Prologue

Prologue

‘Shadows pull me onward

Into a dark place,

Still, shaded, inward

Numb cave of grief

Cobwebs of dark lace,

Draping tendrils, hidden thorns

Hiding in life, endless night.'

Lady Arabella Farrington

Arabella woke from her dream in the depth of darkness, tears wet on her cheek, her heart pounding in her chest. An icy chill of anxiety coursed through her veins. She reached across the bed for her husband but felt only the empty coldness of the linen sheet. He was gone, now almost two years since her dearest Edward had died.

The aching loss and loneliness had never faded.

Will time ease the pain? Will these dreams fade away?

She missed Edward as much now as she had that dull November day when he had slipped away from them, leaving her a widow with a small child.

It had all been so sudden. He'd returned home from a visit to London and complained of a sore throat. Within hours, his temperature had risen, and fever racked his body. Before he died, there had been a moment of calm where he recognized his wife, who sat at his bedside holding his hands and soothing his brow with a cooling cloth.

"Bella?"

"Yes, my love. Stay still." Fear coursed through her veins, seeing him fading away before her eyes.

I can't lose him, not like this.

"Listen. It's important. Dearest Arabella, you must marry again. I don't want you to be alone in the world." She struggled to hear him.

"Hush. Rest now."

"You have too much love to give. Henry needs a father. Promise me you will find love again."

She had looked at his fevered brow. The doctor had told her the mottled rash meant there was little hope of recovery.

"Whatever you want," she whispered, gently kissing his ear.

Each time she woke from this dream, Edward seemed further away, his voice muffled and less distinct. She tried to reach out for him but could never find him.

After the mourning period passed, the dreams changed almost imperceptibly over time, and Arabella became aware of a shadowy figure somewhere in the distance. She stood next to a lake on a misty morning, sensing someone ahead on the track. She needed to run and catch up, knowing that when she turned the next corner everything would be all right.

She just needed to keep going, racing to catch a dream, that hazy figure on the horizon.

Was that a lantern in his hand, guiding her towards a path of safety, away from the misty lakeside path?

She tossed and turned, unable to return to sleep. That was when she began to write her poetry.

In the early days of grief, she had sat beside the fire, reading poetry by candlelight. Poems of lost love and the anguish of grief. Then, one day, Arabella began to write a poem, another, and then a small volume of collected poems. Writing poetry had helped her find a slow pathway to recovery, a way to get through each long, lonely day.

Dreams and forgotten desires. Love and the pain of loss. A glimpse of light shining somewhere on the horizon.

‘Oh, dull, dark winter days

Lost leaves, icy frozen limbs

Beware bitter, misty haze

Stand, Stretch, feathery wings

Search for spring.'