Read Online Death and the Cyprian Society by Pamela Christie - Free Book Online

air, and gentle amusements, I expect,” said Arabella. “She’ll get plenty of those things with me. Feel free to visit whenever you like, Frank, and tell Sarah Jane, when she returns, that she is welcome, also.”
    Frank shifted his gaze to the wall. “Eddie’s mother is gone to Canada,” he said.
    “To Canada? Surely she needn’t have gone as far away as that!”
    Frank persisted in not looking at her.
    “Well, at any rate,” said Arabella, “you will come to see Eddie. And I promise to take the very best care of her.”
    Frank opened his jacket and produced a black glass bottle from an interior pocket.
    “Please give her this, if you would—three drops in a tumbler of water, thrice daily, after meals.”
    “Meals? Is she even eating?”
    “Well, the odd cup of beef tea is all I’ve been able to get down her for the past two days. But she must take this, afterward,” he said, handing the bottle to Arabella.
    “What is it?”
    “A restorative and strengthener.”
    “What’s it made of?”
    “Lead, mercury, and other healthful things. It’s all right, you know; the doctor prescribed it. You will see that she takes it, won’t you?”
    Arabella patted his arm. “You may rest assured. So long as Edwardina remains under my care, I shall always act in her best interests.”
    “God bless you, Miss Beaumont!” said Frank. (He could never bring himself to call her “Arabella,” although she had invited him, on several occasions, to do so.) “I don’t know what I should have done, but for you! You are a . . . an angel!”
    “Well, not quite,” she said, smiling. “Nevertheless, I shall do what I can.”
    Frank bent and kissed his slumbering stepchild on the forehead.
    “I am sorry to have to leave you so abruptly,” he said, straightening, “but I must return to Bow Street with all haste.”
    The dubious angel followed him downstairs and watched from her door as the hackney pulled away from the house.
    At least Eddie has him, poor motherless kitten, she thought.
    In the drawing room, the dishes had not yet been cleared away from the officers’ meeting, and Arabella poured a last cup of tepid tea for herself. But before drinking it, she mentally asked, Is this worthy of me? She decided that it wasn’t, and set the cup down again.
    The day had progressed to that hour of the afternoon when one should either find employment at some useful task or take a nap if one is not to feel the sadness that settles briefly over everything when one is alone. In her quiet drawing room, Arabella was seized on a sudden by the notion that the world had abandoned her. Feben and Amy had gone home, Frank Dysart had returned to work, Belinda was in Scotland, and Mr. Kendrick had fled from her to the other side of the world. Arabella was a woman rich in friends, but most of these were males. The London season was in full swing, and men of rank were currently in high demand at a never-ending round of parties, fetes, balls, and regattas. Additionally, the part of her brain that found solutions to problems like this one seemed to have gone numb; she could only think of a single person whom she could call on to relieve her loneliness, and he was gone.
    But what was she doing? If there was one thing Arabella despised . . . well, there was not; there were any number of things. Self-pity was certainly among them, though. So she squared her shoulders, helped herself to a cigar from the humidor on the mantel, fetched a bottle and a glass from the dining room, and went downstairs to retrieve her fishing pole from behind the kitchen door.
    Out in the garden, surrounded by restful greenery and serenaded by the brook, Arabella sat upon the grass and poured herself some claret. Then, with a sigh, she cast her line upon the waters.
    Nature is the best smoother of ruffled human feathers, and it seemed to be working on birds’ feathers, too, if their cheerful songs were any indication. But Arabella recalled that avian songs, which sound