*
Arabella paced in her bedroom, sick with worry. Her hands worked at her handkerchief as she went, twisting and straining the delicate fabric until it threatened to tear asunder.
A black-bordered letter. An express. No one would send such dire news by such an expensive means unless it concerned a member of the family. She forced herself to hope that it might be an error, or news of some distant relative of whose existence she had not even been aware … but as the silence went on and on, that hope diminished swiftly.
Who was it who had passed? Father, or Michael? Which would be worse? She loved them both so dearly. Michael and she were practically twins, and he had many more years ahead of him, so his loss would surely be the greater tragedy. But Father … the man who had shared with her his love of automata, who had sat her on his knee and taught her the names of the stars, who had quietly encouraged her to dare, to try, to risk, despite Mother’s objections … to lose him would be terrible, terrible indeed.
Every fiber of her being insisted that she run to her mother’s room, burst through the door, and demand an answer. But that would be unladylike, and, as Mother had repeatedly admonished, unladylike behavior was entirely unacceptable under even the most pressing circumstances. And so she paced, and pulled her handkerchief to shreds, and tried not to cry.
And then, startling though not a surprise, a knock came on the door. It was Nellie, her mother’s handmaid. “Mrs. Ashby requests your presence, Miss Ashby.”
“Thank you, Nellie.”
Trembling, Arabella followed Nellie to her mother’s dressing-room, where Fanny and Chlo?, already present, were gathered in a miserable huddle with their mother. The black-bordered letter lay open on her mother’s writing-desk, surrounded by the scattered fragments of the seal, which was of black wax.
Arabella stood rooted, just inside the door, her eyes darting from the letter to her mother and sisters. It was as though it were a lukhosh, or some other dreadful poisonous creature, that had already struck them down and was now lying in wait for her. She wondered whether she was expected to pick it up and read it.
She ached to know what the letter contained. She wanted nothing more than to flee the room.
Nellie cleared her throat. “Ma’am?” Mother raised her head, her eyes flowing with tears. Noticing Arabella, she gently patted the settee by her side. The girls shifted to make room for her.
Arabella sat. Each of her sisters clutched one of her hands, offering comfort despite their own misery.
“The news is … it is … it is Mr. Ashby,” Mother said. She held her head up straight, though her chin trembled. “Your father has passed on.”
“Father…?” Arabella whispered.
And even though the distance between planets was so unimaginably vast … even though the news must be months old … even though it had been more than eight months since she had seen him with her own eyes … somehow, some intangible connection had still remained between her and her father, and at that moment she felt that connection part, tearing like rotted silk.
And she too collapsed in sobs.
2
AN UNCOMFORTABLE DINNER
Five weeks later, Arabella arrived at Chester Cottage, the home of her cousin Simon Ashby in Oxfordshire. She stepped from her carriage, handed down by William the footman, and was greeted by Simon and his wife Beatrice.
Simon, a barrister, was a nervous man, thin and pale, with watery eyes and light brown hair worn a bit longer than the current fashion, but as he was her only living relative on her father’s side of the family she felt quite tenderly toward him. “We were so very sorry to hear of your loss,” he said.
“He was a very good man,” Arabella replied, “and I miss him dearly.” She blinked away tears.
The last five weeks had been very hard. Even though Father’s passing, so distant in time as well as space, had not affected the family in any immediate or practical sense, the loss had affected Arabella greatly. Inconsolable, she had taken to her bed for days at a time, refusing food, water, and solace.
Beatrice, a plump girl with tiny hands, offered Arabella a handkerchief. “When your mother wrote to us of the depth of your grief,” she said, “offering our humble home for a brief respite was the least we could do.”
“I thank you for your kindness, and I extend my mother’s thanks as well.” Arabella took a deep breath and looked about herself. Chester Cottage was, indeed, quite humble, and rather far removed from town, but it was at least a fresh locale lacking any memories for Arabella.