Every thing at Marlowe Hall reminded her of her loss. Whenever she managed to forget for a moment that her father had passed away, she would immediately catch a glimpse of Fanny all in black, or the shrouded mirrors, or the black mourning wreath that hung over the front door, and grief would come flooding back.
Even the automaton harpsichord player, the one thing that had kept her sane in the last few months, now served only to remind her of her father. The very sight of it brought tears to her eyes.
Arabella shook her head, dispelling the memory. “I suppose I should also extend my condolences to you,” she said. “He was, after all, your uncle.”
“You are too kind,” Simon said, and bowed his head. But his expression, Arabella thought, was rather sour, and she wondered at this.
They led Arabella into the cottage and introduced her to infant Sophie, their firstborn, who was not yet two months old. Then they showed Arabella the room which would be hers during her stay. It was small and rather shabbily furnished, in keeping with the rest of the house, and as her things were brought in from the carriage Arabella could not help but notice that the Ashbys of Chester Cottage had only a single servant, an elderly maid-of-all-work called Jane.
But, despite the meanness of her cousins’ circumstances, they had offered her hospitality, and there was nothing here to remind her of her father. Arabella determined to be grateful for the opportunity to rest her battered spirit.
“If you don’t mind, Miss Ashby,” William said to Arabella once she was settled, “I’d best be returning home straight away.” It had been a lengthy journey, and even with the long summer days he would need to set off immediately in order to return to Marlowe Hall in time for Sunday supper.
“By all means, William. I wish you a safe journey home, and look forward to seeing you again in two weeks.”
*
At dinner that afternoon, after Jane had taken away the bowls from the rather thin and unsatisfactory soup, Beatrice said, “I believe we shall go berry-picking upon the morrow. Would you care to join us? It will be little Sophie’s first such occasion.”
At the mention of his infant daughter, to Arabella’s surprise, Simon’s face clouded. Surely this reminder of the recent addition to his family should raise his spirits, not lower them?
“Is berry-picking a suitable activity for small children?” Arabella asked, not certain how to interpret her host’s sudden change of emotion.
Beatrice smiled. “She will not be taking an active part, to be sure; she will simply be carried along, to enjoy the fresh air and sunshine.”
Arabella ran a finger under the scratchy cuff of her stiff mourning costume. Even her favorite dresses had been taken away by her father’s death, for Venusian silk did not accept dye. They had all been replaced by heavy, rustling outfits of black bombazine, more suitable for mourning but exceedingly uncomfortable. “Forgive me my ignorance. It is not a thing I have done before.”
Beatrice tilted her head inquiringly. “Do they not have berries on Mars?”
“Not as such. We have khula, which I suppose you would consider a fungus, and gethown, which is a tuber … they are quite sweet and succulent, but they must be dug up, not picked from a vine.” For a moment Arabella lost herself in memory, recalling happy days with her beloved Michael, digging khula together with pail and shovel.
She wondered, as she often did, what Michael might be doing at this very moment. Most likely he was engaged in some serious activity, directing the harvest or balancing the accounts, as befitted the head of the family. He would attain his majority in just a few months; until then his godfather Mr. Trombley, the family solicitor and a dependable man of sober stolidity, would act as his legal guardian.
No one doubted that Michael was entirely capable of managing the Ashby household and plantations as well as his father had done, but still she worried about him. He must be overwhelmed by his new responsibilities, as well as torn with grief from his father’s loss. How she wished she could be with him now, to comfort and aid him in this difficult time!
“Mr. Ashby and I met while picking berries,” Beatrice said, interrupting Arabella’s thoughts. “Perhaps you will be as fortunate.” She smiled and inclined her head coquettishly. “There are many eligible bachelors in Oxfordshire.…”
“Heavens no!” Arabella gasped, then immediately regretted her outburst. “That is … I mean to say … I am sure you are very happy together, but I … I have no interest in male companionship at this time.”
“Truly?” Beatrice replied with unfeigned astonishment. Simon, Arabella noted, was silent and still appeared distracted. “I have never heard before of a healthy girl of seventeen years being uninterested in the other sex. Are you already engaged, then?”
Arabella frowned and shook her head.