Page 63 of Souvenir of Love

“What an appallingly grim imagination you have.” He gave a mock shudder. “And to think, I once imagined you a romantic.”

“I gave up on romantic illusions,” she said, her voice deceptively light, “about the time I began to wonder how your sister could have known precisely when to open the door to the library and when to have my brother’s coach brought round.”

“Arabella.”Her mother’s voice, drawing out the last syllables of her name, echoed up the staircase. “Ara-bell-ahhh.” It was a command, not a question. Marking her place with a bit of grosgrain ribbon, Arabella Norcroft closed her book.

Her mother entered the room just as she was setting it down on a side table. “Reading,” she said disapprovingly. “Nearly as bad as leaving the windows open at night. Invites in all manner of corruption.”

“You were calling for me, Mama?” she asked in an attempt to distract her mother from a discussion of her “unnatural” propensity for books.

“It’s most peculiar, my dear, most upsetting.”

“What is?”

“The carriage downstairs.” Her mother drew her chin up disapprovingly. “It has the Moreham coat of arms on the doors.”

“Is it Lady Elizabeth come to call?” She tried hard to keep the excitement from her voice. It would be just like Elizabeth to show up unannounced on her doorstep.

“It doesn’t appear so, though considering that one’s wild behavior, the impertinence wouldn’t surprise me at all.” She motioned for her daughter to follow her. “The coachman said he has some packages for you.” The starched lace of her cap shaking with disapproval, she started down the stairs.

Arabella trailed after her. Though her mother had forbidden her to see Elizabeth when they’d both still been in London, she’d stopped short of refusing to let the girls correspond. There was always a possibility, her mother said, that society might forgive Elizabeth Harcrest. Or that some gentleman might be willing to overlook her indiscretions, marry her for her title and fortune, and restore at least some of the luster to her tarnished reputation. If such a thing were to occur, it might be well if Lady Elizabeth remembered Arabella with affection. By affection, she knew her mother really meant something more akin to patronage; her mother considered every relationship outside the family in terms of how it might advance Arabella’s marital prospects.

A girl with limited endowments, her mother was fond of saying, should be careful not to squander them. Arabella had only to look in the mirror to know that by “limited endowments” her mother was referring to more than her modest dowry. Her figure was little better than that of a boy, her hair was an uninteresting shade of brown and had fewer waves than a pane of glass. Her bookishness, her mother frequently pointed out, only made things worse.

They reached the bottom of the stairs and turned, approaching the open door to the parlor. Arabella could see her sister Annabella propped up on the chaise, a great pile of embroidered pillows behind her head, her eyes closed asshe listened to their youngest sister, Annelise, practicing the pianoforte. It might have been her imagination, but Arabella could have sworn that some of the stiffness in her mother’s bearing eased. Doubtless it was the soothing sight of pretty, pregnant, successfully married Annabella. Her husband, Rupert Fenwinkle, as Annabella liked to tell anyone she thought might not be aware, was cousin to Sir Edmund Bogglesworth, a baron, no less, with considerable estates to the north.Hamcroft.Whenever Arabella thought of the name, she couldn’t help envisioning the stout Sir Edmund with an apple in his mouth.

Annabella lifted her head from the nest of pillows as Arabella and her mother passed by the door. “Is it someone come to call, Mama?” She loved visitors, could talk for hours about who was wearing what, who was courting whom, and who had won or lost at the gaming tables. Now that she was pregnant, she also enjoyed lengthy discussions on the proper clothes and furnishings for a child. Arabella wondered if the baby would appreciate the hours that had been spent on choosing just the right pattern of French wallpaper for the sitting room next to the nursery.

“No one of any consequence, my pet. Do not bestir yourself.” Arabella’s mother paused for a moment, her finger in the air as if testing the wind. “Annelise, that should have been an E, not a D. You must read the music more carefully or you’ll give your poor sister a megrim.”

“Yes, Mama.” There was a rustle of sheets of music being turned back. Annelise began playing the piece from the beginning.

As they reached the front steps of the house, Arabella caught sight of the coach with the familiar Harcrest coat of arms and felt her heart skip with excitement. Maybe, just maybe, it was Elizabeth come to call. It would be extraordinary for her to appear without sending word first, but then Elizabeth wasextraordinary. She had a fearlessness about her that Arabella envied, as if she didn’t care a whit what people said or thought about her. Arabella would wager a year’s pin money that prior to her disastrous entanglement with James Dinsmore, Elizabeth Harcrest had never left a party distraught with worry that she’d said or done the wrong thing. Her mother would say Elizabeth was bold because she had the protection of wealth and privilege, but Arabella knew it was something deeper, something Elizabeth had been born with, something—she thought with a deep internal sigh—she’d never have.

A coachman in Harcrest livery stepped forward. “You are Mrs. Frederick Norcroft?”

“I am.”

“And this would be your daughter, Miss Arabella Norcroft?” he inquired.

“She is,” her mother answered for her.

“My mistress, Lady Elizabeth Harcrest, wished me to deliver the following message. Knowing that Miss Norcroft and her sister, Mrs. Rupert Fenwinkle, would be visiting for the duration of Mrs. Fenwinkle’s lying in, she has sent several packages of ladies’ magazines and novels to help pass the time. Moreover, she has enclosed in these cases several yards of fabric, which she hopes you will be able to use to make clothing for the child.”

“As if we were charity cases,” her mother muttered under her breath. “Do tell Lady Elizabeth that we find ourselves astonished by her gifts,” she added more loudly for the benefit of the coachman.

“And do express to her how much we appreciate her generosity,” Arabella appended quickly.

Her mother’s mouth twitched with ill-concealed displeasure as the coachman began to unload the carriage. “You may put the case with the ladies’ magazines and fabric in the parlor. As forthe others”—she waved dismissively—“ask Miss Norcroft.” She turned on her heel and marched up the steps into the house.

Arabella stepped forward, embarrassed by her mother’s brusque response to Elizabeth’s gifts and anxious to have the cases upstairs in her room where she could savor their contents at leisure. Sharing books was nearly as entertaining as sharing witticisms. And it gave her a glimpse into her friend’s mind—a glimpse, she secretly hoped, that might show her how Elizabeth had learned to dare so much and fear so little.

“If you’ll follow me”—she beckoned to the coachman—“I’ll show you where to put the cases.”

The coachman nodded, but then he hesitated. His eyes flickered uncertainly to the front door of the Norcrofts’ home.

“Is there something more?” she prompted.

He glanced at Arabella, then once more to the front door. Apparently satisfied that her mother would not be returning, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a packet of letters. “Lady Elizabeth asked me to give these to you when I was certain there was no one else about. Said to tell you they was of the utmost importance. And that you should make sure to read the one on top”—he pointed at it—“the one addressed to you,in private.” He placed particular emphasis on the last two words.