"Yes."
The girl seemed completely ignorant of what it meant to admit to her name, of the series of events that he might be there to set in motion. Taking the opportunity to set things on a clearer course of action, Henry drew his feet together and placed a closed fist over his left breast. He offered a shallow but respectful bow to the woman.
"Then, Lady Arabelle, I introduce myself as Henry Munro, counselor to Laird Anderson of the South. It is my duty to escort you to Laird Henderson's estate. He has requested an audience with you." He straightened, his arm coming back to his side. "It is my understanding that he sent you a missive several days ago explaining the reason for your presence and its urgency?"
Henry watched as child looked at parent, and the woman could only wince in apology. His eyes landed upon an unfurled letter upon the tabletop. He sniffed a scent of burning in the air from the cauldron over the fire. Apparently, the letter had not been revealed as soon as it had arrived.
"I can see that I have interrupted such a revelation."
The apology in his tone was light but still present. He could not imagine the stupefaction that came with discovering the truth of your birth. But he also knew that Laird Henderson did not have the time to indulge his daughter's trauma. The letter that Henry had received back home had explained that the man had but days to live. Andthathad been delivered over two nights ago.
"I can understand," he continued, "that this must have come as a surprise to you, Lady Arabelle, but I must caution haste. Your father does not have the luxury of time."
"He is ill." The words left the girl as if a part of a dream, a repetition of information that did not yet mean anything to her.
"He is. Fatally so, we fear. My own laird's friendship with Laird Henderson could not see his dying wish go unanswered. I am here to escort you to your father so that he might know you at least once before he passes."
The girl seemed to shake from head to foot, suddenly startled by the reality of the moment. She was only now realizing that Henry had no intention of leaving without her, that they would both be leaving tonight for the castle upon the hill.
"But..."
"Belle..." The older woman turned upon the bench so that she was sitting before her girl. Henry noticed the whites of her knuckles as she held fast to Arabelle's hands. "Ye must go. I cannae go and bid farewell to Alasdair. Ah wouldnae shame him so." Their clasped hands shook. "But ye can go in mah place. Ye can go and meet yer papa before it is too late. Dinnae waste that chance."
Arabelle looked even more doe-like at her mother's words. Her eyes bugged, and even from across the room, Henry could now catch their color: a soft, dove grey with speckles of blue. A charming color. A Henderson color.
Again, Henry thought about how she might be considered pretty if she were given the appropriate clothes and her hair was somehow tamed.
Perhaps she would be more moldable than he had originally assumed.
"But Mama..."
"Shh," the woman hushed her with a weak smile. "Go, Belle. For me?"
Arabelle looked back up, and Henry was suddenly struck by those eyes again, now bright with unshed tears of uncertainty.
"Ah can come back, yes?" she asked him. "Ah can go see the laird and then come back home?"
Exhaling, Henry considered the lies at his disposal. Nothing was stopping the girl from returning home after visiting the castle. But that was not Laird Henderson's intention. Once his daughter was within his grounds, the man had every intention of declaring her his heir, of turning her from bastard child to legitimate daughter. His wife had never produced him an heir and, to leave the province with no one was worse than leaving it in the hands of a woman. At least Arabelle could secure the people a laird through marriage.
None of which could come to fruition if she returned to her little cottage with the broken roof.
Then again, if she were laird of her people, there was nothing to stop her returning if she wished. Henry did not have to lie.
"Yes," Henry answered, trying to keep to simple truths. "You can return home, should you wish to."
Perhaps after seeing her father's castle and witnessing the life she might lead, she would change her mind. Not to mention the wealth that would be at her fingertips and able to be given to her mother. Glancing at the worn furniture and the threadbare blankets over the bed, Henry made a mental note to use such details in his persuasion. Surely, a filial daughter would not deny her mother the state of comfort she'd be able to afford as a laird's daughter?
When a little of the tension left Arabelle's shoulders, Henry knew that his reassurance had done its work. She swallowed, squeezed her mother's hand, and then took a step toward him. Her gait was ungraceful, but the sway of her hips was womanly. Her stare was determined and head-on. Hardly the feminine elegance of a highborn lady.
"A'right," Arabelle agreed. "Ah'll come."
When she didn't move to collect her things, Henry glanced toward the sleeping quarters.
"Do you not wish to pack some things?" he asked. This was the wrong question to ask, for anxiety suddenly flooded her face once more.
"Ye said ah would come back..."
"And you may. But you may wish to stay with your father for the short time he has left? Perhaps you might wish to bring some things for just a few nights' stay?"
