The Bride Wore Red At The Ladies Club: Arabella's Story

She stared into Jack's eyes for what was probably the last time. She wouldn't feel sorry for herself. She'd had a taste of adventure, and it had been exciting, but now it was over.

"There's no need for you to take me home," she said. "I can cut through the woods and get home even faster than you could take me."

Jack frowned. "I'm not sure about that."

"Honestly, it's quite safe. I know the area, and just beyond those trees, there's a lake with fishermen. I'll be home in no time. Oh, and please don't—"

"Say anything about this?" he guessed. "Of course I won't. I doubt our paths will ever cross again."

"You're right," she agreed as a spear of pain and a ridiculous sense of loss—considering she'd only just met the man—drove a batch of tears to her eyes. She blinked them away. "I don't expect we will," she agreed brightly. "But thanks for the ride..." Turning for one last look at him, she smiled and quickly walked away.

She had no one to help her at the Old Hall. Everyone had had to leave. She couldn't afford to pay a decent wage, and no way was she going to pay the minimum, as Harold had suggested. Right now she was on her hands and knees, making sure the floor was as clean as the windows, after making sure the windows were as clean as the doors. As soon as she laid the fire, swept the path, and brought all ten bathrooms up to the rigorous standard of an operating theatre, she would take herself off for a shower, happy in the knowledge that she only had the cooking to do now...

"Turn off that shower!"

"Harold, I really need a shower—"

"Turn. It. Off." Harold bellowed, making her flinch at the coarseness of his voice. It seemed so pronounced now that she had heard a real man speak with such low, sexy tones.

"I've been timing you," Harold rapped. "And this is your second shower of the day. Do you have any idea how much hot water costs?"

She should, since she paid the bills.

"Harold, please," she said as he barged through the door. "Would you mind leaving the bathroom? I want to get out of the shower."

"Thanks for the warning," he sneered. "The last thing I want to see before dinner is your ugly body. It would put me right off my food. And there's no need to clean your teeth again," he said, pausing by the basin. "Twice a day is enough for anyone."

It was certainly enough for Harold as he soaked his teeth in a glass by the bed.

"We can't afford these water bills," he shouted back from halfway down the stairs. "If you'd directed some of those club funds you waste on upgrading the facilities there to my bank account, as I recommended, we'd never be short of money—"

Harold was advising her to steal money from the club, though he would see it as borrowing—borrowing that never got paid back, if Harold had anything to do with it. Not a chance she was going to put the club funds at risk. They went toward really important things like cameras to keep the staff safe, and little treats for everyone at Christmas.

Turning the water off, she crept out of the shower like a criminal. She wanted to make sure Harold had gone. She didn't want him jumping out at her—one of his many little jokes.

The coast was clear, so she grabbed a towel—two towels—wrapping them around her as fast as she could, and then she cleaned her teeth as fast as she could also.

This was ridiculous, she told herself firmly. She was behaving as if she was a criminal, and her heart was thundering with guilt. If Harold did creep back, she'd send him packing. She practiced her fierce look in the mirror, and then gave up.

Look on the bright side—being covered in towels meant she didn't have to look at her 'ugly' body—not that there was much chance of that, as the mirrors were all steamed up.

Perhaps she should still cover up, so the mirror didn't have to look at her?

She laughed, but she knew it wasn't funny really.

"Are you dressed yet, Arabella? I want to check you over," Harold chivvied pettishly, barging into her bedroom while she was still struggling into her pantyhose.

He made a sound of disgust. "Like I need to see this? You're leaving things very late," he added. "You always take on too much. I've no idea why you had to go out this afternoon. You shouldn't be taking time off when I'm entertaining."

She held her dress in front of her like a shield. She was longing to put it on, but was reluctant to give Harold another reason to mock her.

"I hope you're not going to let me down tonight," he grumbled. "You should have stayed in the kitchen getting things ready for tonight, and not gone gadding about the countryside like some batty old woman."

Charming, she thought, telling herself not to be upset as she looked at herself in the mirror. How had it come to this? Harold could have said: Hmm, that smells delicious. What could you possibly be cooking that smells so wonderful? Or maybe even, "Thank you, Arabella, for clearing away my muddy boots, my dirty whisky glasses and my overflowing ashtrays." But no, all Harold could come up with was, I'm here to check you over. Was she a recruit on parade? Bad enough she was wearing the sensible dress from the sensible store that made sackcloth and ashes seem a preferable choice. And as for her being a batty old woman? Maybe she was, living with Harold.

"Arabella? I'm speaking to you! Are you deaf as well as stupid?"

"I've been dressing myself since I was three years old," she pointed out reasonably. When she had decided that the frilly outfits a series of long–suffering professional nannies picked out for her were for the pretty girls who went to ballet classes, and not for the plain girls who stayed home and read. She'd known she looked ridiculous when they tried to pretend she was dainty, and the nanny squad had finally given up, allowing her to wear the shorts and T–shirts Arabella liked instead.