The blazing hearth held Arabella's attention, not her guest.
Harding township's coach inn, the Red Griffin, had afforded them the privacy of the upstairs dining room. Together they were sequestered from the boisterous noise of the common room below, yet the pair had not filled the silence with speech. They had simply eaten, both comfortable in their way with silence. But her reticence could not continue; specifics had to be discussed.
Solicitor Griggs set his chipped teacup atop its saucer. “The house is appalling. As it is now, it may take weeks before comfortably habitable.”
She gave him the courtesy of meeting his eyes. “Is it really so bad?”
Griggs was a blunt man. “Yes.”
Arabella sipped her tea. “And Mr. Harrow, what did you think of him?”
“His reputation appears accurate.” Sunken, yellowed eyes, familiar with the ways of the world, spoke louder than Mr. Grigg’s words. “Be cautious of him. He has already taken offence.”
“Noted.” Setting her cup aside, Arabella addressed a far more important topic. “I won’t draw this out. The Iliffe estate, how in the red is it?”
“William Dalton has amassed large gambling debts and seeks to sell more land to raise income. The new baron is running the estate into the ground. Your portion may be less than two thousand pounds this annum.” The old man seemed hesitant, as if choosing his words cautiously. “I anticipate it won't be long before his attention turns back to freeing up your share. He'll want you handled quietly.”
Mr. Griggs saw the worry on her face and didn't force her to speak, but he did vocalize what she needed to face. “If he were to make you marry, your dower would end and he would have access to your third of the Iliffe estate.”
The fact the new Baron would prefer to see her dead rather than married did not need to be spoken aloud.
Mr. Griggs remained grim. “Dalton has worked hard to secure popularity with the nobility—spent a fortune... developed connections, power, simply by holding the title and keeping you at bay.”
Her eyes went back to the fire. “He can have London.”
“It has been three years, your ladyship. New scandals have arisen that are fresher and more interesting than yours.” Griggs spoke of nightmarish things in the same tone in which he spoke of the weather. “The greatest stand you could make would be in London, where your arrival would spark curiosity. Curiosities garner invitations, even if for the wrong reasons. Bank on your infamy. Be seen at court.”
The type who would invite her to gatherings of any kind were the very people that turned her stomach. She could not fault Griggs's strategy, not when she knew he had her best interests at heart... but there was more to her hesitations than dread and common sense. “I can't... I can't do it.”
“Should the worst happen and you try to stand alone, friendless, and with a cursory title... you will lose. Without powerful friends at your back, he has the power to force you or to make you disappear.”
“I know.” Pinching the bridge of her nose, Arabella closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
“Child,” he reached forward and placed his gnarled hand over hers, “try and you will see that you can navigate society as a titled widow far more easily than as the wife of a cruel husband.”
She opened her eyes. For a moment the young woman looked ancient beyond her years. “All I desire is to be left alone.”
Mr. Griggs steepled his bony fingers and rested them under a sharp chin. “This is desolate country, my lady. You could begin here, expose yourself... in practice. From such a bramble, the news of your whereabouts would take time to reach London. Or, stagnate in the solitude you desire.” He made sure she heard every word. “But running... you cannot live this way forever. The ground will shrink beneath your feet and the chase will eventually come to an end. If you don't control when, he will.”
The conversation was over. Solicitor Griggs had made his argument and knew she would want to be alone with her thoughts. The gentleman stood, bowed deeply, and left without another word.
Alone, still dressed in her mud splattered gown and stinking of horse, Arabella paced before the meager fire in the inn’s small room.
If Magdala could see her, her housekeeper would be mightily displeased. The Spaniard would fret, try to brush her hair, distract her with pointless babble, or just nag. Anxious as she was, Arabella even considered waking her, slipping into the adjacent room for the distraction. But the idea was selfish, and Magdala’s company would only go so far in soothing her.
Magdala would also want to know what was discussed with Griggs. At one hint of the solicitor's opinion the that baroness proclaim her title, the well-meaning housekeeper would agree... loudly and often. For that reason, Arabella chose to face her anxiety alone.
Careless of the hour, Arabella stole from the room, pleased to find no candle had been left burning in the shadowy hall. Fingertips brushing faded papered walls, she crept towards the stairs, quiet as a ghost. Near the kitchens, she turned a corner
and found a slice of light cutting through where age had forced the boards apart.
The sliver beckoned her like a hooked finger, offering a glimpse into the common room.
One peek and Arabella spied the late crowd of Harding’s only public house. Men, their shirtsleeves exposed, relaxed and drank. A few scant women served drink or... other things. There was laughter and easiness about everyone.
Everyone but him.
Cheek pressed to a wall scented of dust and linseed oil Arabella watched, mouth agape to see the very scoundrel from the moors sitting like a king in the shifting firelight. No matter how Mr. Harrow lazed in that great leather chair, how calm his visage, she saw all that sat in his intentions—ruthless calculation.