Payne chuckled, agreeing the Spaniard had proven her skill keeping Arabella up to date, preparing everything down to the last ribbon. Placing a hand on her shoulder, Payne was careful not to spoil her hair and let the woman take her rest, unsurprised when she fell asleep with her head on his knee, drooling a bit on his livery.
* * *
The ridiculous shape of the court dress was so difficult to move in it required study to do it well. Arms were trapped before the body at an awkward angle and more ostrich feathers had been shoved into the huge massive style upon her head then surely even an ostrich grew in its tail. Feeling ridiculous and nervous, Arabella paced, managing the weighty gown as she awaited Mr. Griggs’ knighted cousin, the elderly Sir Brant.
A perfect stranger escorted her as if they were old friends, the odd pair drawing immediate attention from those who had known her and those who needed a moment to figure out why the name was so familiar.
Arabella, grateful her extended train enforced slow steps, walked out amidst the noble sharks.
The baroness did exactly as she had been coached, traversing the room as if she were the queen and they her court. Her title and name were declared to the king, and curtsying deeply, her eyes locked on the rheumy gaze of the unpopular, ailing regent. She kissed his ring. Rising, her gaze traveled to the middle-aged, painted, paunchy, prince and offered an elegant nod as expected.
The introduction ended, her manners ideal, and then she moved aside for other more important newcomers to address their king.
By the time she was in her carriage, Arabella could hardly remember what had passed in St. James’s Palace. Apathy became like armor. It stuck with her when the first invitation to Almack's Assembly Rooms arrived. It coated her every engagement. Left her unfeeling when gentlemen kissed her wrist, when she danced with them, daily private lessons with a renowned dance master sucking up every afternoon.
It was only two weeks, but each day she lost a bit more of her fire. Arabella grew quiet, complacent, as her husband had expected. An exotic bird invited to be showy for guests longing to see the baroness—infamous now for the great black horse people came to Hyde Park in hopes to see her riding... who performed admirably, but with no feeling.
Every day came notes from her solicitor designed to buoy her spirits, claiming her name was whispered about as if the public sat in awe of something they could not wrap their minds around. Every day, Arabella felt worse, and every night she lay awake looking for flaws in her actions, obsessing.
For all of it, Magdala knew the powders and creams to keep the young woman handsome, the best way to dress her hair to highlight beauty and distract from exhaustion. It had come to a point where Arabella said nothing even to the Spaniard’s bossing, complained not at all, and would no longer look at the stranger in the mirror decked in pearls and turbans.
Arabella was not
the only one who had difficulty recognizing herself. Ion stepped out of the dark as she walked home with Payne. The Romani man, the one who had scorned her at the fires, stared at her as if she were unreal.
Looking into her lifeless eyes he grunted, “My lady.”
Payne stood massive at her back, his posture and eyes threatening the strange man near his lady.
“Payne, this is Ion,” Arabella felt a rare spark of hope, seeing Ion with his oiled curls and open shirt. “A friend.”
“Friend enough to tell you William Dalton is coming for you. He is on a coach from Bath even now. I raced ahead, but he is only a few hours behind me.”
This is what she had hoped for, a chance to outmatch her persecutor. “And what are his plans?”
“To set fire to your home while you sleep.”
Payne, his normally gentle voice nothing but violence, growled, “We leave tonight.”
Arabella agreed, speaking as quickly as she could think. “I will tell my household I make for Bath, send out letters at once. It will turn Dalton around.”
The Romani man narrowed his eyes. “I’ve heard how he’s spoken of you. You are right to fear him.”
There was hardly a voice behind her frightened question. “What have you heard?”
Ion stepped closer, his lips hovering at her ear. As he whispered nightmares, Arabella went pale, her eyes grew wet, and she began to tremble.
When the gypsy had finished, she forced herself to ask, “To whom has he said... these things?”
“I gather they were close friends of your late husband.” Speaking three horrible names, Ion left her, slinking back into the dark. “Sir Statham, Baron Witte, and the Marquise of Glauster.”
Dread stopped her heart. Things were much, much worse than she had believed. Even Payne cursed under his breath, both of them knowing her time in London had been for nothing.
The hasty journey back to Crescent Barrows did nothing to alleviate her terror. Arabella sat in a stupor, an utter failure. She ate nothing; she would not speak, only turned her head when that first breath of heather came to her through the coach’s small window. Near the outskirts of the moors, she banged upon the roof for Payne to stop the carriage. Before the coach was still, she tore out of the door, and unhitched Mamioro’s lead from the back.
Astride her steed before Payne might stop her, she let out a yell and raced away at breakneck speed straight into the wastes.
Payne watched her go, full of fear, having not rested the entire twenty hours they’d traveled, save to change horses.