Page 5 of Seven Swans a Swimming

She was about to meet her future husband. She was about to meet the person on whom all her happiness would depend.

A horrible lurch rushed through her stomach as a rather unpleasant thought struck her.

Arabella had spent most of the journey in the carriage dreaming up what her future husband, Lord Nathaniel Cartier, could look like, be like, what he sounded like…perhaps what he kissed like.

All her thoughts had been focused on him, and whether he would please her.

But what if he was disappointed in her? Arabella swallowed and tried to push the thought from her mind, but it was almost impossible.

What if he did not think her pretty enough? What if he looked at her and was disheartened by the idea that he would have to spend the rest of his life with her?

It was a terrible thought. For the first time since she had left London, Arabella wished she had spent a little more time thinking about her apparel and her toilette. She had not even done anything interesting with her hair, merely pinned it up and shoved her favorite winter bonnet on.

Arabella looked down. Her pelisse was elegant, it was true, but there was little style in it. Her red hair was a little too vibrant to be fashionable, and her nose—well, the less said about her nose the better.

Flutterings of panic washed through her heart. What if Nathaniel—Lord Nathaniel, she must remember to address him properly—was utterly delightful, handsome to boot, but he decided that she was not sufficiently pretty or witty enough to be his wife?

Arabella swallowed. That was the difficulty with being one of six sisters, she thought darkly as the coachman released himself from her grip and started back to the carriage, wringing his hand, to retrieve her luggage.

There was always a Fitzroy to compare oneself to. Harmony was musical, and Joy was witty, her two Bath cousins. The Chalcroft cousins had all the nobility the seat gave them and were charmingly beautiful, their Italian mother giving them hot tempers but also passionate souls.

Her own sisters were equal parts kind and pleasant to be around, each of them with their own unique quirks that made them such popular guests.

And then…Arabella.

She smiled weakly up at the imposing Tudor manor before her. It felt much larger, now that she was standing here looking at it. Frightening. Almost overwhelming.

Perhaps it was not too late to get back into the carriage and simply drive back to London. The thought struck Arabella and appeared instantly to be a good one. Why, no one had come out yet to greet them, it was more than possible that no one had seen her arrive.

All she had to do was get back into the carriage, and—

“Ah, Miss Fitzroy!”

Arabella winced, carefully rearranged her face into a smile, and turned around. “Lady Cartier.”

The older woman, still very beautiful and elegant, though her hair was silver, beamed. “I thought I heard the carriage! How wonderful to finally meet you, we have heard such wonderful things about you from your father.”

Arabella smiled weakly. Why was it that whenever someone said that they had heard wonderful things about her, she was immediately filled with a sense of panic?

It was surely kindly meant. Lady Cartier looked like a pleasant woman, and she had done Arabella a great honor by coming out to meet her herself, not leaving it to a butler or housekeeper—but still.

It was strange, to think that her father had been writing to Lord and Lady Cartier about her as though she was a prize specimen at a fair, just waiting to be chosen as the winner for their son’s affections.

“Why, thank you, Lady Cartier,” she managed to say after an awkward moment of silence. “It is truly an honor to be invited to stay with you for the Christmas season. I…I am sure we will have a wonderful time.”

Was it Arabella’s imagination, or did a flicker of concern pass over her hostess’s face?

If it did, it was gone in an instant. Lady Cartier beamed. “It is our pleasure, my dear—I say our pleasure, I did tell my husband that you were—ah, here he is.”

A tall, rather imposing man—not unlike his house—came down the steps in heavy footsteps and examined Arabella.

“Arabella Fitzroy,” he said in a deep voice.

It was all Arabella could do not to smile, though she was not entirely sure if she was supposed to. Lord Cartier was rather an imposing figure in her imagination, always had been, from the moment Arabella had been made to understand as a small girl that one day she would leave her father’s house—not like this, for Christmas, but permanently—and come to live with another family.

But now she was meeting Lord and Lady Cartier, Arabella had to admit to herself that they looked…well, ordinary. Very stylish, of course, and with money. One could see that in the necklace Lady Cartier was wearing, and the way they held themselves.

But just people.

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