Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

“ Y ou look like a real princess,” Hanna said as Arabella gazed at herself in the looking glass.

She couldn’t deny that her sister was right. She did look as though she had stepped straight out of the pages of Ackermann’s Repository. The gown, a stunning confection of silk and lace, made her look splendid, indeed. Her chestnut-brown hair, which she usually found so dull, had been arranged in a half-up, half-down style, adorned with sparkling gemstones that would surely catch the sunlight during the outdoor wedding breakfast.

“I have it!” Emma exclaimed as she burst into Arabella’s bedchamber, a large white veil in her hand. “I found it. It was in one of the trunks in Mother’s chamber,” she said breathlessly.

Arabella’s mouth dropped open as her eyes landed on the piece of fabric. This had been their mother’s veil, the one she had worn when she married their father.

Hanna took it from Emma’s hands and began arranging it on top of Arabella’s head. As she did, Arabella felt a sudden twinge in her chest. Her hands brushed against the veil’s material. It felt slightly stiff to the touch, and she wished she could take off her silk gloves to feel it properly. She was certain their mother had touched this very fabric herself on the day of her wedding.

“Do you think she was happy when she married Father?” Arabella asked.

Through the looking glass, she saw her sisters exchange glances, uncertainty written all over their faces. The light-hearted mood of the room grew tense.

“Grandmother said that she loved Father, so I imagine she must have been happy,” Emma replied, though doubt tinged her voice. “Although I wonder if he was the same man that he is now.”

“Do you not remember when Mother was alive at all?” Hanna asked a bit sharply. “Father was not the same as he is now. He was temperamental, yes, and there were times he could be impossible, but Mother always managed to calm him. It’s just as Grandmother said—she knew how to tame the beast.”

“I do not remember our mother at all,” Emma retorted, her tone defensive. “I was only six when she died. You don’t need to keep bringing up your memories when we have none.” She looked at Arabella, her expression conflicted.

“Please, let’s not argue today. I wouldn’t have mentioned Mother at all if I’d known it would cause a fight,” Arabella interjected, trying to defuse the situation.

“I beg your pardon,” Emma said, much to Arabella’s surprise, as she rarely apologized for anything. “I suppose I miss her. Seeing this veil just brings back the realization that even if I’m fortunate enough to marry one day, it will be without her by my side. I wish she were still here, that’s all.”

Arabella closed the distance between them and pulled her sister into her arms. “I know, I feel the same. I wish at least Alexander was here,” she said softly.

“I cannot believe he isn’t,” she added, suddenly overcome with anger at their brother.

Alexander had responded to her desperate, heartfelt letter, but only to tell her that this was perhaps for the best. That the Duke of Sheffield was an influential man who could provide her with a good life and might even find husbands for Hanna and Emma. He had encouraged her to make the best of the situation.

“The best of the situation,” she repeated, grinding her teeth as she thought about his letter. She had crumpled it and burned it immediately, along with any hope of ever seeing him again. After this, she couldn’t imagine ever looking him in the eye again without the overwhelming desire to slap him.

“Will you help me with the veil, Hanna?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

Hanna, ever diligent, immediately set back to work.

Emma, who had been gazing out the window, turned, her expression anxious. “He is here,” she announced. “His carriage has arrived, and his uncle has just exited. Oh, he does not look pleased.”

“So, Sir Richard,” Arabella mused.

She had only met Harry’s uncle once, when he had accompanied Harry to finalize the terms of the jointure. He had struck her as a surly man, and it was apparent that he and Harry did not share a close connection. Indeed, she had never seen Harry truly at ease with anyone, except perhaps with his valet, an older man named Brandon.

What did that reveal about Harry? Arabella wondered. But then she chided herself for being hypocritical—she had few close friends aside from her sisters. Could it be that she and Harry were not so different, after all? Perhaps he too struggled under the burden of living with his uncle instead of his parents.

Indeed, she often reflected on the sorrow they both shared—losing their mothers at the tender age of five. While she had also lost her father, in many ways, she had been fortunate. Though she and her sisters often quarreled, they had been her companions all her life, and even her brother, despite their current estrangement, had been a part of her early years.

Harry, however, had grown up alone, without siblings. The thought of such solitude pained her heart.

She looked back at Hanna, her heart swelling with gratitude. “I am so grateful for you,” she said softly, clasping her sister’s hand. Then, turning to Emma, she added, “And for you, too.”

Emma, still at the window, appeared somewhat puzzled by the sudden shift in Arabella’s demeanor.

“I mean it,” Arabella continued. “I know it is a difficult situation, with me being the youngest and marrying first, but I want you to know that I will do everything in my power to help you both find happiness. Until then, please stay with me as often as you like.”

“As often as your husband will tolerate us,” Emma corrected with a wry smile.

“No,” Arabella said firmly. “Harry has assured me that you are welcome as often and for as long as you wish. He has made it clear that he will assist us—all of us. He is not blind to Father’s faults.”

She saw the way Emma’s face softened into a smile, and even Hanna’s eyes grew misty.

“He is a true prince, is he not?” Hanna murmured. “I am not being romantic—it just seems as though he is a wonderful man. You are so fortunate.”

“Fortunate…” Arabella trailed off.

Was she truly fortunate? She had not confided in her sisters, but Harry had made it abundantly clear that theirs would never be more than a marriage of convenience. Nor had she told them that the two of them had scarcely spoken in their last few meetings. It was not for lack of effort on his part; Harry had attempted to engage her in conversation more than once, but Arabella had found herself sinking into a mire of despair, one that seemed to tighten its grip on her with each passing day, drawing her deeper into its clutches as the wedding day loomed closer.

A dreadful fear of making a terrible mistake by proceeding with the wedding had settled upon her. For the first few days after their engagement, she had anxiously awaited her brother’s reply, hoping against hope that he would intervene and rescue her. But when his answer had come, and it was in the negative, she had relinquished all hope, allowing herself to fall into the abyss of despair.

She had kept this news to herself, unwilling to upset her sisters, who were eagerly anticipating a respite, however temporary. She had resigned herself to a life of misery, devoid of love.

“Oh, he is so handsome!” Emma suddenly exclaimed, pulling her out of her reverie.

“Yes, that he is,” Arabella agreed, unable to deny Harry’s striking appearance.

How odd it was that she now thought of him as Harry. On their first walk together, after he had collected her from church, he had asked her to call him by his Christian name, and she had agreed, though they barely knew one another.

Rising, she made her way to the window. There he was, indeed. He wore tailored black pantaloons, a morning coat, and a crisp white cravat. He was handsome, undeniably so. If only he weren’t so secretive, so determined to keep their arrangement… an arrangement, nothing more.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, and her father burst into the room. “There you are,” he said, his voice slurred slightly.

The way he staggered told Arabella that he had already indulged in the fine wine intended for the guests.

“His Grace is insufferable. Richard…” her father grumbled. “He is nitpicking everything we have arranged, wanting to change everything. He thinks he is better than us, but we will show him. You will be a duchess within the hour, and then I will?—”

“Father, please,” Arabella implored, “I do not want an argument to mar my wedding day.”

Her father glared at her. “Being lectured by a stranger in my own home…”

“He is not a stranger, is he?” Emma interjected. “He is soon to be your relation. And Sir Richard is very influential. It would be unwise to upset him.”

“And what do you know?” their father snapped. “Nothing. You know nothing. Why should I pay attention to you? Almost twenty years old and not a single suitor.”

Emma fell silent, looking down at her feet, while Arabella felt as though her beautiful wedding gown was tightening around her throat, squeezing the breath out of her lungs.

“Come along,” the Earl bellowed. “We cannot keep him waiting.”

He waved his hand, and Arabella rose, with Hanna carefully gathering her train so it would not drag on the floor.

As they made their way downstairs to the family chapel, where she would take her vows and become the Duchess of Sheffield, Arabella could do nothing but hope—hope that perhaps, just perhaps, this wedding and the future it promised would not be as dreadful as she feared.