“I apologize, my lord.” Then she smiled, a self-deprecating sort of smile, and corrected herself, an air of self-exasperation leant to her tone as she held his gaze, “Desmond.”
She did a good job putting on a show. She had her manner perfected. She knew what to say and how to say it, how to hold herself. She might not know who she was but she hadn’t forgotten what she was.
It was her eyes.
There wasn’t anything particularly spectacular about them at first glance. They weren’t that crisp blue that was all the rage with hair the buttery-gold color hers was. They were rather unremarkable. They were so pale that they were almost no color at all, and the color they were was almost impossible to name. They seemed to get lost somewhere between grey and blue.
But, though her eyes were partly unremarkable, they had a depth, an eloquence that revealed her everything. She could be standing naked before him and still all he needed to know about her would be in her eyes. She couldn’t control them, not like she could control the rest of her.
Her eyes were intelligent and fierce. They were deep, thoughtful, inquisitive, pained, and every other emotion that they possibly could be. If only they could give him answers, like her name. He hadn’t a clue what to call her, and my lady seemed far too formal for such a young person, whether lady she was or not.
He couldn’t imagine what she was going through, not knowing who she was. But he did have a sense of how she felt. She was trapped inside of herself; no escape, she couldn’t get home, didn’t even know where home was. It couldn’t be easy for her, and he wasn’t making it any easier. But, how could he? How could he be what she needed? He didn’t even know who she was! How could he share the personal details of himself with her?
It was impossible. Unthinkable.
He pushed away the thought that it would be just as impossible if he did know who she was.
She continued to sip at her tea, sitting prettily on a damask settee, wearing one of the dresses he had provided for her. His brow furrowed.
When had she changed?
Desmond closed his eyes, spilling the remaining lukewarm tea down his throat. He hadn’t a chance to return the cup and saucer to the tea service tray before being offered another by the lady.
“Would you care for another cup, Desmond?”
“No, I have matters to attend to,” he said briskly, standing.
“Of course. Do not let me keep you,” she responded perfectly.
Desmond nodded once and then left her there, sitting on a dainty little sofa that she nearly matched in her borrowed gown. He would send for a dressmaker to come to the house to see to fixing her with a proper wardrobe but, first things first, he had to get out of that room. He could see in those pale ovals of emotion that he had hurt her feelings, but he had his own emotions to keep in check. He didn’t need hers added to his burden.
Besides, he did have other matters to attend to. One in particular.
He had already penned a letter the night before to send to London. In truth, he had written and rewritten it every day, a dozen times an hour, since they had met most unfortunately and this interlude began, however, it was only last night that he had sat down and finally put the words to page.
It had been six days, and tomorrow would be seventh. He’d said he would wait seven days and they would start the search for her family. However, the situation changed when he’d brought her to his home. He should have sent the letter when they’d arrived here yesterday, but he hadn’t been able. He would do so now. However, as he stood there, the cream envelope in his hands, he couldn’t bring himself to summon a footman to have it taken out with the post.
Six days was no short period of time when it came to the welfare of a young lady gone missing. Six days was quite a long time, rather, to wait. And yet, still not a word of whisper was there, in paper or on lips, of a lady missing.
Hadn’t her family a care in the world for her? Did they not understand that she could be in danger, hurt, or even dying at this very moment? His own reservations about advertising a helpless girl’s misfortune were, he felt, understandable. But her family? What excuse had they? What excuse could they give for not exhausting all avenues to find their missing child?
What kind of parents were they?
He knew he should post the letter, allow the notice to be published, but he simply couldn’t. Not yet. He would afford her a few more days to recover her memory. If she did, they could be at Gretna Green tomorrow, married, without having to bother with the trivialities of having to engage her parents who may, or may not, be worth the trouble of being engaged.
Chapter 15
Desmond had disappeared.
Well, he had not so much disappeared as he had holed up behind the firmly closed, solid mahogany door of his office. He had entered that morning and he hadn’t come out.
Not that Isabelle was waiting on the other side of it. She’d retired to her bedroom shortly after he had left her company, once it was apparent that he had no intention of putting aside whatever work he had to do in order to entertain her. But the house was old, and fairly small, and Isabelle was almost certain that she could hear the servants chattering about in the basement; she could certainly hear if the door to his office below was opened and closed.
No, Desmond had not emerged; if he had, he would have had to do so on feet light as a mouse’s. Though, in this house, with his size boot, such would have been impossible. She supposed that he could have climbed out the window, but surely that would be absurd. It didn’t stop her, though, from looking toward her own window, not that she could see much from her position on the bed, not much more than the sky quickly transforming from day into night.
She was wearing the same dress she’d been wearing when she’d arrived yesterday, the same dress that she had trudged through the dewy field in that morning. She had changed earlier into one of the gowns Desmond had given her and, though it had fit remarkably well, she had changed immediately back upon her return to her room.
She couldn’t be forced to wear his wardrobe, and she didn’t want to. How could she change when she didn’t even know who she was to begin with?
Her dress had been damp from the morning, but she ignored the cold as it seeped into her soul as the day passed and evening emerged.
It felt like her stomach was in her throat. She tried to swallow it down but it wouldn’t budge. She couldn’t concentrate on anything but the feel of it, the pressure forcing tears to form in the corners of her eyes.
She was alone. She remembered her name, but not who she was. It was like she had been handed back a piece of herself, and just that little bit knowledge was even more difficult than knowing nothing at all. She merely wanted a hand to hold, a shoulder to cry on, someone to tell her everything would be all right while petting her hair. She wanted comfort in the form of human flesh instead of a feather pillow.
Her heart sagged as her stomach heaved while Isabelle remained glued to the spot on the edge of her bed for the whole of the day, ready to pounce towards the chamber pot when the need arose.
Morning had turned to afternoon, afternoon to evening, and still she did not move.
She hadn’t touched any of the food the maid Rose had brought her earlier. She couldn’t even think about eating. She could do nothing but sit and stare vacantly.
“My lady?” Rose queried.
Her sweet voice broke Isabelle out of her own head and she raised her eyebrows in silent question. But just the small movement caused her to realize that, at some point, her stomach had dropped back down into its proper place, because it was now bubbling upwards with a vengeance.
A sweat broke out on her forehead, her hands turned clammy, breathing almost hurt.
Isabelle jumped to her feet as a lump of liquid traveled up her throat in an explosion, barely making it to the chamber pot in time to release the acidic poison from her mouth.
“My lady?” Rose nearly shouted her concern. “Are you all right?”
Isabelle b
arely noticed as the maid came to kneel beside her, pulling locks of golden hair out of the flow. She did notice, however, when Rose’s gentle hand stroked her back and her coos of “There, there. You’ll be all right.”
It was the most comfort that Isabelle had felt and, if she were not leaning over a chamber pot, her stomach quickly becoming her enemy, she would laugh at the irony.
Her stomach clenched three more times before Isabelle felt satisfied that the worst of it was behind her. She sat back on her feet and tried to breathe, but the taste in her mouth made her want to choke.
“Here,” Rose said after returning from the sideboard. “Drink this.” Isabelle looked up at the glass of water in Rose’s outstretched hand and took it gladly, rinsing her mouth of the vile taste.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice and body weak. She could hardly open her eyes for the nausea was coming in waves.
“Let’s get you back to bed,” responded the maid. “Do you think you can stand?”
Isabelle nodded as much as she dared, then felt Rose’s grip tighten as she helped her to her feet. She felt as if her head were floating, completely detached from her body that was leaning heavily on Rose.
The bed was still warm from where she had been sitting just moments ago and Isabelle remained in that spot as Rose dampened a towel and patted her forehead. Then she stepped back and said, “I will have a bath drawn for you, my lady, if you wish.”
“Thank you,” Isabelle restated just before a knock sounded from the other side of the door.
Rose went to the door and opened it slightly, blocking as much view of the room as she could with her small frame.
Isabelle listened to the conversation, keeping her eyes closed to ward off the threatening nausea.
“My lord,” was followed by a rustle of fabric Isabelle could only fathom was a curtsy.
“Why has the lady not come down for dinner? And what was all that noise?” His voice was a low growl.
“She is not well, my lord.”
“Not well? What do you mean? Is she okay?” Isabelle heard the unquestionable concern rising in his tone but couldn’t summon her eyes open to see if it played out on his face. “Does she have a fever? Did she catch a cold being outside this morning?”
“It’s too early to tell,” answered the maid, “though, it’s likely merely exhaustion.”
Isabelle knew it wasn’t exhaustion.
Seven weeks. She didn’t know how she knew it, but she knew it nonetheless. She was seven weeks pregnant now and she was developing the signs. Nausea, vomiting. It was the sickness that every woman despised.
The maid continued, “She has been through quite a lot recently, my lord.”
It was an understatement of enormous proportions.
Isabelle peeked her eyes open to view her reflection in the mirror across the room. Her reflection wasn’t quite clear but she could make it out enough to notice the obvious bruise covering nearly half of her face. Half her body looked precisely the same. It would be weeks until the bruises subsided.
The maid may not know precisely what Isabelle had gone through, but her injuries were obvious enough that whatever had happened had been substantial. She was covered in bruises from temple to toe. If the maid hadn’t a clue to suspect anything, Isabelle would have been concerned for her well-being. And yet, she was concerned for an entirely wrong reason.
“I’ll return in a moment with the bath, my lady,” Rose said after Desmond had left.
The door shut and Isabelle felt herself alone. But even the movement of merely shifting her eyes to the door to confirm such caused the nausea to surge and sent her flying, once more, across the room to the chamber pot.
She felt, after several minutes had passed of the continuous hurling, that she had hollowed out both of her legs. Surely, there couldn’t be anything left inside of her. And still her stomach heaved and her shoulders sagged as green mucous worked its way up her throat.
She finally dragged herself to the window seat, pushing open the glass, affording her lungs a breath of fresh air, for the air in the room now smelled stale.
Isabelle closed her eyes as the cool wind whispered along her skin. She sat motionless, allowing it to swirl around her in a refreshing sort of hug, an intimate touch, and was reminded that she would never be alone again. As she sat, trying to calm her nerves beneath the cold caress of the wind, she knew she couldn’t take the tea. Instead, she would forever have this child to care for. Marriage to Desmond would not be the most comfortable or the happiest, but she would find peace in caring for her child. And really, she couldn’t ask for more.
Chapter 16
At quarter past ten o’clock her stomach groaned heavily. She wasn’t sick; her nausea had departed earlier in the evening, sometime after her bath. She was hungry. Starving, really.
The last that she had eaten had been that morning at tea. She hadn’t even had a proper breakfast! And it wasn’t as though she had eaten considerably yesterday.
Another painful growl and she was on her feet. She wouldn’t be able to sleep with such an angry, empty stomach.
Isabelle slipped into the inherited robe and tied it tight around her waist, too tired to care from where it came. It wasn’t the most appropriate attire and, if she were to run into anyone, it would be quite scandalous, but she hadn’t the energy to dress herself at the moment.
She brushed back the strands of hair that had come loose from her braid and then stepped out into the hall.
Surely, Desmond was asleep by now. She hadn’t heard any movement in the house for at least an hour. Isabelle walked on her tiptoes down the stairs, with each step hoping that she wouldn’t hear a creak, one hand on the railing, the other clasping the candle. When she made it to the bottom step, she let out a little sigh of relief and made for the servant’s stairs to the basement.
The candles had not yet been snuffed below stairs, yet Isabelle did not see a single servant milling about as she made her way to the kitchen where, on a table, there was an alluring plate of tarts. Isabelle looked around her and, still finding no one, she thought that no one should mind if she should take one. She put one in her palm, and then thought, when her stomach groaned, that surely two wouldn’t be greatly missed. Picking up another, Isabelle decided she should return to bed quickly so as to avoid any unwanted attention.
Isabelle jumped when she turned to see a movement of black. She grabbed hold of her robe, clasping it about the neck to still her ferociously beating heart as she recognized the emerging shadow to be the housekeeper Desmond had not seen fit to introduce her to.
“My lady,” she said, curtsying. “What a surprise.” She was dressed from head to toe in black, her grey hair pulled back into a flawless bun even after an entire day’s work.
“Hello,” Isabelle responded nervously.
“Oh dear, I am sorry. Where are my manners? I am Mrs. Long, Hamilton Hall’s housekeeper.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Isabelle answered, unable to give the woman her name in return, as she wasn’t supposed to know it herself.
“Whatever are you doing up at this hour?” Mrs. Long looked down to the hand held in front of her belly. “Ah,” she said, bringing a hand up to her cheek, “I understand. You must be famished.”
Isabelle too looked to the tarts in her hand. Indeed, she was famished. “Just a bit hungry, is all,” she lied. “These tarts will do well to take the edge off. They are apple, are they not?”
“There are,” answered Mrs. Long.
“I thought as much. They smell divine. My compliments to the cook.”
“I will pass along your good favor of her baking, but I must insist on serving you a full meal. I cannot let you go to bed hungry.”
“Oh, no. That is quite unnecessary, Mrs. Long,” Isabelle halfheartedly insisted. Not that a hearty meal didn’t sound wonderful at that moment, but the servants were no doubt preparing to retire to bed. She couldn’t possibly expect them to wait on her now.
However, Mrs. Long
didn’t seem to take no for an answer. “My lady, it is no imposition. We had already prepared the meal only for it to go uneaten earlier in the evening. It will only take a few moments to heat up. I insist upon it. You’re our guest, and it is only right. Besides—” she added, casting a deep, knowing stare at Isabelle’s stomach, giving Isabelle the frightening suspicion that this woman knew more than she should. Mrs. Long raised her eyes to meet Isabelle’s again, and finished with “—you need all the strength you can get.”
Isabelle was itching to run away.
This woman knew. She knew.
How?
She had no idea. But she knew that Mrs. Long knew that she was with child.
She wanted to run away, but she was glued to the floor beneath her feet, unable to even break the stare she was holding with the housekeeper.
At Isabelle’s lack of response, the housekeeper jumped in with, “Perfect, it’s settled then. I will have everything prepared immediately. If you would wait in the sitting room, I will summon you when the meal is ready.”
The housekeeper gently nudged her elbow, turning Isabelle towards a maid she didn’t recognize—who’d appeared out of nowhere—and who ushered her out of the kitchen. Tarts in hand, Isabelle was navigated back to the sitting room on the main floor with the help of the maid carrying her candle. She didn’t particularly want to spoil her dinner, but her stomach was growling its discontent. And once she was seated and her teeth sank greedily into the first tarte, there really wasn’t any helping it; she couldn’t leave a crumb not nibbled.
Barely a quarter of an hour later, Isabelle was seated at the modest dining room table, the room bright with candles, and a horde of servants carrying trays of everything imaginable. It was truly a spread like no other. At least, no other that she could remember. And all of it for her! It was remarkable, breathtaking, awe-inspiring.
Wherefore Art Thou. Page 13