Arabella of Mars(9)
But Simon seemed uninterested in details of astronomy. “You say that few ships will undertake the long voyage because of the expense. Is the cost of passage on the short voyage more … reasonable?”
“Oh, yes! Much more so.” This, as it happened, was a subject very close to Arabella’s heart. Ever since her arrival at Marlowe Hall, whenever a newspaper should happen to fall into her hands she eagerly perused the shipping news, taking especial note of ships accepting passengers to Mars. Though the expense was, of course, very far beyond her means, she eagerly drank in every detail, stoking her impossible fantasies of running away to London and returning to the land of her birth. “At the moment one could take passage for as little as two hundred pounds.”
“Two hundred pounds!” gasped Beatrice.
“Two hundred pounds…,” mused Simon.
“The accommodations at that price would be Spartan, to be sure, but with so many ships departing at this time, you would find no difficulty in obtaining a berth.”
The conversation went on in that vein for some time—Arabella being amazed, once again, by the degree to which most Englishmen were ignorant of even basic astronomy—but only Beatrice participated, Simon having again fallen silent and pensive. His gristly roast lay untouched upon his plate, and he stared at it with pursed lips and tense shoulders.
Suddenly, with only the briefest of courtesies, he rose and excused himself from the table. Beatrice’s eyes followed his retreating back with an expression of deep concern.
“I…” Arabella stammered. “Have I said something improper?”
“I do not believe so. He has been more than usually troubled these last few days, but I know not what might be the matter.”
The two women ate their dinner in silence for a time, while various sounds of motion and activity echoed down the hall. Beatrice became increasingly anxious as Simon’s absence lengthened, and finally she excused herself to see what might be keeping him.
Alone at the table, Arabella was left to examine her dinner-plate, bread-plate, and wine-glass, which sat where she had left them at the end of her astronomical disquisition.
The bread-plate and wine-glass were so very close together.…
Suddenly she had a frightful thought. Casting aside all she had learned of the courtesies a guest should extend to her hosts, she rose from the table and followed the sound of voices in hushed and urgent conversation to Simon and Beatrice’s bedroom.
There she found Simon frantically cramming clothing into a valise, which lay open on the bed between him and Beatrice. The valise also contained a pair of silver candlesticks, a silver tureen, and a collection of cutlery.
“Wherever could you be going in such a frightful hurry?” Arabella said, though she feared she knew the answer. “And with the family silver?”
Simon looked up, his eyes wide and staring. “How dare you intrude upon us in our bedchamber!” His attitude, however, was more suited to one who had been surprised in the midst of a shameful activity than to one offended by an intrusion.
“I could not bear the thought of letting you depart without giving you my best regards. Might this have any thing to do with the relative positions of Earth and Mars?”
Simon gaped at her for a long moment, seemingly searching for some response and failing to find one. Then, with a sudden motion, he reached into the valise and brought out a dueling-pistol, which he leveled directly at Arabella. “I—I beg your pardon, but I must depart immediately. And I must insist that you remain here.” He drew back the pistol’s hammer with a definitive click.
Arabella shied away from the pistol, but found her back against the wall. The opening of the barrel, directed toward herself, seemed as big as the world. Her hands pressed the rough wallpaper to either side. “What is the meaning of this display, Cousin?” Though Simon’s expression was diffident, the pistol did not waver, and she could see that the pan was primed with powder.
“I … I beg your pardon,” he repeated. “But the last mail-coach to London departs within the hour, and I must be upon it, and I … I cannot allow you to prevent me from doing so.” Without taking his eye or his weapon off of Arabella, he brought another dueling-pistol from the valise and handed it to his wife. Trembling and uncertain, she nonetheless accepted it. “Dearest, I must ask you to lock Miss Ashby in the pantry. Do not permit her to depart, or to have any communication with the outside world, for at least the next two days.”
Awkwardly Beatrice directed her pistol at Arabella. “Of course, dearest,” she said, her eyes flicking from her husband to Arabella and back. “But … but why?”
Simon, breathing rapidly, swallowed and pressed his eyes closed for a moment before speaking. “My dear, I must confess that for the last several weeks I have … I have withheld confidences from you, and for this I apologize. I have made some … imprudent decisions. Financial decisions.” Beatrice stared at him in dismay, and her pistol sagged toward the floor, but Simon’s gaze and aim remained steady upon Arabella as he spoke. “You knew when you married me that my, my pecuniary situation, was not of the highest degree. I had thought myself inured to this situation, but with Sophie’s birth … I became ashamed.” He blinked away tears, and Arabella steeled herself to spring, but now Beatrice’s weapon was again trained upon her. “I determined that my daughter should not be forced to endure the penury which circumstance has forced upon me, and so I … I invested my inheritance … my entire inheritance … in a projected copper mine. A scheme which promised great and rapid returns.” He shook his head slightly, with a wry smile. “I should not, I suppose, have been surprised by the outcome.”