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

so joyful to the human ear, weren’t really happy at all; were, in fact, hostile territorial challenges.
    She wondered what the bird calls were like on Puka-Puka, and memories of Reverend Kendrick played through her mind as she leaned against a tree, smoking and considering. If he were here now, Mr. Kendrick would find a hundred ways to help her with the case: running errands, following up leads, offering suggestions. But Kendrick had renounced her. Once, he had spoken to Arabella of marriage, in a roundabout way. Now she was left to discover her fate alone. But she could not have accepted his proposal, even if she had wanted to: Kendrick belonged to the church, and she was a glittering courtesan in the world’s most glamorous city, with many good earning years still ahead of her. So she had toyed with him. She needn’t have done that, but she had—taking his devotion for granted, and even finding it irritating at times. In Italy, for instance, she had . . . she had been monstrous. Obliging him to fetch and carry for her, and making him stay behind to look after Charles, whilst she and Belinda had feasted, and . . . and . . . enjoyed themselves with . . . others. Once Arabella had even tried to send Kendrick away on a frivolous errand so that she might be alone with Lord Byron. And he had seen through her.
    This brief session of introspection acted upon Arabella like a mirror, reflecting her despicable behavior in all its dreadful colors. She was heartily ashamed of herself. John Kendrick would have died for her, and nearly had done, once. Yet she had been . . . not oblivious, for then she should not have been at fault. No, Arabella had been arrogant, vain; heedless to the point of brutishness.
    Then had come the regent’s party, where he had approached her in disguise, and, ignorant of his true identity, she had looked into his eyes and felt her heart turn over. Why had she only been able to really see him when she completely failed to recognize him? Was she put off by his ecclesiastical garb? But he did not wear that all the time. Was she too frightened to face her own feelings? No, she decided, it wasn’t that, but Mr. Kendrick possessed one of those romantic natures that becomes quiet and moon-eyed in the presence of the beloved. And Arabella, who preferred ardent, assertive men, had consequently considered him to be . . . well, insufficiently stimulating.
    And she had been wrong. Though confounded by his emotions, he was actually—she saw now—dashing, considerate, supportive, and kind. He was also well read, and had a sense of humor . . . not a highly developed one, it was true, but no one was perfect. Arabella recalled how he had fought with a sword to rescue her from her abductors, how he had saved her fortune from annihilation at the regent’s gaming table, and how he had read aloud to her from Suetonius and Herodotus when she was peevish, calling her attention to their wonderfully detailed stylings. Mr. Kendrick had invented the fascinating pastime of composing farewell letters from doomed persons in early historical periods, writing as though he were truly of the time. And then, when the idea created a sensation at her salons, he had allowed Arabella to take the credit for it. Mr. Kendrick, she now recalled, had even risked his chastity, consenting to a tête-à-tête with a madwoman bent on seduction, just to obtain information that Arabella wanted.
    Once again she recalled that sublime moment, when she had looked deep into his eyes without knowing who he was, and had felt stirred to the roots of her being. But Kendrick had given her up as a bad job at last, and had moved on with his life. Perhaps that was why Arabella felt as though she had missed her happiness by inches: No one had ever walked away from her before.
    She ground her cigar butt angrily into the grass, gathered up the bottle, the wineglass, and the fishing pole and stumped off back to the house.
    There would be no need to dress for dinner,