Arabella hesitated, only briefly. “I am with child.”
The words did not feel as heavy now as they had the night before. They settled differently here, in the open air, in the presence of someone who had known her longer than anyone else.
Eleanor’s reaction was immediate.
“Arabella—” she began, her face lighting with a joy that transformed it entirely. That is—” She stopped, as if the word had outpaced her, “That is wonderful.”
She reached for her hands, her grip warm and steady. “You must allow me to make every possible arrangement. We shall ensure you are comfortable, that you want for nothing?—”
She paused then.
Something in Arabella’s expression did not match hers.
The smile had not fully formed. The brightness Eleanor expected to see was not there.
Instead, there was something else.
A shadow of hesitation. Of uncertainty.
Eleanor’s joy softened, her gaze searching her sister’s face more closely now. “Arabella,” she said, more quietly, “why do you look as though this is not entirely good news?”
For a moment, Arabella considered answering plainly. She could have done it. The words were there, waiting. About the arrangement. About how it had begun. About how it had changed.
“I—” she began, then faltered.
Eleanor’s hand remained lightly at her arm, steady but not insistent. “You need not explain all at once,” she said. “Only enough that I may understand what troubles you.”
Arabella drew a slow breath, her gaze shifting briefly to the path ahead. The promenade stretched quietly before them, the usual clusters of walkers thinner than expected for the hour. It struck her then— properly, this time, the absence of noise, the way the morning seemed less occupied than it ought to be.
“It is not the child that troubles me,” Arabella said carefully. “It is what it represents. Or rather… what it does not.”
Eleanor’s brow furrowed slightly. “Your husband?—”
The words did not reach their conclusion.
A disturbance broke through the stillness behind them, not loud enough to draw immediate attention, but abrupt enough to disrupt the fragile rhythm of their conversation. Footsteps, uneven and too hurried for the setting, closed the distance before either of them could turn fully to meet them.
“I must speak with you.”
The voice cut across their exchange, breathless and sharp with urgency that did not belong to polite society.
Arabella turned.
Lord Covington stood only a few paces away, his chest rising with the effort of his approach, his composure less carefully arranged than she had ever seen it. There was something unsettled in his expression, something that did not quite align with the man who had spoken so smoothly only days before.
Behind him, their maid appeared, equally breathless, her steps faltering as she came to a stop. Her expression was one of clear distress, though she tried to master it.
“My lady—” she began, though the words tangled in her haste.
Eleanor stepped forward at once, placing herself slightly ahead of Arabella without drawing attention to the movement. “Lower your voice,” she said, her tone controlled. “And you will explain yourself with proper decorum.”
Covington did not retreat.
“I have not the time for decorum,” he said, his gaze fixed not on Eleanor, but on Arabella. “This cannot wait.”
Eleanor’s posture sharpened, the shift subtle but unmistakable. “You will find that I have very little patience for being addressed in such a manner. If you have business, you will conduct it properly, or not at all.”
The maid hovered uncertainly at the edge of the exchange, her hands twisting together. Eleanor glanced back at her, her expression softening just enough to offer instruction.
