In the Shadow of Arabella Page 29
Oliver dropped his feet from the stool and leaned forward, setting his brandy aside.
“When you told me shortly after your marriage that Arabella was increasing, I knew I had failed you, but I did not see what purpose would be served by telling you that she and I had been intimate. For the first time it occurred to me that I may not have been the only man she had been with. So I decided to await developments.
“When I saw Pamela shortly after her birth, I could tell nothing. The next time I saw her she was nearly three. Lydia and I had been married more than a year. When I saw Pamela, I was shocked by her appearance. She looked so much like Father. I could not believe you did not see the resemblance. I wanted to tell you then, because there was no longer the slightest doubt in my mind that she was mine, but Arabella was a bit too clever for me. She guessed my intention and practiced a little blackmail—only one of her many talents. For some reason she preferred to keep you in the dark about Pamela’s paternity.”
“She knew I was determined to know the man’s identity,” Rudley said, “and she did everything possible in those days to thwart me.”
“That would certainly be consistent with her other behavior. She warned me that if I made any move to tell you about Pamela, she would go straight to Lydia and fill her ears with stories of how I had conducted myself as her lover. I could not doubt she would do it, Ned, and I could not take the chance. Lydia’s happiness was more important to me than making a confession to you that could, after all, change nothing. I must admit, however, to wondering why Arabella never told you herself. Certainly if she wanted to wound you, causing a rift between us would have served her purpose admirably.”
“She probably guessed we would unite against her eventually,” Rudley answered. “She undoubtedly felt she had more to gain by telling me nothing and using her secret as a lever against you whenever the opportunity arose.”
“She certainly did that—and the best is yet to come! When Lydia died, Arabella told me that I need not even consider going to you with my story or she would tell Pamela that you were not her father and I was.’
“My God!” Rudley exclaimed. “Was nothing sacred to her?”
“It seems not. So you and I went to Spain and Arabella was left at home with Pamela. Still I could say nothing. During those next two years we learned a great deal—particularly how fragile life could be. We both changed a lot, I think, but me most of all.
“By the time Arabella died, I found I had changed my own mind about telling you. We had come home from the war in one piece, even though it had almost killed you. The wife I had loved and the wife you had despised were both gone. I’d had enough of death and pain and desolation. I knew if I told you I was Pamela’s father there would be new wounds and new pain and more remembrances of a time best forgotten. I also felt that if you had not seen the resemblance in six years, you would probably never see it. So the secret was mine alone, and I chose to keep it.
“For myself, I wanted to tell the world that Pamela was mine, but I knew there was no way I could acknowledge her without ruining her life. I thought if I could keep the peace with you, even if it meant keeping such a painful secret, then I could stay close to her, if not as a father, then as a loving uncle. Until you knocked me down that day, I had not realized the wound was still so fresh for you. I should have told you sooner; I regret now that I did not. But you are right about the influence Arabella still holds over us, Ned. She has been dead more than five years and still she manipulates our lives—yours, mine, Pamela’s, even Katherine’s.”
“No! No longer,” Rudley replied. “Katherine and I have removed Arabella from our lives, and you and I are doing the same today. We are placing the last shovel of dirt upon the grave, and she and her wickedness will be gone forever. Pamela will always be welcome and loved in my home, and when we feel she is old enough to understand, we will tell her who her true father is. Now, enough of these maudlin thoughts. Let us speak of more pleasant things, shall we?”
“Then you are declaring a truce between us, Ned?”
“Yes, indeed. A truce that will, we hope, last a lifetime. I have, however, one more apology to make. I am more sorry than I can say that I missed your wedding. As some slight reparation, I have brought you a gift.’’ He drew a small packet of papers from the pocket of his coat and handed it to his brother.
“What is this?” Oliver asked, puzzled.
“The one on top you should certainly recognize. It is the note you gave Finley against his loan of five thousand pounds, which was in truth a loan from Katherine, disguised to make you accept it. The second is, I believe, the bill of sale for your curricle team. When I recall how painstakingly we searched to find four horses so closely matched, I do not know how you even considered selling them. The third is for your black. That one was by far the hardest to come by, for the new owner was more than happy with his purchase. He could not hold out against me, however, when I told him that I had bred the horse myself, that he had been a present from me to you, and that only dire necessity had made you part with him.”
Oliver, too startled by his brother’s words to say anything, stared at him incredulously as Rudley continued, “The last is a draft on my bankers for an additional ten thousand, to be used at your discretion to put this house to rights and improve the estate. It can be a profitable property if handled wisely.”
Finding his voice at last, Oliver stammered, “But … Ned … I—I do not know what to say to you.”
“‘Thank you’ will be sufficient.”
“But you don’t understand. I could not possibly accept all this as a gift from you! It is too much! You must allow me to pay you back—”
“Pay me back? Do you not realize, Oliver, that if you had not risked your own life to drag me off that rotting battlefield, everything I now have would be yours? I will not listen to any nonsense about repayment. Being the head of the family does not mean sitting upon a pedestal, hoarding the wealth, and allowing those you love to struggle when you have the means to help them. You will accept this gift as it is offered you, or I very much fear we shall be at loggerheads again.”
Oliver knew his brother well enough to know when he would not be moved. He recognized that stubbornness now, so he smiled and admitted defeat.
“Very well, then, I will say thank you from both Charity and myself, and from our children, who will grow up calling this house their home.”
“And do not forget Mother. How pleased she would be if she knew her home was in the family again.”
“I am not forgetting her. It was she who taught me to love this place. And I will not soon forget your generosity, Ned. You are the best brother any man could have—and the truest friend.”
A light breeze played through the open casements of Pamela’s sitting room, setting the curtains billowing. Bright summer sunlight splashed across the polished wooden floor.
Katherine and Rudley stood before an easel, studying Pamela’s most recent painting.
“She has captured it exactly, don’t you think?” Katherine asked.
“Yes. It is excellent—and not a particularly easy subject.”
The setting of the oil was a large loose box in the stable. The floor was deeply bedded with yellow straw. The central figures were Lady Halfmile and her new filly, born on the Ides of March and nicknamed, appropriately, Ides. The mare stood with her head craned around and her nose just a fraction from her foal, checking to be sure all was well. The foal stood, too, but not expertly. Seemingly too-long legs were spread at random, seeking the proper balance points.
“Pamela has shown that one aspect of a newborn foal that makes it unique.”
“The wobbliness,” Rudley supplied.
“Yes. A motion, a way of moving. And she has put that motion onto this still medium. It is quite remarkable.”
“I have sent several of her pieces out for framing,” he said. “I thought we would hang them in the picture gallery.”
“What a wonderful idea! Was she pleased
?”
“I have not told her yet. I thought we could surprise her.”
“There was something else about Pamela I wanted to discuss with you, Ned. I have been thinking that she has long outgrown these rooms. Do you suppose she might like to move into the suite next to ours? The rooms are larger than these and have a lovely view of the lake. She could take a hand in redecorating them; she would enjoy that, I think.”
“I have no objection. If she wants the rooms, she is welcome to them.”
“Good. Then, once she moves out of here, would you mind if I spent some time redecorating these rooms?”
“Why do you want to redecorate these?”
“They were a nursery once. I thought they would serve well again in that capacity.”
“Why should …” He took her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Why should we need a redecorated nursery?”
“Why does anyone need a nursery, my love?”
Rudley drew his wife into his arms and kissed her passionately. He did not hear the door open behind them, nor did he see Pamela’s blushing face as she quickly turned and left the room again, quietly closing the door behind her.
About the Author
Lois Menzel was given Pride and Prejudice at age 13 and Georgette Heyer’s The Unknown Ajax some years later. After she had read all of Austen and Heyer, she started collecting and reading books on the Regency, especially primary sources. She sold her first Regency to Fawcett in 1985.
Lois and her husband live in a 110-year-old Victorian farm house that they have completely renovated themselves. They have two cats, a large garden and a few Appaloosas to keep the pasture trimmed.
Lois welcomes questions and comments from readers and can be contacted at: ljfm@means.net
Publishing Information
Copyright © 1993 by Lois Menzel
Originally published by Fawcett (ISBN 0449222284)
Electronically published in 2012 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
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Electronic sales: ebooks@regencyreads.com
This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
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