Giggling to herself, Belle was annoyed when reason came back to mind. It was a nice idea, but she could not seriously see it happening. That was what imagination was for. The reality was far different.
When a clear and resounding knock came upon the door, Belle's mouth was inelegantly full of plum.
"It is Mr. Henry Munro for you, my lady," Coira said, peering through a crack in the door. "Should I ask that he return later?"
"No, no." Belle shook her head and tried to speak around the sticky fruit. "He can come in."
The maid seemed disapproving but did not allow herself to comment.
Belle's nose wrinkled. Clearly, everyone in this damn castle had restrictions.
When Henry entered the room, he could not help but share in Coira's apparent surprise. He took two steps inside, came up short, and then felt the immediate temptation to reverse back out.
Arabelle was seated by the fireplace, lavishing herself upon a breakfast tray. She was still in her nightgown, her hair was unbrushed, and there was syrup on her chin.
A decisive person.Henry shrugged to himself. The child before him was hardly a lady. She knew not what was appropriate nor how she came across to others. He would hold no embarrassment being in the chambers of an infant still dressed for bed.
That was how he would see it.
Glancing at Coira, Henry knew that he could at least ensure Arabelle's reputation with a simple fix.
"Ensure that you are in the room with us at all times," he told the woman.
She was efficient and wasted no time fading into the background of the room. Present and watchful but no longer an active part of the company.
Exhaling, long and slow, Henry assessed his current project.
"You should eat quickly and be dressed," he said by way of greeting, taking the seat across from her. "We have much to do today that is not possible in your night garments."
While laying awake until near morning, Henry had come up with a plan. He would see Arabelle as a blank canvas, an opportunity to mold from the very beginning. Insurmountable a task as she now seemed, he reminded himself that she had no bad habits that he would be forced to correct and no personal agenda to forward. There were benefits to this kind of pupil. Benefits that he would do well to make the most of. And, by treating her as little more than his duty at hand, perhaps he would rid himself of the sentimentality he felt whenever he looked upon her.
Arabelle Henderson was a professional task to be completed to his classically high standards. Not an orphaned girl looking for a protector.
"This gown be nicer than any other clothes ah have," the girl was saying around a difficult mouthful of toast. It was clear that she was struggling with the orange marmalade she had laced it with. "Even if it be for sleeping, I dinnae wanna take it off."
"Even if itisfor sleeping," Henry corrected. "And you may not wish to take it off, but it is necessary. I can assure you that you now have many clothes of finer quality."
Glancing at him with eyes too shrewd for her nubile face, Arabelle shook her head.
"I dinnae wanna be a lady," she argued.
"So you keep telling me. Yet, I do not believe that you have considered all the benefits, my lady."
"Benefits?"
"All the good things that money can bring to your life. Or to your mother's life."
For a moment, that stilled the girl into quiet. Her mouth snapped shut, and the piece of toast in her hand dribbled its jam down to the plate in a long tendril of stickiness. The rest of the plate was near empty, so Henry reached to pour her a cup of tea from the pot.
"To Mama?"
"Of course," Henry answered easily, casually. "If you were to accept your role as a lady, you would wish for nothing. You would have food and a home without work or chores, and it would be entirely your choice if you wished to extend that to your mother. You could bring her here. There are a dozen bedchambers that she might choose from, a hundred servants that she could have at her disposal. She would never need to work again in her life unless she wished to."
The concept of a workless existence seemed to entirely throw the girl. Arabelle sat blinking, her focus inward and her thoughts several miles down the road with her mother. Henry watched as her eyes fell on the tray once more, and her fingers deftly returned the last slice of toast to the plate.
She seemed consummately unable to hide her feelings. Guilt over her luxurious morning now oozed from her in waves.
Swallowing, Henry looked for a change of topic. He had been attempting to convince her to take on her birthright. He had not intended to upset her.
