Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

T he stars had already begun to sparkle in the sky by the time Harry returned. He exited the carriage and inhaled deeply, the scent of sweet lavender wafting over from the nearby fields. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked up. The moon hung low, and he remembered how as a boy he used to believe that if he only jumped high enough, he could touch it.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” Mrs. Blomquist greeted as she came around the corner from the direction of the laundry.

“Good evening, Mrs. Blomquist. And how are you this fine evening?”

The woman looked at him with a particular expression, one he knew meant something had gone amiss during his absence. Truly, he hadn’t intended to be away all day, but sometimes he lost track of time.

“I am quite well, but I cannot say the same for Her Grace. She did not take her dinner and seemed rather upset.”

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Why was she upset?” His wife perplexed him more than he could have imagined.

“She said you had promised to dine with her and show her around the estate,” Mrs. Blomquist replied, and he detected a hint of judgment in her voice—unusual for the woman.

Harry closed his eyes, recalling that he had indeed said exactly that. The night before, when he had shown Arabella to her chambers, he had suggested that they eat separately but reconvene the following day. And then he had entirely forgotten.

“Right,” he sighed. “Where is Her Grace now?”

“In the garden,” Mrs. Blomquist replied with a nod, before making her way back into the house.

Harry made his way through the grand sculpture garden, where the marble statues his father and mother had collected during their travels were displayed. Not finding his wife there, he passed through the little iron gate to the rose garden. There, he found her sitting on the steps.

“Arabella,” he called.

She turned and rose at once, walking toward him with an expression that forewarned him of a stern rebuke—one he knew he deserved.

“I beg your pardon,” he began.

“You! I waited here like a wallflower all day, convinced you were going to fulfill your promise. We already did not spend the night together as a newlywed couple should, so I know all your servants are talking about that. Then you left me to have breakfast on my own, and?—”

“I said, I beg your pardon,” he repeated, irritated that she wouldn’t even allow him to apologize.

“I waited all day,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “I wandered like a ghost between the drawing room and my chambers, convinced you would return because you promised to show me around the estate. But you did not.”

He dug his heels into the grass, hearing the crunch of the gravel beneath. “I know. The truth is, I had a long, difficult day.”

“I know you had to call on someone. Did that truly take all day?”

Of course, it didn’t need to take all day…

He could have accomplished everything more quickly. He had a meeting with his solicitor, then with one of his business partners, and then he had decided to visit Helen… And it was there that time had gotten away from him.

All of that could have been accomplished in the space of a few hours, but the truth was that he had forgotten. He had forgotten what he had promised Arabella, and a part of him had almost hoped this would make it clear to her that their marriage would not turn into something more.

However, seeing Arabella so genuinely upset troubled him.

“Arabella, I do not know what to say. I thought I had been very clear about what our marriage would be, but I also know I made a promise and broke it. That was wrong of me.”

She blinked and looked away, and he suddenly wondered if her father had ever apologized to her for the things he said and did.

“Well, there is nothing to be done about it now. It is late.” She shrugged.

“And so?” he replied. “I can still show you around the estate. At least I can give you a tour of the house. Perhaps the sculpture garden? The gazebo? The lake?”

“It is dark,” she said. “Besides, everyone in the house will be sleeping.”

He motioned toward the house. “Do you see all the candles flickering? All the rooms intended for public use are lit until midnight. It is how my father and mother always kept it, and I have adopted the habit since I took charge of the house. I often have trouble sleeping at night and do not wish to fumble with candles if I want to go into the library or the music room. So, I keep them lit.”

Her eyes grew wide. “You must spend a fortune on wax candles.”

He shrugged. “It is nothing to me,” he said nonchalantly, though he realized it probably sounded rather high-handed. “I mean, my father was a very successful businessman. Besides that, he inherited land from my grandfather and great-grandfather. My uncle is also a shrewd businessman. What I am saying is that financially, a few extra candles do not trouble me.”

Arabella chewed on her bottom lip, as though pondering his suggestion, then nodded. “Very well. I would like to see the rest of the house. I had thought to explore on my own, but since you offered…”

She stopped speaking, and he was grateful she wasn’t trying to chastise him again for something he had already apologized for.

His uncle Richard had a habit of holding grudges and would often bring up things that had occurred years ago at any opportune moment to make others feel bad.

“Very well,” Harry said. “Come, let us go inside.”

He considered offering her his hand, but given the rather frosty atmosphere between them, he decided against it. Instead, he placed his fingers on the small of her back for only a brief second. She stiffened under his touch, and he withdrew his hand quickly, sensing he had unsettled her.

As they stepped back into the house, he saw Mrs. Blomquist making her way upstairs. The old lady stopped on the landing, curtsied, and then carried on.

Passing the dining room, he paused, about to go in, when he realized Arabella had likely sat there alone for all her meals, waiting for him. Therefore, he decided to forgo that particular space.

“Well, do you enjoy reading?” he asked.

“I do,” she replied as they stepped into the library.

“As do I. My great-grandfather started this collection when he first purchased Ridlington Estate.”

“He purchased it? I thought your family had it built,” Arabella said.

“No. This house was, in fact, built for Henry VIII. Or rather, for one of his wives, Anne of Cleves. It was meant to be part of her settlement after their divorce, but she ended up staying at Hever Castle instead.”

Arabella nodded. “The one he divorced. A fortunate woman, indeed,” she commented. “I would much have preferred her fate to that of Anne Boleyn or Catherine Howard.”

“Indeed,” Harry agreed. “I would rather keep my head. But do not worry—in this marriage, you shall never be in danger of losing yours.” He winked at her, but when she didn’t smile, he quickly looked away. Humor had never been his strong suit. “It was a foolish joke. I must beg your pardon. I fear my humor could use some refinement.”

She looked up at him. “It was amusing. I do appreciate that you try. Besides, if you are concerned about making poor jokes, you should meet my brother Alexander. He has no comedic timing whatsoever, and everything he thinks is funny makes me cringe.”

He chuckled. “I heard your brother has an Irish sense of humor now that he has lived there for so long.” He watched her as she perused the mahogany shelves, which were set up in a circle around the room. “Do you see him often, your brother?”

She shook her head without facing him, one slender arm raised as she ran her index finger along the back of the books, reading the titles. As she stood under the chandelier, he noted how graceful she was, moving like a swan on a lake. There was something almost ethereal about her.

“I have not seen my brother in more than a couple of years. Occasionally, we all spent the summers with our aunt or uncle—my mother’s brother and sister. But it has been rather difficult to maintain a relationship. My sisters and I often spent most of our visits imploring him to take us to Ireland with him—something he was not willing to do.”

Harry noted the bitterness in her voice and stepped beside her. “I take it you are not close anymore?”

“I would not say we were ever close,” she replied. “He is ten years my senior, and the last time we lived under the same roof, I was only eight. I found it difficult to connect with him because of that. Also, he had a very difficult relationship with our father, which meant there was never much harmony in our house. Alexander did everything he could to be out of the house whenever possible until he left for good.”

“Am I correct in detecting some apprehension on your part about his departure?”

Arabella looked at him and nodded. “Yes, there is. But I have since come to understand that my brother lives his own life, and he no longer needs us. His sisters do not matter to him. He was never willing to defend us against our father or fight for us, or…” She clenched her hands into fists and turned her head away.

“Perhaps he has his reasons. Perhaps there are things you do not know. I am certain he still loves you. Maybe he just doesn’t know how to express it.”

“You don’t know him,” she argued, her tone icy.

“You are right. I apologize for presuming to know your brother’s character,” Harry replied, slightly offended.

He hadn’t meant to make her angry, but he’d found himself wondering if her brother harbored secrets that kept him from being the man he was meant to be, the man he wanted to be—as Harry’s secrets kept him from being who he really wanted to be.

“Thank you. I know you were only trying to help. I appreciate that.”

They continued walking around the library in silence. As they made their way down the long hallway leading from the library to the music room, he wondered if he should try to cheer her up again, but she seemed lost in thought.

As they stepped into the music room, they were greeted by the flickering lights of the chandelier. A grand piano stood in the corner by the window, covered by a white sheet. Nearby, a harp stood uncovered, its polished frame glinting softly in the dim light.

“Do you play?” Arabella asked, pointing at the harp. “It isn’t covered like the pianoforte, so I assumed.”

“You assume correctly,” Harry confirmed. “I do play at times.”

She turned and smiled. “Would you play something for me?”

Harry hesitated, taking a step back. He never played in front of others—well, only in front of one person.

“I am not accustomed to it,” he admitted.

“Are you dreadful?” Arabella asked with a sheepish smile.

“No, I am actually rather good,” he said, a hint of pride lacing his voice.

“Really? And how am I supposed to judge that if you will not play for me?”

The sudden challenging tone in her voice surprised him, but he found that he rather liked it. Arabella had thus far been quiet and timid, and he was intrigued by this more spirited side of her.

“Very well,” he conceded. “I will play for you, but only a little bit.”

He sat behind the harp and gently pulled on the strings, eliciting a soft, melodic sound. As the music began to fill the room, he closed his eyes, allowing the familiar notes to flow through him.

His uncle had always made fun of him for liking to play the harp, dismissing it as a woman’s instrument, but Harry had wanted to learn because his mother had been an accomplished harpist. His aunt had secretly taken him to lessons, defying his uncle’s wishes. When she passed away, Harry had to abandon his passion until he moved into this house and resumed his lessons.

He heard Arabella’s footsteps mingling with the music as she moved around the room, but her presence didn’t disturb him. Usually, when he played, he would close the doors and instruct the servants to stay away, seeking solitude. Yet, Arabella’s presence was oddly comforting. The young woman who had so often grated on his nerves was now a rapt audience, and he found himself enjoying her attention.

When the final note died down, he opened his eyes, a smile playing on his lips—until he noticed her standing in front of a glass case on the opposite wall.

She turned when he finished and clapped her hands softly. “That was lovely. I enjoyed it very much. Perhaps I could persuade you to play for me again?”

Harry rose from the harp, but as he approached her, her smile faded when she noticed the serious expression on his face.

“What are you doing?” he asked, a touch of concern in his voice.

Arabella blinked, confusion clouding her features. “I was just looking around the music room while you played. I wanted to ask you about these.” She pointed to the two items inside the display case—a weathered and tattered top hat and a yellow parasol. “Why are these kept behind glass?”

Harry’s gaze softened as he looked at the cherished items. “The parasol belonged to my mother, and the top hat was my father’s. They had them in their possession when they died. They drowned, and not much was recovered from the wreckage. The hat washed ashore days after the shipwreck, and the parasol was found among the debris. These were the only items in good enough shape to keep.”

“That is terrible,” Arabella said quietly. “I can see why you would want to keep these precious items in a safe place. I also have an item?—”

“I do not wish to talk about it anymore,” he interrupted, more harshly than he had intended.

It was only after the words left his mouth that he realized she had been trying to share something with him.

“I beg your pardon,” he said quickly. “I did not mean to interrupt you.”

“No, it is quite all right,” she replied, though her demeanor had changed, the warmth replaced by reserve. “Perhaps we should end our tour now. I am quite tired.”

“No, Arabella,” he insisted, reaching out as if to take her hand, but then he stopped himself, remembering how poorly his earlier attempts at physical contact had been received. “I did not mean to cut you off. It’s just… talking about my parents’ deaths is difficult for me. And playing the harp, well… my mother used to play it, and it brings back memories.”

He hesitated, before he added, “Please, let’s not end the tour just yet.”

He wasn’t entirely sure why the thought of ending the tour bothered him so much. He had agreed to it out of a sense of obligation, but now he found that he had quite enjoyed her company.

Fortunately, his earnestness seemed to have an effect on her, and she paused, then nodded. “Very well. Would you mind showing me the garden now? I have seen the rose garden, but I have heard there is a sculpture garden as well.”

“Indeed,” he said, relieved. “It is a lovely night for seeing the garden.”

“It is, I agree.” She nodded.

He offered her his arm again, and she accepted it. Together they made their way out of the music room, and Harry couldn’t deny the sense of relief he felt that she had given him another chance.