Lord Thornton pulled the sheet off of a sofa whose upholstery matched the walls, and moved to a window, staring out at the surprisingly breathtaking landscape. Then his crisp voice sliced through the taut air. “Truth is, I never imagined marrying. I never wanted to marry.”
She waited, perched on a cushioned sofa that needed to be reupholstered. She waited for him to continue, hoping he would add something along the lines of until I met you… He did not, and she could not blame him. It wasn’t as though he wanted to marry her. She was a responsibility, a burden he had been cursed with.
And she didn’t want to marry him either, she reminded herself. This wasn’t a choice, but a necessity and she would do well to remember that.
When she ran out in front of his carriage, she had ruined his life.
He’d never wanted to marry, but she had secured his fate, and her own.
“You’re probably right not to,” she said, her throat bobbing uncontrollably as she tried to keep her composure. She was having trouble controlling her emotions, a fact most disturbing. She took a deep, steadying breath and continued factually, “But in the face of marriage or destitution, it seems logical which one you must choose.”
It wasn’t that she had forgotten—forgotten that she very well could have been in love herself at one point, resulting in a rather unpleasant misfortune. However, it had to be the truth. She fancied herself a logical person, and logical people knew what was right and what was wrong. It wasn’t about emotion—it was about the facts.
In the face of marriage or destitution, the decision had to be simple for one with such responsibility as a title. Marriage was about so much more than just spending the rest of your life with another person. There were so many other factors that demanded consideration.
“I take it you would not choose love?” Lord Thornton prompted.
“No, I don’t think I would,” she answered. Though, she supposed, it was easy to say so when she couldn’t remember whether or not she ever had been in love. One could easily make decisions when they didn’t know what the consequences were. She shook her head to cast out the contradictory thoughts. “It wouldn’t be practical.”
“And are you the practical sort?”
Well, there was a tough question if ever there was one.
Was she practical?
Well, she had clearly—at least, clearly to her—run away from home, and sought out a woman to help her out of the situation she was in. Namely, her pregnancy. Two things that were not exactly marks in her favor. Then she’d run out of her planned meeting and right into the road. Two more misconducts added against practicality. She had devised a rouse in which she pretended to be married to a man she didn’t know, and then she had run off with him.
She didn’t think anyone would ever look upon these events and consider her practical.
And yet she found herself stating, “I don’t know,” as though she hadn’t a clue as to the answer.
Of course she knew. Everyone knew! She was most definitely not practical! But she wanted to be, for she felt that she should be.
“I would like to think that I am,” she finished.
Think it all she wanted, thoughts did not make one instantly become what they wanted to be, but were not.
She didn’t need to explain it to him, but to herself. “I mean, say you marry for love but there’s no money in it, what will you leave your children with? What kind of legacy will you pass on to them? Whereas, if you married out of need, you wouldn’t have the worry.”
It certainly sounded practical. She just hadn’t a clue as to whether she believed it or not. She couldn’t even conceive of who she had conceived a child with, so of course it was easier to assume that the child could be raised by anyone and treated just the same. It was much easier than thinking the opposite, that the child would be happiest in the home of its happy, loving parents, because her child would never have that.
As if reading her mind, he said, “Ah, but which would you rather have: the children born out of love or out of a loveless marriage?”
And because she needed something to believe in, she answered, a lie to both herself and to him, “I don’t think it would make any difference.”
Lord Thornton was a kind man, a good man, despite the fact that he was stern and guarded and a whole host of other characteristics captivity no doubt had a role in creating. What he was not, was a man who was easy to love or who loved easily. But men were not expected to be gentle or caring, right? They were creatures of masculinity, not silk. She didn’t need the father but merely a father for her child, and Lord Thornton would do just fine, she told herself.
“You’re wrong,” Lord Thornton said, his stone voice hardening, still looking out the window he was standing before. “It makes all the difference in the world.”
She knew he was right, but she couldn’t concede that he was right aloud. Though, in her private thoughts that dominated, she couldn’t deny he was either.
He was right. A practical person knew when to admit such—at least to themselves.
She smiled wanly, past the agitation that she felt.
“Are you all right? You look unwell,” Lord Thornton commented when he turned back to her.
She was feeling a bit green about the face, the hands, the chest. She tried to smile past the queer feeling. “Tired is all. I would like to lie down for a bit, if you don’t mind.”
“Right. Of course. Apologies,” he murmured, digesting the information as he spoke. She could see his mind working. A penny for his thoughts would be an insult—they were worth so much more.
Finally, he said, walking across the room and pulling on a rope, “I will have a maid show you to the Countess’s bedchamber.”
“The Countess’s?” she swallowed nervously.
But she wasn’t a Countess.
“You will be the Countess soon enough.”
Damn, he was good at reading her thoughts.
She really shouldn’t swear so—even if just in her mind—but really, was it too much to ask that her mind be as closed to him as his was to her?
Lord Thornton continued, “I will move to a room further down the hall. For propriety’s sake, you understand.”
“Oh, my lord,” she jumped in, “that is not necessary. I cannot put you out of your own room.”
He seemed to stiffen at her protest—as though he wasn’t already the most rigid gentleman in all of England. The door opened not a moment later, a tidy maid appearing in the doorway. “Please show—” he started, getting stuck on what precisely to call her, “the lady to the Countess’s bedchamber.”
“As you wish, my lord,” she said curtsying to him, then to her. “My lady, if you will follow me.”
*****
The Countess’s bedchamber was decorated in the same manner as the rest of the home: sparsely. Though, it was neat and clean, if not decorated in the most fashionable of manners. It was, however, odd that the room would be kept up though in the absence of having an actual Countess. Unless, of course, it did.
Had she displaced his mother? What a first impression that would be. She squeezed her eyes closed at the thought.
“Is it always kept this way? The room, I mean.” she asked before the maid had a chance to scurry out.
“This and the Earl’s,” the maid answered simply.
Well, that answer gave her absolutely no insight. She was going to have to spell it out. “Does his mother, the Countess, live here?”
The maid’s eyes widened with alarm, and she sputtered before answering, “No, my lady. The Earl’s mother has never lived here. There is no Countess or Dowager Countess of Thornton. Not anymore.”
“Oh, of course,” she said.
It made sense. Had his mother lived here, the house wouldn’t have been closed up as was apparent by the sheets covering the furniture downstairs. She was an idiot.
But his mother had never lived here? How could that be? She cinched her brow in thought.
Looking up, she coul
d see the maid’s evaluation of her and sought to stand up for herself. “I must have forgotten.”
She couldn’t, after all, let the maid believe she knew more about the Earl than she herself did. It was true—servants always knew more about the people they served than the served knew about themselves—but this was the man who she was to marry, she should at least pretend that she knew more about him than his name and title.
The maid stood awkwardly, clearly unsure of what to do. “Um, shall I fetch you some tea?”
“That would be lovely, thank you—” she left the end open for the maid to finish.
“Rose,” the maid put in.
“Rose. Rose?” she repeated thoughtfully.
“Yes?” the maid questioned.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Merely sounds familiar, is all. You’re dismissed, Rose.”
“My lady,” she said, curtsying before departing silently.
She was left a bit off balance. Her chest didn’t exactly hurt, but it felt like her heart was being twisted, and her mind was confused, like water being trapped in a whirlpool, only able to go around and around, or like the end of a rainbow that was never reached.
She began chewing on her nails, not stopping until she drew blood from the flesh of her fingertip.
Perhaps a nap would do her well. She was overtired was all.
She looked to the bed in question and thought about lying down. She really ought to. But her stomach was turning most unnervingly, filled with a nervous energy. She could lie down, but sleep would not wash over her, drown her in darkness. Not at this moment.
She gave up on the futile notion of forcing herself to sleep and went to the window to look out on the picture that it painted. The house was situated in a valley, her window peering out on a particularly magnificent set of hills that could more appropriately be termed as small mountains. The sight was majestic.
Here she was in a modest, plain, rundown house, surrounded by the most beautiful of sights she could imagine.
She wrapped her arms about her in a hug, like the hills that surrounded the house, and felt comforted. Though the hug did not stop her heart from twisting in her chest.
Of course there was nothing familiar about the maid, Rose, she consoled herself. If they were acquainted, the maid would have recognized her and said something. However, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was some familiarity there.
It had to be her exhaustion. Or her hunger. One or the other. Probably both.
Appearing with the thought of her, the maid knocked upon the door.
“Enter,” she called.
Trailing her summons, Rose entered with a dutiful curtsy despite the heavy tea service she carried, followed by a second maid, whose arms were loaded heavily with dresses.
“My lady,” they each murmured.
“What is all this?” she inquired.
“Lord Thornton asked for some clothes to be made available for you, my lady.”
“Oh, no. You didn’t,” she breathed. “I could not possibly dream of taking these from you.”
“My lady, you misunderstand,” replied the first maid. “These garments are not that of the staff. They are from the Countess’ wardrobe that had been put away. You are about her same size—they should fit well enough for the time being.”
“Oh,” she said, feeling quite foolish. One look at the garments and she should have known they weren’t servant’s dress. But she hadn’t been thinking. Not clearly. Clearly a trait that she seemed to be plagued with.
“Of course, you’re right. Please excuse me, I’m merely weary from the travel,” she explained.
“Yes, and from what I hear, my lady, you need your rest. Lord Thornton has instructed us not to bother you again until you have. When you do wake, ring and we will get you fitted in your new clothes.”
“That is really not necessary—”
“But it is, my lady,” Rose cut in. “The Master insists. And Anna is one of our best seamstresses in the house.”
Anna blushed modestly from her place beside Rose.
It wasn’t what she meant. She was grateful for the clothes, and a fitting would no doubt be necessary. She merely didn’t want to be left alone.
She felt herself shrink. Not shrink back or shrink inside herself. But shrink physically. She had spent so much time alone this past week, trapped in a room, that she was beginning to feel almost invisible. Even her evening spent in a carriage with Lord Thornton had passed silently by. She couldn’t take eating another meal alone, even if it was just tea.
She needed company. Even if it was only that of a servant.
She needed to talk to someone, have a normal conversation that didn’t leave her second guessing everything. But before she could blink, she was alone.
Only this time, she wasn’t trapped.
Her hip was sore from the night’s travel, but it was feeling remarkably better, with only a mild twinge of discomfort when she walked. But she could walk which was more than could be said a few days prior.
She walked over to the clothes which had been left draped over the back of an upholstered chair. She let her hand glide over the silks and muslins. They weren’t so very dated by the look of them, and they had been kept in remarkable storage. And their condition was almost new, despite their slightly dated fits.
Whose were they? she wondered.
This room, these clothes, were the belongings of the late Countess’s. Who was she? She had assumed it to have been his mother, but the maid Rose had confirmed that his mother had never lived here at Hamilton Hall. Lord Thornton was at least thirty years of age—could it be that he had never been married? What if he had been? What if he had married before going off to war? What if his wife had died while he was confined? What if these were her clothes?
She stepped unconsciously back.
She couldn’t wear them. Not without knowing. And she couldn’t ask.
He was a protective man. He had protected her for the last week, was protecting her reputation for life by marrying her. He protected his emotions, his thoughts, every detail about himself. It was classic behavior for a man with a broken soul. Had it broken when he returned after years of imprisonment only to find the love of his life had died in his absence?
How little she knew of the man who was to become her husband. So little that she didn’t even know if he had been married before, if he was a widower.
In that moment, she couldn’t even imagine trying the dresses on, didn’t want to be fit into this life in the fabric that could have once belonged to his late wife. She couldn’t replace the love of his life—if, in fact, there had been a love of his life.
The fact of it was that this fabric represented the shroud of mystery of her own mind’s creation, of his life and hers.
She couldn’t don clothes not knowing from whom they had come, or how her husband-to-be would react to seeing her in them. Would he like it or would it hurt him deeper than she could understand? He had sent them here for her, but he would have felt obligated to do so. It didn’t mean he wanted to.
There were so many questions.
She needed answers. But it wasn’t her place to ask and it wasn’t her right to know. She was to become Lord Thornton’s wife and with that came certain entitlements, but his heart was not one of them. That would always—and should always—remain his. She couldn’t force him to give her information he wouldn’t freely give. And she wouldn’t steal the information from his staff, no matter how badly she wished to interrogate them on the subject of their master.
She had lived the past week in the dark. What was the rest of her life by comparison?
He wasn’t just a man, just a gentleman. He was a person who had a life before her. She had nothing, but he had a past, and that past was his to have and his to decide whether or not to share. As it was, he hadn’t shared it and he deserved her respect to not press it from him.
She sipped at her tea left by the maids, nibbled on the biscuits. She tasted not a thing, her body
was numb to everything, hunger included.
This would be her life for the foreseeable future. Not only would she eat alone, but she would be alone. Alone without a past, and ignorant of his.
There was an ache in her chest that she couldn’t swallow.
She exhaled. She was exhausted. She needed to sleep.
As she laid her head down upon the pillow, Isabelle eyed the pile of clothing, once more sending her mind into a hurricane of colliding thoughts.
She tried to close her eyes, but she did not sleep. Instead, her eyes snapped immediately open, and she sat up quickly enough to cause her brain to prick as though she had just eaten an ice far too fast.
Because when she set her head down upon said pillow, she had remembered something.
Her name.
Or at least, a name.
Isabelle.
Was it hers?
It was a start. She was remembering.
She smiled happily, before it immediately faded.
Because could the timing be any worse?
Did she have to remember now? Couldn’t it wait a week, or two? Couldn’t it wait until after her family found her, approved of her marriage to the earl and she was legally his wife, before she remembered? Was it too much to ask that she not remember until it was too late to do anything about it?
Because what if she remembered the love she had forgotten? And what if she couldn’t go through with marrying Lord Thornton, even without the promise of marriage to the other man with no face, the man that she could not name? What if she ruined herself again because she couldn’t help it?
She wasn’t sure exactly what she had forgotten, but it couldn’t hurt for it to stay put in whatever vault it had locked itself into. Because at least without her memories, there was also no pain. It was like being washed clean, made new again. Even if it hurt to be alone, it was better than bearing a broken heart.
Clearly, she had made a slew of egregious mistakes in her past. Now was her second chance. Couldn’t she just be granted that chance, with no strings attached? Or were strings a requirement to life?
Wherefore Art Thou. Page 11