Arabella of Mars(96)

“Dear Lord!” cried Trombley.

“I had wondered at the sound,” the captain said. And, indeed, after Simon’s death the Martians had cried out in triumph, then fallen silent.

Arabella closed her eyes, but nothing could shut away the memory of Simon’s fate. “Somehow … somehow he found the courage to redeem himself,” she said, knowing that every one still considered him a hero and not wishing to argue the point at this moment. “I only pray that his sacrifice will bring an end to the insurrection.”

“Oh dear,” said Trombley, mopping his brow. “Oh dear me. What horrible news. Horrible, horrible. I … I extend my deepest condolences upon the loss of your cousin.” He bowed. “Shall I summon a servant to bring you a glass of water?”

“No thank you, sir.” She curtseyed, the action coming automatically despite her inner tumult. “I thank you for your concern, but I am certain the servants are all occupied in preparing the defense of the kitchen.”

“Of course, of course, how stupid of me.” He bowed again, quite unnecessarily. “I shall bring you some water myself.” He bowed again and retreated rapidly, his own emotions obviously in a state of considerable distress.

As soon as he had departed, she collapsed. But before she could land in a heap upon the stone floor, the captain’s strong arms were beneath her shoulders. Without a word he helped her upright, holding her up until, with a gesture, she indicated that she could once again maintain her own feet. Yet despite the turmoil in her heart and the feverish tremor in her limbs, her eyes remained dry.

Still without a word, the captain led her to a nearby sofa. After she had seated herself he sat silently beside her, hands chastely folded in his lap, waiting patiently for her to collect herself.

At last she drew in a shuddering breath, then let it out all in a rush. “Thank you for your understanding,” she said, her voice shaky. “If that prattling fool had kept up his jabber for one moment more…”

“Do not concern yourself with him,” he said.

Arabella, realizing that she was on the verge of babbling herself, quieted her tongue.

After another stretch of silence, during which Arabella’s racing heart steadied and slowed, the captain spoke again. “Did Mr. Ashby truly give himself voluntarily? Without coercion or … assistance?”

Not for the first time, Arabella wondered at his seemingly superhuman ability to perceive the truth of any situation. “Not … entirely.” She looked up, dreading the captain’s judgement. “He rushed at me, I evaded his charge, and he … he went over the edge. But I did not push him. I swear this to you.”

His gaze was clear and steady and untroubled. “I could not imagine otherwise,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” she replied with deep sincerity. “But you must not share the details of his fate with the others. Not yet.”

“Of course not. It would destroy morale.”

She frowned then, and added, “We must make some provision for his family. Though Beatrice assisted Simon in imprisoning me, I believe she was compelled to do so, and her daughter Sophie is an innocent undeserving of punishment for her father’s misdeeds.”

“You have a most generous spirit, Miss Ashby.”

At that moment Mr. Trombley reappeared, though without the promised glass of water. “Miss Ashby! Miss Ashby!” he cried. “The Martians are at the gate, demanding to speak to you! And Michael has regained consciousness!”

Arabella looked to the captain. Her shock and indecision must have been plain upon her countenance, for he straightened and in a firm yet compassionate voice said, “You must tend to your brother. Go. I will treat with the Martians to the best of my ability.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” she said, and saluted.

She did not realize until she was halfway down the hall that she had done so.

*

Michael was sitting up, drinking from a glass of water, as Arabella entered his bedchamber. “Michael!” she cried, and despite the presence of Dr. Fellowes and several others in the room she embraced him with heedless enthusiasm. A moment later she realized her mistake and drew back, fearing she might have damaged his already-injured body with an excess of zeal.

But her brother’s face, though ashen and sunken of cheek, showed nothing but pleasure at the sight of her. “My dearest sister,” he said, gripping her hand. His grasp seemed terribly feeble. “My dear Arabella. How I had worried about you!”

Michael’s voice was rough, hollow, and weak, but unmistakably, joyfully his own. It was a voice she’d feared so many times in the last few months that she would never hear again, and at the sound of it she was quite overcome with emotion. She sank to her knees at the bedside, still holding her brother’s hand. “Words cannot express my relief at your recovery,” she managed in a hoarse whisper.

“I am, you may be sure, astonished at your presence on Mars at all,” Michael said, “never mind here at Corey Hall. The last I had heard of you was a letter from Mother, which arrived on the last packet-ship before the insurrection. She said that according to cousin Beatrice, you suddenly ran mad and vanished into the countryside. Pray tell, how came you to be here?”

For a moment she hesitated—not knowing just where to begin, nor how much of her adventure she ought to share with him in his obviously still fragile state of health. But then she recalled the verve with which he’d raced across the dunes with her and Khema, and smiled. “I did not run mad,” she said, “let me assure you. Though I was exceedingly vexed.…”