Authors: Jane Prescott
“Her own is already marred by the extracurriculars of her son,” noted Henry, but knew that that was not the end of the story.
It appeared as though he was correct. “Yes, but it seems as if her son's activities did not seem to bother her as much as Lady Givens' financial status, which she proceeded to proclaim loudly from the box. Said she'd disown him before she would see her son wed to such a pauper.”
Anabelle's heart bled for her sister. Although it what she had warned her of all along, she still felt like Anabelle did not deserve the blow dealt to her. It was one thing to hear it from your sister and quite another for the words to leave the mouth of a potential mother-in-law quite so publicly.
“Poor Isadora,” she murmured, thinking a visit to her sister was well in order. But Henry caught sight of the troubled expression on Rafe's face and knew that their troubles spanned well beyond such petty public humiliation.
“Out with it, man,” he said firmly.
“Well, it turns out Lord Haversham had quite a few things to say to his mother himself,” said Rafe. “Said that he cared not one whit for Lady Givens' coffers; he loved her and would marry her even if the Devil himself were standing in their way.”
Anabelle's head began to ache. On one hand, she was pleased that her sister had found an answer to her feelings with Devon, but on the other, she still could not wrap her mind around how her sister could carry on with somebody who was so much like their father, impulsive, rash, and full of clearly terrible decisions.
“Oh Henry, it's all just the same old story. Papa was just as impulsive.”
“Perhaps it would be wise to pay a visit to your sister and see how she is faring after the whole affair,” Henry suggested, and the idea appealed to Anabelle so much that they quickly thanked Rafe, sent him on his way, and ordered the servants to ready their carriage.
The journey to Isadora's seemed to be endless, given the aching information the two of them had just been given. But Anabelle was touched to discover that Henry did not let go of her hand the entire ride there. When she alighted from the carriage, Anabelle felt a sense of sickness wash over her as she took in her childhood home in all its splendid shabbiness, amazed that she had hardly noticed it when she lived there. The entire place was hung over with a cloud of doom, and when she entered the house, there was a crypt-like silence all around her.
It was a while before she could locate any of the servants, and even more time before she discovered one who knew where her sister was. It was from a tiny stable boy named Benjamin that Anabelle received the final, devastating news of where exactly her sister was.
“He came 'round about an hour ago, ma'arm,” squeaked the shy, dark-haired little boy, his clothes strewn with stray bits of hay.
“Who did?”
“He'n, Lord Haversham, ma'arm.”
“Whatever for?”
Benjamin wiped his wee little nose. “Told Lady Givens to g'on and get her things together, that he found them a priest who'd do the deed.”
Anabelle's blood ran cold as ice. “A priest? Did she go?” she cried with alarm, exciting the little boy to quite a worrisome state. All he could do was nod mutely at her, wondering to himself at the strange actions of the wealthy.
Anabelle was quite wild with rage and fear when she found Henry in her childhood bedroom, waiting for her. “Henry, oh Henry, that foolish girl has gone and done it,” she cried, throwing herself into his arms.
“What, my love, what happened?” he asked, dropping a kiss into her hair. She looked up at him, feeling the smart sting of tears prick at her eyes.
“Oh, Isadora, that little fool! She's eloped with Haversham!”
Henry eyed the coming dark outside. “Speak quickly, Anabelle. Tell me exactly what you heard.”
She recalled the paltry bit of information that she had managed to glean from the stable boy, feeling bile rise up in her throat. As if the family was not mired in enough scandal to begin with! Now Isadora was completely ruining her reputation by running off and getting married to Devon Haversham against his mother's wishes; what was she thinking? Henry, after a moment's consideration after she relayed the tale, ordered the little stable boy to draw up a fresh set of horses for the carriage.
“Where are you going to look for them?” she cried, watching him take control all over again.
“I have an idea, and hopefully they are not so far ahead in their start so that I may catch up with them before the damage is—” and here he broke off, cognizant of the fact that the both of them knew that in some ways, the damage was already done.
Anabelle bit her lip. She tried to go with him, but Henry bade her stay. Exhausted by the momentousness of the day, but unable to sit still and wait for Henry to come back, Anabelle went back upstairs to her room and paced back and forth for a good long while. Images of the ruin that Isadora was bringing upon herself plagued Anabelle, increased her pacing until she was exhausted enough to collapse onto the bed in a troubled sleep.
Images floated in and out of her brain in a strange loop, offering little relief and bringing only increased worry to her fevered brain. She thought she heard rain outside, but it was only rain from that day, that fateful day at the racing track on the anniversary of her mother's death. It was rain that caused that jockey who was supposed to be riding the horse her father was betting on to slip and sprain his leg badly enough so that he would not ride. On the one day where Anabelle and Isadora had agreed to come with him simply because they could not be caught in the house so rich with memories of their mother, their father had chosen to get roaring drunk and refuse to accept the jockey's decision. It was inconceivable that the horse upon which he endeavored to make his fortune would not be racing at all.
Anabelle shifted in her sleep as she saw her father shake the racetrack master by the collar as the man tried to prevent him from entering the stables. She could hear her voice and Isadora's begging him not to go, but it was all for naught; Lord Givens was like a man possessed, and he paid them as little mind as he would a fly on the wall.
From there on in, there were only flashes, like images printed black and white in the paper. Her father swinging up on the horse. Rain pelting down, all the harder as her father actually managed to pull the horse into the lead. And then that particularly sharp turn, the one where the horse slipped in the mud and its leg buckled out from under it, throwing her father from its back. The scream that froze in her throat even as she tried to rouse herself from her terrible slumber, the same scream that lodged in her throat upon the sight. Leaving Isadora behind, she had run to her father, pushing past all the medics who were trying to arrange his spine back in place. Her father, ashen and immobile on the ground, the rain pelting a merry hell on his face; all he could do was close his eyes against the onslaught and try to shape out words with his lips. Nobody stopped her as she knelt in the mud by his side, and that was when Anabelle knew that it was over, that it truly was. If there was even a hope of saving him, they would have stopped her and been rushing him to a hospital. By the time she was close enough to try and hear the words he was saying, she could tell that breathing had become a labor for him.
“Papa, it's Anabelle,” she cried, praying that he could hear her. She say him respond, and even more furtively attempt to say something. It was clear that it was vital, otherwise he would not be trying as hard, and she leaned in as close as she could so that finally, just finally, she could make out what he was saying.
He was telling her, “Marjorie likes oats.”
And with the final words that he was leaving behind him on the Earth, Lord Givens died right there and then.
“Papa?” cried Anabelle, shaking him slightly. “Papa?” she tried again, shaking him harder this time, the scream that lodged in her throat working its way free until she was crying, screaming, and shaking forever and ever, and the scream of “Papa!” carried its way through her dream and straight into the cold reality of her being.
“Anabelle,” said a male voice, clutching her sweating body tightly. “Anabelle, I'm here, wake up.”
Anabelle poked one wet eye open to discover that the shaking in her dream was also coming from her own body, and that Henry Princely had wrapped his arms around her in a vice grip that felt at once painful and comforting beyond measure. She realized, too, that she was still crying and crying out from the dream, and that everything was sad beyond measure.
“He told me what she eats,” she whispered against Henry's chest, clutching him even tighter than he was holding her.
“What who eats, darling?”
“Marjorie.” She looked up at him, wide-eyed as a child. “Right before Papa died, he told me what his favorite horse eats. It was the last thing he ever said to me. I never told Isadora because it was just too awful, that those would be his very last words.” With a start, the reality of her current world came crashing back around Anabelle and she realized the import of Henry's presence in her room. “Henry, Isadora!”
From the contrite expression on Henry's face, Anabelle became quite certain that he had caught her sister and Haversham in an even more compromising state than they had expected and her mood slunk even lower. She clutched at Henry's shoulders and continued crying.
“Anabelle,” he said gently, lifting her tear-stained face up off of his shoulder. “I knew there was only one priest who would marry them, and he was all the way over in Doveshire. So I raced on with my carriage, hoping to overtake them. I did not get to them in time. They are married.”
Anabelle's heart dropped. But Henry was not finished yet. “I caught them at the roadside inn a half an hour later, and managed to intervene before any, ahem, consummation occurred. Then I dragged both of them all the way back here, and they are in your drawing room now.”
“Henry, but what good is it?”
“Come with me,” he said, and rose off the bed, reaching a hand out to her. Unsure of what was going to happen, she followed him all the way down to the drawing room, where her little sister was sitting beside her own brand-new husband. Given that both of them seemed to be seething with rage, the tension in the room was just about palpable. Relief at finally seeing her sister safe and sound took over everything, however, and Anabelle rushed to her side, embracing her closely.
“What were you thinking, Isadora?”
“I was thinking, sister, that I should be married to the man I love,” hissed Isadora, her normally sleek blond curls in complete disarray. “Why should you be the only lucky one in the family?”
Anabelle was shocked to her core. All those years that she had spent assuring herself that Isadora was the one all the gentlemen noticed, all the personal sacrifices she had made on her behalf, only to learn now that the envy had been on her sister's side the whole time. “But everything I ever did was for you!” she cried, aghast at the fury in her little sister's eyes.
“Even when you wanted to marry Lord DeVere?” Isadora shot back.
Guilt flooded Anabelle. She knew that her sister was right, that she had been thinking of abandoning her entirely. “It was so hard,” Anabelle said quietly, unable to look up at anyone, even though all eyes were now on her. “I was only fourteen when Mother passed, and after that terrible incident with Papa, I was simply beside myself.”
“As if you cared that Papa died,” Isadora said cruelly.
A gasp escaped Anabelle. “How can you say that?”
“I was always his favorite. He cared not a whit for you, what did you even know about horses?”
“That's enough!” came an unexpected roar from Henry, startling the entire company present. Anabelle's chest heaved with the suppression of her despair at her sister's words, but she was bolstered when Henry came up to her and held her firmly by the elbow.
“Besides the fact that the words you speak are simply untrue, Isadora,” Henry said in a quiet and even voice, “You should count yourself unreasonably lucky that your sister has put up with your antics for so long and has attempted to do right by you despite being parentless herself. Until you yourself are thrust into the position where you are forced to take on the entire matter of managing a household and raising a child at the tender age of fourteen, I would recommend that you seal your lips before you say something you may regret.”
“See here, Princely,” said Devon, suddenly awake. “Do not speak to my wife in that manner. I will you not have it!”
“You will not have it?” laughed Henry softly. “Let me tell you something, Haversham, where are your wits these days? What were you thinking when you took Lady Givens to the racing tracks without a chaperone present? Did you think your own reputation so spotless that it would not matter if you took someone else's down?”