Chapter Twenty-Four

B elle sent her letter off to Mr. Hodges, the pottery collector, and then did her best to wait patiently despite her many questions about the hidden cellar. She continued working on her crayon pictures of the cottage and the river, until at last even she had to admit that both landscapes were as good as she could make them. She glazed the art with her usual isinglass mixture, then packed them to ship to Bath.

George might very well want to send some sort of note to his uncle, she thought. Best to ask him before she sent off her package. When she peeped into his study, though, she found it empty. Nor did he seem to be writing in the garden today.

Arabella popped into the kitchen to ask if anyone knew about George’s whereabouts. He was rather bad at letting her know when and where he was bound when he left the house, but sometimes he told Mrs. Hastings so she would know whether to expect him for meals.

“I believe he went for a ramble along the river, ma’am,” Mrs. Hastings said. “He said something about needing to think, though I can’t imagine what that has to do with walking. Rather eccentric, isn’t he?”

“Eccentric?” Arabella cocked her head to one side, puzzled by the word. George seemed perfectly normal to her.

“Meaning no offense, ma’am,” Mrs. Hastings quickly added. “He’s a very pleasant gentleman to work for, generous and respectful. But he does have that habit of taking his meals in the study, and he doesn’t like anyone to come in and clean. Says he can’t stand other people in his room. The place has become a mess, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Arabella frowned. She could not deny that George kept his workroom in a perpetual state of disorder. The last time she glanced inside, she’d seen a clutter of teacups and saucers, as well as papers scattered all over the floor. Probably fragments of food as well, given what he’d previously told her about his talent for getting crumbs everywhere.

“Would you say it’s becoming a problem?” she asked. If George never returned his teacups to the scullery, they would eventually run out of clean cups.

Mrs. Hastings sighed and glanced over her shoulder as if checking to make sure there was no one else in earshot. “The fact of the matter is, Peggy says she saw a mouse scurrying out of the study this morning. And I’ve seen signs that there might be mice in the house. Mice do leave evidence behind, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh dear.” Arabella wrinkled her nose. “We can’t have that.”

“No, indeed not, Mrs. Kirkland.” Mrs. Hastings nervously pleated her apron in her hands as she waited for Arabella to respond.

Am I supposed to say something? As the awkward moment dragged on, Arabella swallowed to moisten her mouth. She reached for her necklace, intending to play with it. But she had forgotten to put it on this morning. Unable to soothe herself by fidgeting with something, she instead clasped her hands tightly together.

“I will talk to Mr. Kirkland about keeping the room in a tidier state.” She had doubts about whether George could be tidy even if his life depended on it, but she kept that skepticism to herself. Then a happy thought struck her. “In the meantime, I can at least carry all the dirty dishes out of there.”

Mrs. Hastings relaxed. “That would be a help, ma’am.” She bobbed her head and turned back to the kitchen.

Arabella drew a deep breath. If George had gone for a walk, this might be the perfect time to pick up all the dirty dishes left in the study. She wouldn’t have to worry about interrupting his writing or getting in his way. And he could hardly complain about her tidying up after him, could he?

She hurried to the study, where she found a bigger mess than she’d remembered. No matter! It only meant taking two or three trips to get all the dirty plates, cups, and utensils back to the scullery.

On the last sweep through the room, she found only a single cup resting on a bookshelf and a dessert plate half-buried beneath a pile of papers. She lifted up the papers so she could pull out the plate, then hesitated as an unexpected word caught her eye. Was George writing an article about Recusants? Interesting. She could not help but read on, though George’s handwriting was even less legible than usual.

It took several pages before she admitted to herself that what she was reading was neither an informative essay nor a book review, but a story, complete with dialogue as well as narration. When did George start writing fiction? He wrote descriptions quite well, she thought critically, but some of the dialogue seemed off. She reached for a pen, intending to jot down a brief comment about the stilted wording, but remembered just in time that George would not appreciate her marking up his manuscript.

Unfortunately, that was when George returned. He walked through the door to find her still holding a stack of papers in one hand. He froze, his mouth gaping.

Arabella put down the pen. “I was just tidying up a bit,” she explained.

George interrupted her. “Are you reading my manuscript? Without asking?” His anguished voice made it sound like a personal attack.

She cringed and put down the papers. “I didn’t mean to!” There was, she reminded herself, no reason for her hands to sweat or her heart to pound more quickly. This was a simple misunderstanding.

“But what are you even doing in here?” He shook his head. The gesture seemed to unlock his frozen muscles, and he strode towards the desk to pick up the manuscript she’d been reading. “I thought you knew better than to poke around in my study, Belle! I would never rummage around in your art studio, would I? What made you think you had a right to look through my private papers?”

Arabella’s hands began to tremble. She felt like a child reprimanded by her governess. Any minute now, she expected to be sent off to her room without any supper. Or worse. But George would never hit me . She was not a child who could be switched with a hickory stick for every infraction. He might be angry, but perhaps he had reason to be.

“Well?” He crossed his arms in front of his chest and scowled more fiercely than ever. “Aren’t you going to answer me, Arabella? What have you got to say for yourself?”

He did not yell, but his sharp tongue hurt nearly as much as a childhood caning. Maybe more. Was there anything more painful than the disapproval of a loved one? And he had called her Arabella , rather than using his usual nickname for her. No matter how other people might address her, she was always Belle to George. The last time she could remember hearing her full name on his lips had been during their wedding ceremony.

She stared down at her shoes. Her husband stood before her, staring for a long painful moment, while she longed to crawl under the desk and hide from his wrath. Better yet, she wished she could explain herself. But she could not speak. She could only shake her head and blink her eyes rapidly.

George sighed. “I ought not yell at you,” he said more quietly. “Forgive me for losing my temper. I just wish you accorded me the same respect I show you. I think you had better go now, Belle. If you linger here, I’m afraid I will say things I don’t mean.” He glanced away, but the tense set of his jaw hinted at his anger.

“Yes,” Arabella rasped. “I am sorry. Very sorry.” She scurried from the room, eager to put distance between them. He needed time to calm down, and she needed time to collect her tumultuous emotions.

On the way to her bedchamber, Arabella took the stairs so quickly that she nearly slipped. When she reached the refuge of her studio, she flung herself into a comfortingly worn armchair and covered her face with her hands.

But she did not cry. Though her eyes still stung with unshed tears, she did not break down into the embarrassing fit of weeping she half-expected. She supposed she ought to feel proud of that self-control. But pride was the farthest thing from her mind. She sat hunched in the chair, holding her head, until she had regained some semblance of calm.

Then she reached for her sketchbook and a pencil and began to draw. This was no quick, rough sketch, but a painstaking process of mapping out lines and shadows, angles and planes. Gradually, the drawing took form. Drawing from memory, she depicted George’s desk, cluttered with papers, books, discarded quill pens, and an empty saucer.

Arabella began drawing with the intent of working through her unsettled feelings, but the act of creating did more than soothe her. As she stared at the simple sketch, her fears and regrets gradually faded. The finished picture seemed inexpressibly dear to her. A smile slowly unfurled across her face. Who would ever have guessed that she might be charmed by George’s habitual disorganization?

George could no more help being messy than Arabella could help being shy, so scolding him for his habits would be worse than useless. She knew this from experience, as her parents’ lectures about her retiring behavior had never done anything except make her more nervous. Not only had she worried about what other people would think of her manners, but she’d had to worry about whether her own family would disapprove of her social interactions.

But it was a pity that George did not want anyone else entering his study. Arabella would have been perfectly happy to help him keep the place free of dirty dishes, muffin crumbs, and mice. Maybe if she promised never to read the work he left out, he wouldn’t mind her cleaning up from time to time.

Arabella sighed, stretched her cramped hand, and rose to her feet. Her rumbling stomach suggested it would be time for dinner soon. But she needed to find George before she dressed for dinner. She did not want to sit down to an uncomfortable meal. Better to resolve their quarrel first! She fortified herself with a deep breath and headed downstairs.

George did not answer when she lightly tapped at the study door. Perhaps he was not ready to talk yet. She returned to her chambers to dress, trying not to take his silence personally. He would probably come up to dress soon, too. They would speak then. She could explain about the mouse problem, and together they would find a solution that kept his study vermin-free, without disturbing his writing.

His writing, though! Why hadn’t George told her he was writing a novel? He must have known she would want to read it! She could not help feeling hurt that he’d kept so large a secret from her. Didn’t he trust her?

Arabella stared at the mirror’s reflection of her frown, wondering why her husband wouldn’t want to share his work with her. She speculated that he didn’t want her to see it in its raw state. She certainly understood that. A sketch at the beginning looked very little like the finished project. She would not want anyone to judge her art based on the first lines she put down on paper. For all she knew, writing might work the same way.

And after all, it wasn’t as if George had wronged Arabella in any way. He had not lied to her, merely refrained from telling her what he composed during those long hours locked in his study. It was well within his rights to keep such a secret. It wasn’t as if their wedding vows had included a promise to discuss their creative work with each other. Arabella had no real grounds for feeling hurt or disappointed over the exclusion.

She took a book down to the parlor and tried to read while she waited for George. They were not particularly formal about their meals, but on days when they did not come downstairs together, they generally met each other in the parlor to wait. He would be here any minute.

Shortly after that, Peggy shyly poked her head into the parlor to announce that dinner was ready.

“I will wait for Mr. Kirkland, Peggy,” Arabella said. “I’m sure he won’t be long.”

But the minutes continued to tick past, and she heard neither the sound of George’s feet on the hallway nor the drone of his not-particularly-tuneful humming. She got up and tapped at the study door, but once again, there was no answer. This time, she cautiously opened the door and peered inside.

Arabella’s heart sank as she studied the unoccupied room. Something about the state of the room bothered her, but she wasn’t sure what. She reached up to twist one a curl around her finger as she scanned the room, trying to figure out what was missing. Finally, she realized that the problem lay with his desk. Or rather, the problem lay with what should have been on the desk but wasn’t.

Normally, George left his workroom looking as if he had gotten up in the middle of writing a sentence and meant to come back shortly. But not today. Though his handsome brass inkstand still stood in its usual place next to the pounce-box, the desk’s surface had been cleared of papers. All of George’s writing had been put away And George was nowhere to be seen.

Where was he?