Prologue

Arabella

Dorset, 1787.

“Papa?” Arabella pulled on her father’s sleeve, though he appeared not to notice. She supposed it was because she was so small, for she was easy to ignore . Her mother had once described her as being similar to a fairy, small, formed in a lovely shape, easy to hide where no one would think to look. Arabella had adored the description, smiling up at her doting mother as she listened to the words. Such a memory felt so distant now that her mother was gone. She must have been about eight at the time they’d had the conversation. That was two years ago.

“Papa?” She tried to get her father’s attention again.

“I’m sorry, love,” he said, his voice gentle, as it always was. Yet there was something else lingering in his tone today. Was that exasperation? Tiredness? She couldn’t be sure.

Her father kept his head turned from her, staring across the breakfast room. As he sat at the head of the table, his breakfast was untouched, and the cup of coffee that sat beside him in a silver cup was the only thing that was empty. He tapped the wood of the dark mahogany table, incessantly, and stared at the window that looked out over the grounds and the vast estate.

“Papa,” Arabella spoke quietly at his side. She’d left her seat at the table, deciding the best way to get his attention was to pull at his sleeve. “You said today you’d stay here. You were going to show me the horses.”

“Did I say that?” He looked at her at last, his round hazel eyes that were so like her own growing wide.

He doesn’t remember.

Arabella bit her lip, trying not to cry again. She knew her father was tired of seeing her cry. He’d said as much, more than once this last year. Many tears had flooded this house since her mother had left, but the loneliness seemed to continue on, even with those tears as an outlet for her grief. All Arabella wanted was for her father to spend the day with her, yet he always had somewhere else to be. He had tenants to see to, business to attend to. She didn’t really understand what he did when he left the house, but she was beginning to learn it had to be more important than her. Crying was certainly not going to keep her father beside her.

“You said you’d show me the horses. Ma said I could learn to ride when I reached my tenth year,” Arabella spoke with eagerness. Her small hand now curled around his sleeve, clinging on tightly.

Her father sighed, deeply, turning his head back to the window.

“I don’t have time to teach you to ride today, love. There’s too much to be done.” He shifted in the seat and reached for her. Lifting her cleanly off the floor, he rested her on his lap. Arabella’s hand now shifted from his sleeve to the lapelled tailcoat he wore. It was a long time since her father had embraced her.

Franny, the cook, had told Arabella that her father loved her. It was just that sometimes he forgot to show such affection through embraces or kind words. He had a lot on his mind.

“No horses today then,” Arabella said, her voice quiet. She chewed the inside of her mouth, hoping that feeling of pain would ward off the prickling sensation at the back of her eyes, so no tears would come.

“Not today, love. Another day.” He kissed her on the forehead, his fair hair bristling her temple, before he lifted her off his lap and put her back on the floor. She tried to reach out and take his sleeve again, but she was too late. Her father was already on his feet, sliding his seat back, so the wooden feet of the chair scraped along the floorboards.

Looking down, Arabella’s nose wrinkled. A rug used to sit beneath the table, but it was gone now. The fine silken and heavily embroidered rug was missing.

Where did it go?

As her father walked out of the room, she followed him, as if she was his shadow. He didn’t appear to notice she was there as he crossed to the entrance hall. Their butler stood by the door, holding onto a frock coat and top hat that he passed to her father.

“What news, Robson?” her father asked, sighing with the words.

He often sighs these days.

Arabella kept the thought to herself as she stood beside her father in the entrance hall, wishing he would stay.

“The footman and valet have packed and left this morning, sir. By the end of the day, it will just be the three of us that remain.” Robson spoke formally, but there was a kind smile on his face. Arabella recognized that smile, for it was one the butler often bestowed on her.

“Good, thank you.” Her father paused as he turned in the doorway. “I am sorry it has come to this, Robson.”

“You do not need to apologize, sir.” Robson offered another one of those nice smiles.

As her father turned in the doorway, his eyes landed on Arabella. They widened momentarily, shocked to see she had so soundlessly followed him.

“You have a habit of sneaking about, love,” he said, his voice soft, as he patted her on the head, brushing her auburn hair out of her eyes.

Like a fairy. Just as Ma said!

She parted her lips to utter the words, but her father was already gone, stepping out of the door. No carriage waited for him on the driveway as it usually did. Just a single horse, its reins held by a stable boy. Before Arabella could ask where the carriage was, Robson closed the door on the view of her father.

“There now, Miss Spencer, have you eaten your breakfast?” Robson asked, bending forward and placing his hands on his knees so he was at her level. She nodded in answer. “Good, then I shall clear up. What would you like to do today?” He stood straight and walked toward the breakfast room, with Arabella trailing in his wake.

She shrugged, and he merely smiled in response. As he cleared away the China from the dining table, Arabella stood in the shadows, watching him. When he left the room, taking the servants’ staircase downstairs, she followed him. On the way, she noticed some strange things.

In the corridor, the grandfather clock that used to chime each hour was gone. There was just an empty space where it had once stood. Even on the servants’ staircase, where a painting was once fixed to the wall, bearing a sketch of how their house used to look decades ago, was now missing. The wall was quite empty.

Where is everything disappearing to? Is the house under some sort of spell?

Arabella trailed Robson into the kitchen. He passed the China to one of the scullery maids to wash, and Arabella stood in the center of the kitchen, watching the activity. There used to be more maids. Alongside the scullery maid was the cook, Franny. Franny turned round from where she was stirring a mixing bowl. When she saw Arabella, she threw the bowl into the air.

“Oh, heavens!” she called loudly.

“It’s only Miss Spencer, Franny,” Robson said with a deep laugh as the bowl landed on the counter nearby, somewhat miraculously not cracking.

“Miss Spencer, you gave me such a fright,” Franny said, placing her hand to her heart.

“I’m sorry,” Arabella said with a giggle as Franny smiled at her.

“Always tiptoeing around, aren’t you?” Franny joined in with the laughter. “Now, what are you doing down here? I thought your father was going to show you the horses today?”

“He…” Arabella didn’t finish. Unsure what to say, she was aware of Franny and Robson exchanging a look, then there was sudden movement.

“Well, we are the lucky ones then. For we get your company for the day.” Franny picked Arabella up and placed her on a high stool nearby so that she was level with the worktop. Robson placed a cauldron of water on the fire, ready to be made into tea, and the scullery maid produced a small pastry form a cupboard that she held in the air. Franny took it from her and handed it straight to Arabella. “Here, eat.”

“Thank you.” Arabella took the pastry and nibbled lightly, delighting in the sugary taste. This was a special treat and not one Franny gave her every day.

“You can help me with my tasks today, if you like.” Franny collected her mixing bowl and stood beside Arabella.

“What are you doing?” She peered forward with the words, trying to see what was in the bowl.

“I am mixing a tonic. See these?” Franny pulled out some green leaves from the bowl and passed them to Arabella. “These are mint leaves. They have power in them, special power.”

“Like magic?” Arabella asked excitedly.

“Of a kind, I suppose.” Franny giggled at the idea, leaving one of the leaves in Arabella’s hand to play with before she returned the rest to the bowl. “Call it magic, science, or simply knowledge. The natural world has power, if you know where to look.” She turned round, still stirring the bowl with one hand as she lifted the cauldron of water off the fire with the other. She poured out a cup of hot water then pressed the mint leaves into the bowl. “Drink that when you are done with your pastry. You will see what power mint has. It can calm the stomach and the mind.”

“Truly?” Arabella took the cup, ready to drink, when Franny held the cup down a little.

“Don’t burn yourself now, Miss Spencer.” The care and attention she gave Arabella had her smiling. No one else uttered such words to her since her mother had passed.

Arabella blew on the mint tea for a few minutes before she took a sip. She could feel no immediate relief, but the taste was herbal and sweet. She smiled, taking another big sip.

“How do you know these things?” Arabella asked, turning her focus on the cook.

“I had a good teacher,” Franny said with a smile, stirring some more leaves into the bowl she was attending to. She also added small white flowers to the mixture, holding them up to Arabella first. “Smell these.” Arabella sniffed hard, then recoiled, startled by the strong scent. “Chamomile flowers.” Franny stirred them into the bowl, before she continued with her tale. “My mother taught me all I wished to know about the natural world. She showed me what power it has. It can heal one’s body, and their soul, make someone happy, even make a heart fall in love.”

“Love? Really?” Arabella laughed at the idea, finding it quite preposterous.

“Well, maybe that is a tall tale, even coming from me.” Franny joined in with the laughter, making her large cheeks jiggle. “The important thing is that plants, if you know where to look, can bring us health. That is the most important power there is in this world, the power to help another.”

Arabella smiled at the idea, thinking it was much like something her mother had once said. She had accompanied her mother a couple of years ago on a visit to the tenants of the land. Her mother had said how important it was to care for the tenants, to show them that no matter what was happening in the world, and what adversity they faced, the family cared for them, and would help when they could.

Perhaps I could help the people, as she did.

“Franny?” Arabella said, leaning forward.

“Yes, dear?”

“Would you teach me about plants?” she asked, watching as Franny looked up from the bowl, her dark eyes lighting up.

“Of course, Miss Spencer. If you wish, I will teach you everything I know.” She pushed the bowl toward Arabella, allowing her to take over the work with the spoon. As the scents of the herbs filled the air, Arabella felt a strange certainty fill her chest.

I think this would make Ma happy.

 

Chapter 1

Daniel

Dorset, 1802.

“Daniel, you are not eating much today.” The soft voice of his mother had Daniel raising his head from staring at his plate and purposefully placing another bite of toast in his mouth.

I do not need to give her further cause to worry.

“I am just not hungry this morning, Mother, it is nothing.” He strained his voice a little, holding back the cough he so desperately wanted to let escape him. As much as he wished to convince his mother he was well, he could see in her face that she was not persuaded. Marianne sat forward in her seat at the foot of the table, one hand fussing with the necklace at her throat and the other playing with her cutlery. She chewed her lip as she so often did when she looked at him these days.

“Perhaps we should send for another physician? What do you think, Gregory?” she appealed to Daniel’s father, sat at the head of the table.

Daniel offered an apologetic look to his father, though he knew what little good it did. Gregory was as fearful these days as Marianne was. They’d tried that many physicians and doctors, Daniel had told them to abandon finding someone new long ago.

“We’ve had this conversation,” Daniel spoke before his father could. “I’m well enough. You do not need to seek out another doctor.” His words cast a quietness on the room. Gregory and Marianne looked at each other across the long oak table. The Duke and Duchess of Gordon, as they were known to others, often exchanged such silent looks these days. Daniel had developed a habit of not commenting on that look, for he knew what it meant.

They are worried for me, yet there is nothing any of us can do, is there?

Sitting straight in the tall-backed chair, Daniel tried to breathe deeply. The weakness in his lungs was ever present at the moment, with a familiar tightness that squeezed across his chest. At least he could breathe easily enough. Sometimes, taking a breath seemed like the hardest thing in the world.

“Perhaps we should delay our travels for a while,” Marianne said hurriedly, leaning forward and resting an elbow on the table as she fidgeted with her necklace.

“Again? No.” Daniel answered before his father could. Guilt swelled in his stomach.

Ever since his sister, Clara, had married in the summer, their parents had been planning a journey to Scotland, to see some of the sights that Clara had seen on her honeymoon. It was a journey they had been put on hold more than once thanks to Daniel’s present sickness, and now the weather had turned colder, and winter had crept in, they risked snow on their travels.

Daniel was tired of his parents putting their lives on hold out of concern for him.

“Mother, you do not need to do that.” He sat forward, feeling the light brown hair bristle across his temple with the movement. “I travelled the continent on my grand tour just fine by myself. I would hate for you to hold back from your travels out of concern for me. I will be fine alone.” On his journeys, his sickness had been much recovered, with only the occasional attack. Since he had returned home in the summer though, he had grown worse.

Marianne did not look convinced by his words. She fussed with her own cinnamon-colored hair that was beginning to grey, pushing the few loose locks from her updo back behind her ears.

“Daniel is right,” Gregory spoke for the first time that morning. Daniel looked up, watching as his father pushed away the newspaper at his side. “None of us can put our lives on hold out of fear. It is no way to live.” He smiled softly at Daniel. “If you wish to travel again as well, you should, Son.”

“Thank you, Father.” Daniel forced a smile of his own, for he knew the truth.

I am in no fit state to travel.

Already his breathing was shortening, and he needed to escape the company of his parents if he did not wish them to worry more. He swallowed the last of the toast on his plate and downed what was left in his teacup before he stood to his feet.

“If you would excuse me,” he said, nodding his head at his parents before hurrying out of the room.

“Is all well, Son?” Gregory called after him.

“I’m fine, Father, nothing’s wrong,” Daniel lied, feeling his breath escape him. As the door to the dining room closed behind him, he wheezed.

He headed for the staircase as quickly as he could, knowing that running would make it worse, but he did it anyway. He was tired of causing his parents such worry and longed to be like any other young man – stronger than this.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he panted with each breath, until he reached the landing. No longer able to take a deep breath, he fell to his knees, clutching the banister beside him so much that he could see the skin of his knuckles turning white. Concentrating on his breathing, he closed his eyes. It was a technique taught to him once by a physician in Paris.

“In and out, my Lord. That’s right. The breath encapsulates one being. To control it, you must think only of it.”

Daniel recalled the memory as he breathed. There was a dizziness that dissipated as he opened his eyes. Once he was strong enough, he pulled at the banister, hauling himself to his feet, then he hastened toward his bedchamber door, glad it was not too far away. Stumbling inside, he kicked the door shut behind him and reached for the nearest chair, dropping down into the seat.

Pulling forward a small table nearby, he bent over a bowl of heated water. His valet had brought it for him that morning, as was customary. It was cooler now, too cool really, but there was still a thin vapor of steam that helped to clear Daniel’s breathing. He inhaled the steam as much as he could, bracing his hands to his knees.

I shall conquer this. I shall!

Yet he had been telling himself this same thing for the last thirteen years, at least. On his fifteenth birthday his breathing had first become ragged, and a physician had been called for. Since that first day, Daniel’s condition had been given many names. Dyspnea, inflammation of the lungs, asthma, and more. One physician had even proposed that Daniel had had a curse placed upon his lungs. Needless to say, Gregory had sent that physician out of the house with some sharp words and a warning not to come back. Daniel had never believed in such superstitions.

Once his breathing was completely under control, he sat back in the chair, his shoulders slumping. Across the room, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror over his vanity table. With the mirror at an angle, it distorted his reflection a little, a distortion that seemed rather apt to him, mimicking how he felt.

The light brown hair atop his temple was growing a little longer these days, and despite being waxed that morning, was already unkempt. The cropped beard across his chin had become unruly. His long nose seemed crooked in the reflection, and the lips that had a habit of smiling broadly in company were now flattened together. His tall figure, almost lanky, was crumpled in the chair, with his long legs stretching out in front of him.

He sat forward, staring at the bowl in front of him and watching the last few vapors of steam waft in the air, forming thin tendrils. There had been a time when Daniel had encouraged every physician and doctor they could find into the house, desperate for a cure, but he’d long given up hope of a remedy.

“There’s only one thing I can do,” he muttered aloud, his voice deep. “Push on and live with it.” He pushed the bowl of heated water away.

Sitting back in his chair, he thought of all the things he would do today if he had more energy. He missed his horse riding, and longed to do more of it, but the last ride he had managed was round the estate with his father following him on another horse. It was a far cry from the long horse rides Daniel had had on the continent the year before, unattended and exploring the great Alps of France and Switzerland.

Much has changed, and despite what I say… I am getting worse.

The thought made him lift a hand to his chest and place his palm flat. He felt for the beat of his heart. It was slowing now to something more normal. He took comfort in that sound, letting the steady rhythm rock him. He was so close to sleep that when a knock came on the door it jolted him forward.

“My Lord Marquess?” the butler called from the closed door.

“Yes, Travis?” Daniel called back, standing abruptly.

“Your sister has arrived at the house. She is asking to see you, my Lord.”

“Thank you. I will be down shortly.” He waited for the butler’s footsteps to retreat before taking a deep breath and moving to the door.

I will be fine. Clara understands this more than any other, and she knows how I try to protect our parents from fear too.

It seemed to be an unspoken agreement they had formed long ago, that when he had trouble, Clara would help and try to keep their parents calm. They had seen Marianne panic enough to know that she could become quite wild, out of worry that one day Daniel would just stop breathing entirely.

“Keep breathing, you fool,” he muttered to himself and reached for the door. Slowly, he made his way downstairs, finding Clara was already in the sitting room. Their parents weren’t there, but out on the driveway, waving to Clara through the window. “Are they fleeing you as you come to visit?” Daniel teased, earning her gaze.

She rolled her eyes at his antics and turned away from the window, flashing her large eyes.

“Should I be worried?” She continued the jest, then hastened toward him, her arms outstretched for an embrace. Daniel took her in his arms, holding her for a few seconds, before he stepped back.

There was a glow in his sister’s countenance he had not seen before.

“How are you?” she asked, before he could ask the same of her.

“Well enough, and you?” he said, releasing her and reaching for the nearest chair. He sighed as he sat down in the chair, noting that she did not take her customary seat across the room but pulled up a footstool and sat beside him.

“I’m well,” she said hurriedly. “I thought we could go for a ride today. Horatio is seeing his tenants on business, so I am quite lonesome and in need of company.” As she spoke of her husband, she smiled sweetly.

“You are quite amusing to watch when you speak of Horatio, do you know that?” he teased her as she sat stiffly, the curls of her hair twitching with the sudden movement.

“Whatever do you mean?” Her voice pitched high.

“I mean that you go from talking normally to speaking of your husband in a light voice and with a ridiculous smile on your face.” He was mischievous as he gestured to her.

“Then I shall have to do this.” She covered her lips, hiding her face from him. They both laughed together, and she soon let her hand drop. “I cannot deny Horatio makes me happy.”

“I know. I have seen it.” Daniel felt a twinge of envy in his stomach. He shifted, trying to abate that feeling.

Ever since Horatio and Clara had married, he’d been truly delighted for them both. Horatio was a good man, and the best brother-in-law he could hope for. He and Clara suited one another well and had a preoccupation with one another’s company. Daniel had never seen his sister so happy. In his darkest of moments though, he feared it would be a feeling he would never know.

Love.

“You are both well then? No regrets over your marriage?” Daniel teased her again. “At Yuletide, you looked quite ready to throw your Christmas gift at him.”

“That is because he was causing mischief,” Clara said simply. “Wrapping up an apple is not a gift. Fortunately, he gave me a much better present after that.” It seemed to be a running jest the two had between them, of wrapping up things that weren’t quite gifts, in the attempt to deceive one another. “I am very happy.” She looked down a little and fidgeted with her gown. Daniel wondered what such a movement meant, before she continued on. “I hope someday soon you will marry, Daniel.”

“Me?” He sat tall in the chair and laughed at the idea. “We both know that is absurd!”

“Absurd? Why on earth should it be absurd?” She looked quite outraged, folding her arms across her body and making her pink cheeks flush red.

“I hardly need say why, do I?” Daniel continued to laugh, before he could not breathe. Abruptly, he coughed, and his laughter came to an end. One cough was not enough to clear his lungs and he sat forward, struggling to catch his breath.

At once, Clara was on her feet. She clapped Daniel on the back, trying to help him clear his lungs. Amongst the coughing, Daniel was aware someone else was in the room.

“What can I do?” It was the butler’s voice.

“Hot water. At once, please,” Clara called.

Daniel managed to stop coughing by himself and sat straight, though he wheezed as he moved. Clara released him, moving back to the foot stool. So close, he could see the fear in her eyes and the way her lips were pressed together.

“Don’t you start looking at me like that,” Daniel said, his voice strained. “I get enough of that look from our mother.”

“I can’t help it,” Clara said in a small voice.

Hot water soon arrived and was placed beside Daniel on a table. He thanked Travis for the kindness, who parted, leaving Daniel and Clara alone again. Daniel raised the water to his lips but didn’t take a sip. He merely breathed in the steam. There was the scent of phlegm hanging in the air, but he didn’t draw attention to it. It seemed to be a scent that followed him around these days.

“Well, that answers your question, doesn’t it?” he asked Clara eventually.

“What?” she murmured, her eyes dancing over his person, showing she was still anxious with her concern for him.

“I doubt I will ever marry, Clara,” he said, his voice deep. “What woman would accept such a husband as I?”

“What husband would that be?” Clara stood, her hands on her hips. “The son of a duke, a handsome man at that, one full of good humor and jests, intelligent too, great rider—”

“I’m amazed. You are uttering more compliments than you have ever done in our lifetimes,” he teased her, watching as her stance relaxed and she lowered her hands from her hips.

“My point is,” she paused and sat down again, leaning forward, “your sickness is not the definition of who you are. You are so much more than that.”

He smiled softly, touched by her words.

She and I know that, but I also know what others think.

He didn’t wish to make the atmosphere worse, so he did not tell Clara of his thoughts. He had never told her of some of the meetings he’d had on the continent that had made him so afraid. In the south of France, some villagers had pointed at him, saying he was cursed. In Italy, after being introduced to a fine lady at a masquerade ball, she had retreated from him after he had coughed and said she had no wish to die of the plague. No matter what he had said, he could not persuade her he was not contagious, that it was a problem with his own lungs.

“I believe someday, you will marry,” Clara said confidently, her eyes lighting up with her confidence. “You will find someone who loves you for who you are.”

“The confidence of my sister!” He smiled at the words. “You always were a little idealistic.” He remembered once that Clara had thought just as poorly of herself, though that seemed some time ago. Ever since she had married Horatio, she had been a little naïve at times.

“I think the word is optimistic.” She prodded him with her statement, making him wriggle in his seat, trying not to laugh out of fear he would cough again. “Now, what do you say? Shall we go for that ride? We could talk of the ladies you have met at the Yuletide balls.”

Daniel’s eyes looked out of the window. The grass beyond was frost covered, and the trees were white, as if they had been sifted in fine sugar. He longed to journey out, but he feared what it would do to him.

“Maybe just a short journey,” he said eventually, though the fear of what could happen outside made his knee bob up and down and the heel of his hessian boot repeatedly tap the floor. The last time he’d had a coughing fit outside, that cold air had burned his lungs, making it painful indeed.

“I’ll keep a close eye on you.” Clara stood and offered her hand.

The temptation of the adventure was too much to resist, and he took her hand, standing to follow her.

“Now, as we go, tell me what ladies you met at the Christmas ball?” she asked, prompting Daniel to shake his head.

“They were all fine and fair enough, sister, but they kept their distance.” It was a sad truth. He had a distinct memory from the ball of when he had coughed and a group of ladies had all turned their heads away from him.

 

Chapter 2

Arabella

With her arm growing tired from waving, Arabella persisted, gesturing at Franny as she took her leave in the cart, parting from the house for the last time. Arabella held back her tears, as she had grown used to doing over the years. That same familiar prickling feeling was there, though she refused to give way to it.

“Goodbye, Franny!” she called to the cook she would miss so much.

“Goodbye, my dear!” Franny shouted back, leaning out of the cart and waving for as long as she could, until the cart turned at the end of the drive and disappeared from view, masked by the trees.

Arabella’s arm fell to her side, and she breathed deeply, thinking of how lonely the house would be now. Franny was the last member of staff to work for Arabella and her father. She had stayed on for many years, even when Arabella’s father, Harold, had told her he would have to cut her pay, for he couldn’t afford her anymore. It was the greatest kindness Arabella had ever known for Franny to stay as long as she did.

“How can I leave you, Miss Spencer?” she’d said once, years ago.

She was Arabella’s greatest friend, until now. Harold could no longer afford to pay Franny a single shilling, and Franny was forced to look for work elsewhere.

Arabella chewed the inside of her mouth to stop her tears as her eyes landed on the trees at the edge of the estate. They swayed in the breeze, their bare branches shivering, shedding any last few leaves that had clung on past Christmas. With the turn of the new year, much was changing. Not only was the estate withered by the cold, but by a lack of money too.

Harold had sold off most of the tenants, a lot of the furniture from the house, and even the horses. What was left of the house was bare and lacked any comforts at all.

Turning her back on the driveway, Arabella walked into the house. Shivering at the cold in the air, she wrapped a blue woolen shawl tighter around her shoulders. Peering into the closest room, she saw the fire was empty. They couldn’t afford the coal to build it up again. She would simply have to wear more shawls for now. Reaching for a second shawl off the coat stand, she wrapped it around her shoulders as well as the first, then walked into the room to see her father.

Harold was bending over a writing bureau, his body stiff as he hurried to write notes.

“Papa?” she called to him. He didn’t appear to hear her at first but fidgeted. He pulled at the sleeves of his tailcoat that were beginning to fray, then he returned to his notes. “Papa?” This time he looked up, his chin jerking toward her in surprise at her presence. “Franny has left.”

“Ah, yes.” He pulled at his frayed sleeves once more and sat back. “I am truly sorry, love. I know how much she meant to you, but I…”

“I know, Papa. We couldn’t keep her with us anymore.” She forced a smile though it made her cheeks ache so soon fell away.

I will miss her.

She didn’t say the words aloud, fearful of making her father feel any worse.

“All will be better soon, I promise,” her father said and picked up one of the sheets of paper before him, waving it in the air. “I’ve had some advice on a new investment opportunity.”

“Another? The last few have not gone well.” She tried to issue a note of caution, but he was too taken up by the idea to possibly listen.

“This one will be better; I am sure of it.” He spoke with heavy anticipation, leaning forward so much in his chair that it creaked beneath him. “You’ll see, all will be better soon. All I need is a little money to invest—”

“And where are you going to find that money?” Arabella pointed out. The happiness in her father’s face faltered for a second, before it returned.

“We have some left. I will use that.” He turned and pulled forward a new sheet of paper. “I will write to the other investors now. I must put forward my money soon if we are to reap the benefits.”

“I am not sure about this. The last investment you made…” She trailed off, aware that her voice didn’t seem to reach him. It was as if he was in another world now, unable to hear her. He muttered to himself as he wrote the letter and she backed up, tiptoeing soundlessly out of the room and into the corridor. As always, he didn’t notice she had gone.

Arabella walked the corridors for a minute, noting the new empty spaces in the house. On the wall there was a blank space where a painting that had been painted by her mother used to sit. Feeling her gut tightening, with horror she realized her father was even selling things that had belonged to her mother now.

He is so desperate for money.

Turning her back on the empty space, Arabella left the corridor and made her way to the one place in the house that brought her comfort. Hastening for the servants’ staircase, she walked down into the belly of the house and found the kitchen.

Here, the hearth was just as empty as every other fireplace in the house. One log was in the grate, unlit, ready for her to make dinner later that day. She could not afford to light it now, for that would be wasting the wood.

Tying her shawls around her shoulders, she fixed them in place and lifted a bonnet from where she kept it on an iron hook nailed into the stone wall by the kitchen door. Fastening the bonnet under her chin, it helped to ward off a little of the chill as she began to prepare some food.

Over the years, Franny had taught her much in the way of cooking. Now, Arabella would have to use all of that knowledge if she was going to cook for her and her father, to keep them alive on what little food they could purchase and grow in the kitchen garden. Taking a mixing bowl, she began to stir together breadcrumbs and herbs, when the scent of mint filled the air. Lifting a mint leaf out of the bowl, she crushed it between her fingers and pressed it to her nose, inhaling that scent.

It brought forward happy memories of Franny.

“Remember, dear, plants bring happiness as well as health. What is more important in this world than those two things?”

At the time, Arabella had had no answer for the cook. Now, she did have an answer.

“My father would have said, ‘money.’” The words escaped her in a rush, her voice quiet and barely audible at all.

Since her mother had died when she was a child, Arabella had witnessed the steady decline of the estate. At first, Harold had been caught up so much in his grief that he’d been distracted from his business. The once great merchant and landowner was unable to concentrate on his responsibilities, and one poor decision had led to another. What had started out as grief had become ill-considered business choices. One mad scheme of investment led to another, and now, they had fallen far from the once wealthy position they had occupied.

“We have to find money from somewhere,” Arabella whispered to herself as she lowered the mint leaves into the bowl and stirred them with the breadcrumbs, thinking of making a stuffing to have with a chicken that evening. It was one of the last chickens they had on the estate, chickens that were now attended to and fed by her, for the maid who used to attend them had left long ago.

The year before, Arabella had dappled in selling her herbal mixtures and tonics to the village and town close by in order to make some money. She had done good business for a while, before she had decided the risk was too great to continue the position. For one thing, all the money she had brought home was used by her father on some new ridiculous scheme. She had also feared that her identity would be discovered.

Having styled herself as Bona Dea, the unknown healer of the town who helped women with secret tonics, gossip had spread and many had tried to discover her identity. Out of fear of discovery, she’d abandoned the endeavor. It would have embarrassed her father greatly for the town to know his daughter was working as a healer, and she feared what the ton would think to see the daughter of a fallen merchant was now attending to their ailments.

As she stirred the stuffing together, she heard footsteps beyond the kitchen door, hurrying through the garden and the herbs she had planted outside. Pausing in her task, Arabella looked to the door, wondering if it was in her imagination.

Franny walked those paths many times. She will not walk them again now.

There was a knock at the door, a rapid one, making Arabella jump.

“Arabella? Arabella!” a familiar voice called on the other side.

“Betchey?” Moving away from the worktop of the kitchen, she reached for the door and opened it wide. The fair hair of Betchey appeared on the other side, her skin pale from the cold as she blew on her fingers.

“Brr! It’s chilly out here today. I hope you are going to invite me in,” Betchey teased with a great smile.

“Happily, though be warned, it is not much warmer in here.” Arabella hastened her friend inside and closed the door behind her. She and Betchey had met as children on the estate, for Betchey was the daughter of one of her father’s old tenants. They had played together when they were young and had remained friends to this day. In that time, much had changed.

As Arabella’s position had fallen, and she’d turned to quite an isolated life in this house, Betchey had many reasons to smile. The maid had gone to work for Lady Clara, the daughter of the Duke of Gordon. With Lady Clara now married to Mr. Horatio Fitzroy, the future Baron of Aldington, Betchey was moving between grand houses. She’d also met a young valet, James, and fallen so quickly in love that Arabella had teased her friend that it often sounded like the tale of one of Shakespeare’s grand plays. Now married, Betchey’s belly was beginning to grow with child.

“Come in, come in,” Arabella ushered her friend inside and toward a chair. “We cannot have you cold, not in your state.”

“I am sure it is warm enough in here.” Yet Betchey’s smile faltered slightly as she shivered in the room. “Goodness, how does this cold air not make you ill?”

“I fear someday it will.” Deciding she had to at least use some of the log in the grate to keep her friend warm, Arabella dropped to her knees and lit the fire, stirring it to life. The yellow flames were small at first, but they soon cast a warmth into the room, enough for Betchey to hover by the hearth in her chair and stay warm. “Here, I’ll make you a sweet mint tea too. It will help you with your sickness.”

“How did you know?” Betchey said, wide-eyed as she turned in the chair to look at Arabella. “I have not complained to you for weeks of my morning sickness.” Arabella raised her eyebrows, watching as Betchey smiled. “Well, not for days then.”

“You are pale, my friend,” Arabella said softly, laying a comforting hand to Betchey’s shoulder. “I can tell when someone is feeling ill.” She had learned to recognize the signs over the years, just as Franny had taught her to. Not only was there a paleness to Betchey’s cheeks, but there was almost a purplish tinge to her lips, that would not have been helped by the cold air outside. Hastening to her task, Arabella placed a cauldron on the fire, stretching her small frame with the large cauldron, ready to boil the water, then began to tear up mint leaves, preparing them for the tea.

“How are you?” Betchey said, her voice soft. Arabella heard the concern in her friend’s voice, without having to look up and see her expression.

They had talked much in advance about how today Franny would be leaving. It had not been a day Arabella was looking forward to.

“I’m well enough.” Arabella forced a smile. “We must push forward with things, must we not? Move on with our lives.” She placed the mint leaves in two cups then turned to face her friend. “How are you faring?” She noted there was an excitement in her friend’s manner. Betchey was sat forward in her chair, her lips parting and closing, as if she was anxious to speak. “You seem excited about something,” Arabella observed, tilting her head to the side as she watched Betchey. “May I presume this is not like any other visit but you have come to tell me something?”

“How is it you always know what I am thinking? You are too perceptive! That or you have powers, and really can read minds. What was it your mother always called you?” Betchey spoke more to herself, rather than needing an answer at all, and tapped her chin. “That was it, a fairy! Perhaps your mother was right? You certainly have such magical powers that I would associate with a fairy.”

“Goodness, I have not thought of that memory for a long time.” Arabella stilled with the mint leaves, recalling her mother. A happy memory flashed in her mind, of her mother walking with her in the garden, holding her hand. The memory slipped away, and Arabella’s smile faded with it. “Anyway, what is it you wish to tell me?”

“I have come to ask you something.” Betchey leaned forward as Arabella moved a chair from the kitchen table to sit beside the fire. “I bring a message, a request.”

“What sort of request?”

“From Lady Clara Fitzroy.” Betchey spoke with glee.

At the words, Arabella stilled. The last time she had worked as a healer was for Lady Clara, though she had been determined not to do such work since. Arabella had made tonics and potions for Lady Clara to give her more confidence, as well as providing things ladies often wanted, to feel more beautiful, such as belladonna drops. Lady Clara had taken too much belladonna in her tea one day and had become quite ill. It was one of the reasons Arabella had not worked as a healer since, for she had no wish to risk another ending up hurt.

“She longs for your help,” Betchey went on, calling Arabella’s mind back to the moment.

“My help?” Arabella said in panic. “Surely she does not know…” She broke off suddenly and collected the cauldron of water from the fire as it began to boil.

“No, no, she has no idea you are Bona Dea. Trust me, that is a secret I have kept very well.” Betchey sat tall, pleased with her success at holding onto such a secret. Arabella sighed with relief as she poured the hot water over the mint leaves, making their tea. “She asked for your help as Bona Dea. She is facing a grave situation.”

“How do you mean?” Arabella paused from prodding the tea leaves with a pewter spoon, raising her eyes to her friend.

“It is her brother, the Marquess of Wareham. He is ill, and no physician seems able to help him.” Betchey had lost all traces of her smile. “Lady Clara has offered to pay you a great deal, but she longs for another’s advice, someone besides the usual doctors and physicians who always say the same thing. They have not managed to help him.”

“I…” Arabella didn’t know what to say. She passed the teacup to her friend and kept the chipped cup for herself, not wanting her friend to use the damaged crockery. Returning to her seat, she lifted the teacup to her lips, deep in thought. “I haven’t worked as a healer for a while, Betchey. You know that.”

“A year’s break is not so long.” Betchey waved the idea way with a waft of her hand. “Lady Clara offers you money, a great deal, and I know it could do you good.”

“It could.” She paused, chewing the inside of her mouth as she looked around the room. Just minutes before Betchey had arrived, she had been thinking of ways to make money. Was she now going to turn her back on the one chance she had for earning something?

“I ask you for more reasons other than money, my friend,” Betchey said and sat forward, catching Arabella’s gaze with her own. “Lady Clara is truly worried for her brother. Sadness clings to her as if it were her shadow. If there is anything you could do for him…” Her intake of breath was shuddery. “It would be more valued than I could ever say.”

Arabella had seen Lord Wareham from a distance once. He was a handsome man, with light brown hair, who had noticed her despite the business of the streets in town. His eyes had danced over her, and he had offered a smile. It was a kind thing, to smile at a stranger in the street, then he was gone, walking past her beside his father, deep in conversation. The thought of the man with the kind face suffering illness tugged at her heart, making it thump harder in her chest.

“Very well, I could take a look at him. Yet I shall go as myself. I could hardly examine the man purely through letters, so I pray Lady Clara will be content to keep the secret of my pseudonym for now.” She swallowed nervously at the idea.

“Of course. You do not need to worry about that. Lady Clara has promised to keep the secret,” Betchey assured her in a rush.

“Very well then.” Going to the Duke of Gordon’s house would mean revealing her identity to some people, but at least this way she could get her father the money he needed. “When should I go to see him?”

“Come to the Duke’s house tomorrow,” Betchey pleaded, her cheeks spreading into a wide smile. “I am so glad you have said yes, Arabella. I am sure you are the one who can help him.”

 

Chapter 3

Arabella

Arabella paused on the driveway, fidgeting with the gloves around her wrists and the herbal case in her grasp as she stared at the Duke of Gordon’s house. She had seen it many times from a distance when she walked nearby hills, and from a passing road, but never had she been so close before. The structure was vast and made of yellow stone in the Palladian style. So impressive in stature with a multitude of windows that glistened in the morning light, it made Arabella swallow nervously, feeling quite out of place. She felt as small as a pebble in comparison to the house, as if she did not belong here at all.

Maybe this was not such a good idea.

She supposed she might have felt like she belonged more had she approached on a horse or in a carriage, but the carriages had been sold long ago and her father had never taught her to ride a horse, despite her frequent requests for him to do so. In the end, she’d tried to ride a horse herself one day. When the horse had tipped her out of the saddle, she’d decided not to try again.

Fidgeting on the driveway, she didn’t move forward or back for a minute. She thought only of the house before her that was dappled in frost, and the way the icy gravel path had crunched beneath her feet. The manner of the house being so enveloped in ice reminded her much of her own home, as if there were more similarities between the abodes than she had considered before.

“I do not belong here,” Arabella whispered, reminding herself that she was really suited to calling at the servants’ doorway. Yet the instructions Betchey had left for her didn’t speak of the servants’ entrance, but the main door.

Think of your father, you fool, she thought to herself. He is in need of the money, to buy food if nothing more, so you have no choice.

Pushing away any feelings that she did not belong on this estate, she walked forward, making her way to the front door. She knocked quietly on the wood, only to find it was not answered by a butler. Betchey was the one to answer it, flinging open the door so hurriedly that she nearly tipped herself off her own feet with it.

“Be careful!” Arabella called and jumped forward, grabbing Betchey’s free wrist to keep her friend stable.

“Oh!” Betchey shook her head at herself. “I swear this baby is making me lose control of myself.” She laid her other hand to her swollen stomach and laughed off the idea. “I am always full of excitement.” Arabella smiled and released her friend, now that she was stable on her feet. “Come in, quickly, before the staff see you.”

“I beg your pardon?” Arabella just managed to get the words out before the door was closed and she had to hasten out of the way of being caught by it. Stumbling into the entrance hall, her mouth turned dry as she took in the view of the corridor.

It was a grand house, the hallway so vast and tall that it was two floors in height at least. Flooded with light from the great windows, the whole place felt bright. Despite the coldness beyond the windows from the icy day, inside this room all was warm.

“Betchey, what did you say?” Arabella tore her eyes away from admiring the room and fixed her gaze on Betchey, who now locked the door.

“The staff do not know you have come. In fact, only Lady Clara and I know it.” Betchey took Arabella’s hand and dragged her away from the front door.

“Oh, how wonderful,” Arabella said with thick irony. “If you expect to keep my presence in a house secret, what do you wish me to do? Hide in the corners and shrink down to the skirting boards like a mouse?”

“The thought may have crossed my mind,” Betchey teased her with a giggle, before hurrying her into the nearest room. “Trust me, Arabella, it is for the best.”

Before she could ask Betchey anymore about why there was such a need for secrecy in this house, she grew aware of another nearby. Arabella turned in the room to see Lady Clara standing by the fire. She was a lady Arabella had often seen at a distance, beautiful, with large eyes and distinctive features. Now, Lady Clara had a vast smile too as she turned to face Arabella.

“To meet you at last,” she said, gushingly, “what a joy this is.”

“Oh, heavens.” Arabella was not prepared for the way Lady Clara ran forward and took her hand. “My Lady!” Arabella hurried to curtsy, feeling ill at ease and out of place. This was the daughter of a duke before her. Arabella did not deserve to be in the lady’s sitting room, let alone to have her hand taken by the lady.

“Forgive me, I know I am being informal, I am just so thrilled to meet you at last,” Lady Clara said kindly. “After all that you did for me last year, I have wanted to thank you in person for so long.”

“Oh…” Arabella felt as if the breath was stolen from her body. She recovered fast, trying not to dwell on how she had helped Lady Clara. She’d sent Lady Clara the potions, but it was the letter she had sent that had done the lady more good than anything else. Arabella had often heard from Betchey that without the letter, Lady Clara feared she never would have married her husband, Mr. Horatio Fitzroy. It was a letter Arabella had written after Lady Clara had fallen ill, urging her that she had no need of such potions and tricks to feel confident. “I did only what any other lady would do. I was glad to be of help, my Lady.” Arabella curtsied once more, prompting Lady Clara to smile.

“Thank you so much for coming. You are cold to the touch.” Lady Clara pressed Arabella’s hand between two of her own. “Come, stand by the fire, this will warm you.”

Arabella was drawn forward, shocked by the sudden heat in the room. It had been a long time since she had seen such a roaring fire, with great yellow flames leaping upward, as if each one was competing to reach the top of the chimney far above it. She hovered by the fire, startled to find that Lady Clara still hadn’t released her hand. Slowly, Arabella extricated it, gripping to the herbal bag in front of her.

“Betchey said you were in need of my help, my Lady, for your brother?” she asked leadingly, hoping to discover what was wrong.

“Yes, that is right.” Lady Clara looked to the doorway of the room as they heard sounds beyond it. She waved a panicked hand at Betchey who abruptly closed the door. “I apologize for my manner and my secrecy, but there is a reason for it. For one thing, Betchey has impressed upon me your wish for your identity to remain unknown as a healer.”

“Thank you, my Lady.” Arabella smiled, touched by the kindness, though she sensed there was more here that hadn’t yet been told.

“There is also the matter that my parents do not know I have sent for your presence, and I fear what they would think if the staff were to pass on news of your visit.” Lady Clara looked uncomfortable, wringing her hands together. “They have gone travelling, and after they left, my brother took a turn for the worse with his illness. It all started one day when we went riding.” She swallowed, clearly holding back tears as her eyes grew wet. The concern for her brother was so evident that Arabella felt nerves tremble in her gut. “What you must understand about my parents, Miss Spencer, is that they put a lot of stock into science and the medicinal profession. I fear that if I told them I had asked a local healer to look at my brother, they would disapprove.”

Arabella couldn’t help but smile a little at the words, for it was not the first time she had heard such a dismissal.

“They would not be the only ones to have such an opinion, my Lady,” Arabella said slowly. “Many think that a woman, such as I, could not have knowledge that compares to that of a male doctor’s learning. What they fail to see is that my knowledge is based on science too. When I was a child, I called it magic, but as I have grown older, I have come to see that they are one and the same thing really. Science is magic, but it has an explanation behind it.” Her words prompted Lady Clara to smile and the signs of tears in her eyes faded.

“I admire you for such a thought,” she confessed, her voice quiet. “I know of your capabilities, of course, after our past dealings, and it is my hope that with your knowledge, you will be able to help my brother now.”

“I can try.” Arabella nodded, fearing what she would find when she met the Marquess of Wareham. “Yet I am no sorceress, nor an all-powerful being. As much as it pains me to say this, my Lady, I must issue caution. It may be the case that I cannot…” She broke off, struggling to say the words.

“That you cannot help him, I know.” Lady Clara smiled sadly. “Trust me, I have seen many doctors come to such a conclusion, and I am prepared for it, but at this stage, I am willing to try anything. I beg of you to at least look at him. If you cannot help him, then I will accept it, but please, say you will try?”

The desperation in her tone was so plain that Arabella found herself nodding, even before Lady Clara had finished speaking.

“Of course, I will help in any way I can,” Arabella assured her and glanced back at Betchey who still hovered by the closed door. All at once, Arabella could see why Betchey considered Lady Clara such a good friend. The difference in their station mattered naught to either of them. With Lady Clara’s kind manner, Arabella could see how easy it would be to confide in the woman. “I will do what I can.” Arabella clutched the leather handle of her bag a little harder. “May I see him now?”

“Yes, please. Come with me.” Lady Clara beckoned her to follow and moved to the door. Betchey peered out first into the corridor, before stepping back and giving the all clear with a nod of her head.

“We must hurry,” she said swiftly. “The butler seems to be keeping a close eye on the house these days. I think he worries for his master too.”

“Then let us go now.” Lady Clara stepped out into the corridor, with Arabella following behind and Betchey trailing at the rear.

With Betchey growing with child, she was not able to keep pace with the others. Together, they hastened up the stairs, only pausing at the top when Lady Clara held out a hand toward Arabella.

“There is one thing more I must tell you before we see my brother,” Lady Clara said, returning to wringing her hands in her customary fashion, revealing the stress she suffered.

“What is that?” Even as Arabella asked the question, she saw the way Lady Clara’s eyes darted to the door of a bedchamber nearby. There was something in the movement of those eyes, the sharpness, and the way the lady’s lips pressed firmly together that led Arabella to conclude what was wrong. “Allow me to guess, my Lady. Have you not told your brother I am coming to look at his condition?”

“I’m afraid, I have not.” Lady Clara grimaced with the words and laid her palms to her cheeks, attempting to hide her blush of embarrassment. “In truth, I feared what he would say. I knew if you were already here when I introduced the idea of you looking at him, he would find it much harder to say no. I’m afraid my brother thinks like my parents when it comes to healing.”

Arabella said nothing for a minute, with her hands tightening around the handles of her bag. Coming to look at a man who had no idea she was here to see him felt audacious and rude. For a minute, she considered turning back around and refusing to see him, for what would the Marquess say when she appeared in his chamber door? He could cast her out of it! The thought of the handsome Marquess of Wareham glaring at her was too much to bear.

“Well, I am not sure…” She began, then broke off. Lady Clara dropped her palms from her cheeks and revealed the sadness of her expression. Behind her, Betchey appeared, a hand to her rounded stomach and breathing deeply after walking so quickly. “You must take care, Betchey,” Arabella said, reaching for her friend. She took her friend’s hand and led her toward a chair at the top of the stairs, helping her to sit.

“See? That is how I know you are perfect for this,” Lady Clara said, gesturing to what Arabella had done. “There is such care in what you do. That is what my brother needs, rather than another doctor who simply knows he will be paid well for coming to look at the son of a duke.”

“Ah, I see.” Arabella felt the guilt tighten in a knot in her stomach, for it was the money that had brought her here too.

How many times must this poor man have been poked and prodded by physicians who simply knew they’d be compensated well for the task?

“Very well, my Lady, I will see your brother.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” Lady Clara spoke quickly with animation before she reached for the nearest chamber door. “Daniel?” She tapped lightly on the door. “Are you risen?”

“Of course,” a deep voice called from inside the room. “I’d be the definition of laziness itself to still be in bed at this hour.”

“Oh good.” Lady Clara opened the door and pushed it wide.

Arabella’s eyes shot to the room inside where she saw Lord Wareham was sat up in an armchair by the fire, dressed though missing his tailcoat, and with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The handsome countenance had Arabella fidgeting, remembering what it was like that day in the street when Lord Wareham had smiled at her. When his eyes turned to greet his sister, the smile dropped from his face, and the pale pallor became mixed with a dark look.

“Sister…why are you bringing a lady into my room?”

 

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