Page 64 of A Fake Courtship with the Marquess
With the misty dawn, fuzzed by the residual smoke and a sea fret that came up off the water, the full extent of the damage was finally revealed. No one had slept through what had remained of the night, so all were anxiously awaiting news, the household spread out across the lawns and gardens. Although rain might have helped curtail the fire, they were all grateful it had been a temperate, clear night, for they had nowhere to take refuge.
However, Henry was not by the house when morning finally came, with solemn hues of purple and blue. After ensuring that Arabella was being cared for by the physician, who had arrived swiftly, he had wandered off to the vineyards with his father, to scout for any further wreckages.
“It seems someone attempted to start a blaze,” his father said bitterly, plucking off a singed handful of leaves that turned to ash in his hand. “The wind must not have been in their favor.”
Henry breathed a small sigh of relief, for these vineyards held a special place in his heart. He had played among them when he was a child, and they provided his family with further wealth, year on year. But, more than that, they were almost the very essence of this place. He would have been sorry to see them burned to cinders.
“I do not think that is the case,” he challenged, walking through the small square of vines that had succumbed to flame. Reaching a gap between the burned plants and the untouched ones, he gestured to it. “The fire could not bridge this, I believe. I remember, once, being told that it was a purposeful measure, to prevent everything from burning if there was ever a fire.”
His father frowned. “It rather makes sense, but who told you that? Was it me?”
“The old steward.” Henry did not like to say the man’s full name, knowing it would make his father huff and puff in remembered anger. The two men—his father and the old steward—had been like brothers, once upon a time, until his father had been forced to make a terrible choice. One that the steward had brought upon himself. Still, it had not made the Duke’s decision any easier.
I wonder if you still miss his company…Henry would never have dared to ask.
“In that case, I suppose I should be grateful to the wretch,” his father muttered. “Perhaps, he did one fortuitous thing with his life before the drink addled him beyond salvation. Foolish, foolish man.”
Henry gave a nod of agreement but was eager to divert the subject slightly. “We should send out a search party, to see if any further evidence can be found.” He paused. “I would like to say this is all coincidence, and it was nothing but an accident, but Mother was right. It does not make sense unless someone set the fires in the first place.”
“Is it Lady Arabella?” his father asked, stunning him.
“Who set the fire? No! Why would you say such a thing?”
The Duke cracked a faint smile. “I mean, is it her who has caused this change in you? You seem… wiser than the last time you were here. A proper gentleman, worthy of a dukedom and to be my successor.”
“Oh…” Henry breathed a little easier. “In truth, I cannot abide the thought that someone might have caused her harm, had I not reached her in time. You are right, in a sense. She makes me want to be a better version of myself. I did not even think of the danger presented to me when I was running to her rescue.”
His father made a noise of approval. “It was the same for me when I first met your mother. I remember, one evening, she told me she did not want a boy who was playing at being a man. That changed everything. I transformed overnight, to become the sort of fellow she could consent to marry.” He glanced down at his son’s hands. “How are your burns? Did the physician mention if they would scar?”
“He said it might, but only time will tell,” Henry replied, before turning and heading back to the house. His father followed, whistling a sad tune as he went. For all the Duke’s status and bravado, it could not have been easy for him to look upon the devastation of his home, wrought by unknown hands.
* * *
Standing a cautious distance from the edge of the cliff, close to the steps that led down into the lovely cove, Arabella hugged her cloak tighter about herself. It was not cold, but she could not seem to get warm. The sight of the desolate, blackened husk of the crumbled East Wing cast a pall over the landscape, and like the shadow it had become, it chilled her to the bone.
A figure appeared on the winding, crushed-seashell path that led down form the house. Ordinarily, the sight of Henry should have cheered her spirits, but the charred left side of the manor house had robbed her of that comfort, too. The night’s events kept repeating in her mind, making her wonder what might have happened if Henry had not gotten to her in time.
Would Cassie and I have perished? Surely, we would.
Gradually, Henry drew nearer, jogging the last few paces to her lookout spot. “Cassie said I would find you here. I did not realize she had healing expertise.”
“As she once said to me, ‘You do not grow up in a household, fit to bursting with children, without learning how to fix some scrapes and cuts.’ I am pleased she has found a way to be useful. No, I daresay I envy her, for I have nothing to occupymymind,” Arabella admitted. She had tried to aid Cassie after the physician had departed but ended up being in everyone’s way.
Henry offered his arm and as she took it, he led her to a natural bench, closer to the cliff edge. It was a long, flat boulder that had been hewn by weather and time, situated in the perfect place to watch the beautiful sea reflecting the hazy, dun sky.
“You are limping. I thought the physician said there was no considerable injury?” Henry looked worried. Indeed, so worried that he knelt in front of her and took hold of her sore ankle, rolling it gently this way and that so he might test for himself. Dark bruises dappled her pale skin, from the middle of her foot to a quarter way up her calf.
Arabella winced. “He said it was not broken, but there is still a rather painful sprain. I shall be hobbling until the autumn, I imagine.” She attempted a laugh, but it sounded like a hollow wheeze. “Perhaps I ought to fashion myself an elegant walking stick.”
To her surprise, Henry leaned further down and placed the tiniest of kisses upon her bruised ankle. “I have it on good authority that a kiss can be the best medicine for healing injuries.” He peered up at her with a sweet shyness. “Whether I believe it or not, I thought it best to try.”
“It already feels better,” she said breathlessly, stunned and thrilled by his boldness. It was not a lie, either; shedidfeel better, with so many warm and cheering sensations coursing through her, dismissing the gloom and chill of two minutes earlier.
Resting her foot back down on the ground, he took a seat beside her. Together, they looked out at the glistening water, almost mockingly still after such a turbulent night. But his silence was a companionable one, making her feel at ease.
“I suppose it is improper for us to be out here in this manner, without a chaperone,” she said, not minding one bit.
He smiled sadly. “There are greater concerns for everyone to worry about. Unless, you would prefer to be alone? Have I intruded?”
