden joy. “I haven’t been here for years,” he confided, probably for the dozenth time over the last three days. Then his smile faded. “I hope everything has been kept in order.”

“I am sure the Hastings have done their job well. Your uncle would not employ them if they were incompetent.” Arabella might have been able to respond to his anxiousness with more sympathy if she had not already delivered that line twice today.

“Poor Belle.” George brushed a strand of hair away from her sweat-dampened forehead. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look miserable, sweetheart.”

“I am miserable,” she admitted. “I hate being overheated.”

“I would’ve thought you inherited a stronger constitution,” George suggested. “I mean, your great-grandfather lived in India for decades, didn’t he? Seems like if he survived the heat, you should, too.”

Arabella wrinkled her nose at him. “I can only suppose that I didn’t inherit my sensitivity from him. Maybe my mother’s blue blood is to blame!” All the Canning wealth came from East Indian trade, but her mother’s family, the Hallingstones, had the superior family background. Arabella’s great-grandfather on that side of the family had been a baron, and her Hallingstone relatives never let anyone forget it.

“In any case, you won’t always be overheated here. The breeze off the river usually keeps the gardens cooler than this,” George assured her. “Today’s heat is not normal for July.”

“That’s a relief!” Though it did nothing to assuage her discomfort now.

But the even bigger relief came when the carriage turned off the country lane onto a private drive. As the carriageway curved past a gnarled old tree, the changing view revealed a cottage garden and a large, pale, half-timbered house.

“Is that it?” She knew her question was foolish. Obviously, this must be their destination. The dogwood trees that gave the cottage its name lined both sides of the carriageway. In spring, this short drive must be breathtakingly beautiful.

“Yes! Isn’t it smashing?” Geoge leaned forward, as if he could not wait to get out.

“It’s bigger than I expected.” To Arabella, the word “cottage” suggested a tiny, charming little house with a thatched roof. This wattle-and-daub house was certainly charming, and it did have a thatched roof, but it was much bigger than what she had pictured, falling in between the size of a large farmhouse and a small manor house.

But the front garden was everything a cottage garden should be, with vegetables and old-fashioned flowers mingled together. Pink and cream roses wended their way up a trellis near the doorway, promising a familiar sweet odor. The homely beauty of the flowers inspired Arabella’s artistry for the first time that day. She woke up from her heat-induced stupefaction and began to really see .

I shall have to sketch this ! she thought happily. A pencil sketch first, and then some experiments with colors. Arabella had little skill with a paintbrush—watercolor and oil paints never behaved quite the way she wanted—but she liked using Conté crayons. She wasn’t sure crayons could capture the color and mood of the garden, but she wanted to try.

“I hope I can find my art supplies right away.” She probably wouldn’t have a chance to work on the sketches today, but tomorrow morning might be the perfect time to start. At least, if she could find her paper, pencils, and colors. “I hope nothing got left behind. What if...”

“Belle, you insisted on packing the art supplies yourself,” George reminded her.

“Oh, you’re right.” Her body sagged with relief. Then she wrinkled her brow in confusion. “How did you know that?” George hadn’t been present when she packed up the boxes that were sent ahead of them.

“How could I not remember?” he retorted. “You wouldn’t stop talking about it the day after the wedding. You were worried that Jenny wouldn’t remember where she put it, or that she’d pack it poorly and your clothes would get ruined.” His affectionate grin removed any trace of criticism from the reminder.

Yes, that was right. She had given her maid a hard time about the packing, too. Poor Jenny! In hindsight, Arabella suspected that what had really been troubling her was the marriage itself rather than the fate of her trousseau or her art supplies. But so far, she’d found that she enjoyed married life, at least if she ignored the discomfort of so much traveling. George could be a lot of fun, both by day and by night.

“I’m glad you remembered that,” she told George. With the end of their journey finally at hand, much of this afternoon’s crankiness slid away, and she managed a genuine smile. “I can’t wait to start drawing the house.” She could send a sketch to her sister Lavinia, who was very curious about what Arabella’s new life would be like. Was there by any chance a pencil in her reticule? “I don’t suppose you have any paper on you...?”

George chuckled. “I always have paper in one pocket or another! Unfortunately, I think the pages in my notebook would be too small for sketching. And it’s full of my notes, anyway.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t steal your notebook.” She ought to have brought her sketchbook with her, instead of packing it in a trunk. When she was out of sorts, nothing helped her recover faster than taking up a pencil and doodling or sketching.

“Besides, you won’t want to stand around drawing when we have exploring to do.” George opened the carriage door almost before the vehicle had come to a full stop. “Come on! I want to show you the house.”

“Can we begin in the parlor, with a glass of water?” she suggested hopefully.

“Whatever you need,” he promised.

She expected George to offer her a hand stepping out of the carriage, but instead, he lifted her out, as if she were a child. As he let her slide to the ground, her body brushed against his. She noticed the precise moment when he registered the contact, his eyes widening and darkening. Instead of letting go of Arabella when her feet touched the ground, he wrapped his hands around her back in a loose embrace.

The flush burning in Arabella’s cheeks was no longer due to the July sun alone. She hadn’t expected to see that look in George’s eyes right now. How on earth could anyone contemplate amorous congress in this heat? The mere thought turned her stomach.

She drew in a sharp breath. “I do need to rest,” she said gently. “Travel wears me out.”

“Of course.” If George was at all disappointed by her response, he hid it well. “Let’s see what refreshments Mrs. Hastings can offer us. Perhaps you’d like a moment to repair your toilette as well?”

“Yes, please.” She needed a cold drink, she needed to take off this miserable walking dress and put on something lighter and cooler, and she needed to rest in a darkened room for at least an hour. Maybe after all that, she could respond to the implicit suggestion in George’s eyes.

Getting that chance to rest required getting past the housekeeper, Mrs. Hastings. It transpired that Mrs. Hastings had been a young housemaid at the cottage when George was a child. She not only remembered George, but remembered a few rather disreputable stories about him, all of which she wanted to relate when she brought refreshments into the parlor.

Or ought this sitting room be called a drawing room? Whatever one called the room, it had been furnished with both elegance and a good deal of money. Arabella might have been mistaken, but she thought one of the landscape paintings on the wall was a genuine Gainsborough. Another painting—a view of the sea during a storm—looked like the work of Mr. Turner. The whole house was an artist’s dream!

While Mrs. Hastings reminisced, Arabella closed her eyes and fanned herself. She had taken a chair near the open window so she could catch the full effect of the light breeze wending its way into the room. She would not exactly use the word “cool” to describe the room, but it was a considerable improvement over the stuffy carriage.

George gently interrupted before the housekeeper could begin another story. “I am very sorry, Mrs. Hastings, but I am afraid Mrs. Kirkland is not in any condition for a chat at the moment. She requires rest.”

A grateful smile lifted the corners of Arabella’s mouth, and she opened her eyes. “My husband is right. The journey here has quite exhausted me. I would be all the better for a chance to rest.”

“You poor dear!”

To Arabella’s horror, Mrs. Hastings affectionately patted her on the shoulder, as if they were long and very close friends rather than having only just met. It took the greatest willpower to keep from physically recoiling from the unwanted touch. Fortunately, Mrs. Hastings didn’t seem to notice the negative reaction at all. Even more fortunately, when she bustled back into the room with a glass of water, she contented herself with merely handing the glass to Arabella and leaving.

By the time she’d finished her drink, Arabella felt approximately forty percent recovered. She put the glass down on the tea table and sighed. Her skin still itched in half a dozen places, and she felt sticky and grubby. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of asking for a bath. But that would make extra work for the housemaid. Besides, getting into a tub of hot water did not appeal at the moment.

“I had thought to take you on a tour of the house and garden, but perhaps I had better simply show you to your bedchamber?” George suggested. “So you can rest?”

“Yes, please,” she promptly replied. “I do want to see the place, but I need...” She hesitated, “rest” was not exactly the right word for what she required. Sometimes when she retreated to her room, she napped. More often, she simply needed time alone in a quiet, comfortable, familiar space. It would not be possible to find a familiar space in this strange building, not yet. But she hoped for quiet and comfort. “I need a chance to collect myself,” she concluded.

“You shall have whatever you need,” George assured her. He offered her a hand getting up from her chair, then led her up a steep, narrow flight of stairs. “You must watch the steps at night. It is easy to stumble. My Aunt Helena once broke her leg coming down in the dark.”

“Watch the steps at night,” Arabella repeated. She seemed to be losing the capacity for complicated thought. Once she began moving, she realized how very tired she really was. Just hauling herself up the staircase seemed almost more than she could manage.

Fortunately, she did not have to go far to reach sanctuary. George led her to the door nearest the staircase. He flung the door open, revealing a room papered with a pattern of blue tree branches and yellow birds. Arabella squinted at the birds, trying to figure out what they were. Chaffinches, she thought. The yellow color wasn’t even remotely realistic, but she could not deny that it made a pleasing pattern.

“How pretty.” The words were decidedly inadequate to describe the room, but Arabella could not articulate her opinion more clearly.

“My Aunt Helena decorated this room,” George explained. “She liked bright, cheerful colors.”

“This was her room, then?” Arabella guessed. The pretty paper suited a lady’s bedchamber.

“She shared it with my uncle.” George spoke matter-of-factly, probably with no idea of how his words affected Arabella.

She cast her eyes about the room again, slowly taking in more details. A sawtooth quilt, thick white stripes alternating with yellow, covered the bed. The quilt had been pulled back to reveal crisp, white sheets and thick pillows. Two pillows, for two people. This was not, as Arabella had initially thought, a lady’s bedchamber, but a room for a married couple to share.

I don’t even have a room of my own? After a long, exhausting day, this was the final straw. She blinked her eyes quickly, hoping to prevent open tears. But she could not hide her distress from George.

“Belle?”

For some reason, the gentle concern in George’s voice tipped her over the breaking point. Her shoulders began to shake, her throat tightened, and she clapped her hands over her mouth in an attempt to hold back undignified sobs. She hated revealing such weakness in front of her new husband, but she could not seem to control the distress welling up.

“What’s wrong?” George slipped one arm around her waist and drew her into an embrace.

For a moment, she resisted. She was not a cranky toddler whose distress could be hugged away. On the other hand, in a setting where everything looked strange and new, George was a familiar face—and a familiar voice, scent, and touch. At this moment, when her body and her heart both seemed out of control, she needed that.

So she buried her face against his shoulder, breathed in his familiar scent, and let him comfort her as she wept.