Vicar's Daughter to Viscount's Lady (Transformation of the Shelley Sisters 2)

‘Unfortunately for what you want, Arabella, this happens to be my house, you are my wife and that is my daughter.’ She looked at him sharply. ‘Oh, yes, my daughter. Do not attempt to take her away from me—the only person who would suffer from that is her.’

‘I was not—’ She broke off and turned away to stare out at the chill wet world outside. ‘I made vows, Elliott, and I will keep them.’

‘Then talk to me, Arabella!’ He took her arm, pulled her to him. Even as he spoke Elliott knew he was too rough. He opened his hands a little, but kept her close.

‘I do care for you.’ Arabella sounded weary. ‘I have cared for you almost from the beginning. I admire you and I think you kind and strong. You know I have felt a strong attraction for you or I would not have come to your bed as willingly as I have done. But none of that alters the fact that I should not have married

you. Somehow I should have managed. It was wrong and selfish and now we are both hurt and I do not know how to make it better. Please, go away.’

‘Arabella, you cannot shut yourself away up here,’ Elliott said harshly. ‘The servants will be wondering what on earth is going on.’

‘Tell them that I am having the vapours or some such female affliction that men think we are prone to.’

Elliott turned on his heel and walked out. He had never heard that brittle tone from Arabella, never seen her so dully angry or refusing to try to please him. Part of him knew she had the right to express her feelings, however much they hurt him. Part of him, the part that was wounded by every word, wanted his compliant, sweet-tempered wife back again.

Bella watched from her window as Elliott rode out, his gun slung over his shoulder, his shot belt across his chest, the pointers running at the horse’s heels. Despite the cold, dank fog he preferred to be away from her. She could not blame him, only herself. Something had snapped, something that, looking back, she supposed she must have kept tightly chained up for years and years.

Years of being the peacemaker, the dutiful daughter. Years of obedience and austerity, of loss and sadness. Then Rafe had betrayed her and she had not even had the words to hit back at him. Now Elliott’s words had finally broken the fraying ropes around her restraint and it had spilled out, the confusion and hurt and distress. If she could only have told him she loved him…but that would have been even worse. Would he have lied or would he have told her, kindly and with pity, that he could not return her love?

The urge to go and pick up her child and cuddle her was almost overwhelming—someone, at least, loved her unconditionally and she could love her back without reserve.

No, there were three: Marguerite and her two sisters. Where are you, Meg and Lina? she asked herself as she had, so often. Surely she would know if they were no longer alive? She had to hang on to that thought.

The hurt and the anger stirred again, making her feel sick. She so rarely allowed herself to be angry, let alone give way to it as she had just now.

Bella leaned her forehead against the cold glass. Today she would huddle like a wounded animal in her lair, holding her baby. Tomorrow…tomorrow she would go to London and take Marguerite with her.

Then when she had done all she could to find her sisters she would apologise to Elliott, promise to never speak of her feelings again and, somehow, come to terms with what her marriage was now.

Then Marguerite woke and began to gurgle. ‘I’m coming, sweetheart,’ she called. ‘Mama’s here.’

Breakfast was harder than she could have imagined because Elliott behaved so impeccably. He was polite, he smiled and when she sent the servants from the room and tried to speak of the day before he simply shook his head. ‘No, it is all right, Arabella. We will forget it and go on. Your nerves were overwrought after the house party.’

She wanted to apologise, to try to explain—not how she felt, but why her self-control had given way. But if he wanted to pretend it had never happened then what could she do but go to London with all that unsaid between them?

There was a tap on the door. ‘My lord, excuse me.’ It was Henlow and behind him Bella glimpsed some men in working clothes clustered in the hallway. ‘Turner has sent to say there is flooding all down the Cat Brook. He’s worried the dam at the mill race might give way.’

‘I must go.’ Elliott stood and went out into the hall. Bella could hear him giving orders as the door closed. ‘Send for my horse, Henlow. Jem, all the men off the Home Farm, a wagon, picks and shovels—’

Bella went out into the hallway and tried to appear brisk and cheerful. Her acting abilities were apparently not proof against the butler’s knowledge of what went on in the household.

‘His lordship will deal with it, my lady. He is the man to have by your side in a crisis. And he will no doubt return in a good mood. I have always observed that hard work balances any inequality of temperament he may be feeling.’

Inequality of temperament, indeed! That was doubtless a butler’s code for flaming rows and fists thudding on doors. Was that what he thought of her moods, too? Inequalities of temperament?

‘Not that his lordship is much prone to…moods, if I might make so bold, my lady. His late lordship was of a most unpredictable and changeable humour and without his lordship’s sweetness of temper and strength of character,’ Henlow said, looking as though he was sucking lemons. ‘He will come about, my lady.’ As though worried that he had said too much, he turned on his heel and hurried off through the green baize door.

Bella went upstairs. Everything was prepared and now she did not even have the worry of evading Elliott. She put the note she had written on the mantelshelf, donned her warmest pelisse, her bonnet and gloves and went to find Mary Humble, who was dressing the baby.

‘Come along.’ She picked up two of the valises. ‘His lordship has had to take most of the footmen off to attend to some emergency with the mill race, we can take these down ourselves.’

The maid followed, baby in one arm, the bag of necessities for the journey in the other hand. She had listened with sympathy to Bella’s tale of a family emergency taking her to London urgently. His lordship would follow as soon as he could, Bella had said. But she had to get to her sister.

She repeated the tale in the stable yard and Wilkins, the senior groom left in charge, had no thought of arguing with her ladyship. The coachman came down as the team were harnessed in the travelling chaise, the luggage strapped on behind, all except for the baby’s necessities, and one of the undergrooms swung up behind. With a yap Toby leapt in too.

Bella leaned back against the squabs and let the sway of the carriage lull her as she scratched the terrier behind his ear. She would have to come back, she knew that, but just at the moment all she wanted was to be away from Elliott before she blurted out her love for him, drove him even further from her. That, and to do something, anything, to find Meg and Lina.

‘We will stay at a hotel, Mary,’ she said, producing the London guide she had removed from the library. ‘I will see which sounds the most suitable.’