Spotting a folded letter upon the mantelpiece, Henry took it down and recognized it as her father's missive from the night before. It was still sealed, the red wax holding the folded paper in place.
"You should read this," he said, handing it across to her. She took it from him, a dab of marmalade now smearing its corner. "I believe its content is important."
The girl's jaw tightened as she assessed her own name formed in rich, ebony ink. Her thumbnail sunk beneath the wax, and she pulled the letter open.
Henry dutifully waited as she stared down at the letter. Then she glanced at him and back at the parchment. Her shoulders drew in, and she shifted in her chair. She frowned at the words and then tried to sit back again. She dusted her fingers on her gown, one hand at a time. She looked at Henry and then focused on the letter again.
Back and forth she went, fidgeting, glaring, glancing, and awkwardly shifting back and forth. Her face gradually became pinker the longer the dance went on.
Henry had not the foggiest of what was happening until she eventually sighed a heavy exhale of defeat and handed it back to him.
"Would ye please read it?" she asked, in a painfully formal tone of voice. It was clear that she was embarrassed.
"You...want me to read it to you?" Henry frowned.
She nodded.
"I..." Her face flushed brighter. "I cannae read it."
The sun dawned on Henry, and he immediately felt like a heel.
"You cannot read?"
"I can read some!" As he took the letter from her, Henry could sense the heat of shame in her touch. She was feeling defensive, and a surge of protectiveness swamped him. "I can read my name! And I can...I kensomestuff. But I cannae readthat."
Trying to keep his expression gentle, Henry simply nodded and took the offered missive. He looked over the strong hand, knowing that the letter must have been dictated to a scribe. Now, he would dictate those same words to Arabelle...
Dearest daughter, Arabelle,
It is in this year and this month that I have finally been able to see you. I know not if your mother kept her promise to hide your sireage until now but she was always a woman of her word. To that end, I must assume that this is the first you have known me to be your father. For this, I must beg your forgiveness and am beholden to you an explanation.
As you must well know now, your mother is a warm-hearted woman. Generous and burdened with the ethics of hard work. She was always a beautiful woman but never more so than when her heart was turned to purpose and duty. She was within my employ after her husband passed and I found myself drawn to her sorrow. In only a moment of weakness, you were brought into this world; the product of two lonely individuals that sought something greater than themselves. A new widow, however, your mother's reputation would have been in tatters, her ability to remarry lost, were your advent to be known. For my own part, I was already wed to a woman of familial advantage and, despite holding no passionate love for her, had no wish to see her shamed. It was agreed that your mother would disguise you as her late husband's child, conceived before his death. Were I to care for nothing as strongly as I wished to claim you as my own, I would have rejected such a farce and taken you in as my child. Yet, there were more hearts to be broken along that path, and I would see only myself condemned to such a fate.
I will not pledge myself as a saint. I cannot deny that your distance has made my life easier. I had intended to produce another child, an heir, to follow in my footsteps as laird of the land and champion the people under our family's care. Alas, God has not seen fit to bless me with any such children. Sometimes, I wonder if this is in punishment for my abandonment of my first.
I do, however, wish you to know that I have never truly exiled you from my life, Arabelle. Nor from my mind. Financial aid has been sent to your mother each year since your birth, and I have been given the occasional joy of visiting town and seeing you grow. You have not been far from my thoughts, even if I have been forced to keep you estranged from my life.
Now, however, fate brings us together. Without an heir, my lands fall into nothing, your family's legacy turned to ash. Without blooded inheritance, the people of this province will suffer at the hands of whichever covetous laird dares to take its reins. In this, daughter of mine, I am selfish enough to beg a single dying wish.
I name you as my heir.
The lands of the Henderson family will be yours upon my demise and you shall be laird and leader to its people until your marriage when your husband will shoulder the duties alongside you.
I ask that you take this request to heart and honour your sire's wishes, even after so short an acquaintance in which you have no fault. For my people's livelihoods, I am not too proud to ask this of you, Arabelle Henderson...
8
"It is signed, ‘With affection, your father, Alasdair Henderson,’" Henry concluded after faithfully orating the entire letter.
Momentary glances from the page had given Henry little indication of Arabelle's thoughts. She'd sat, still and quiet, upon the edge of her seat, her eyes downcast and her shoulders drawn in. When he finished reading the letter, Henry folded it and placed it upon the table beside the breakfast tray. His now-empty fingers itched to reach out, to pat her upon the shoulder or offer her some form of human touch. She seemed so impossibly small and unsure of herself.
"Lady Arabelle?"
The girl mumbled something that was hard to catch.
"Pardon?"
"Belle," she repeated. Her fingers curled into fists as she pounded them upon her lap. Her words turned aggressive, and her voice angry. "Ah am Belle! That is my name! Ah cannae be a lady; I dinnae ken how. Now ah have to be a laird too? What am ah meant to do to help people? Ah cannae do it! Ah'm just Belle!"
