Wherefore Art Thou.

by Melanie Thurlow

  Isabelle thought of last night, of the late dinner and the interruption that ruined it. She wasn’t hungry now, but she didn’t want to take a chance on history repeating itself… “And for dinner to be brought to my room. I will be retiring early this evening.”

  She would dine alone. In her room. It was for the best. Desmond had seen fit to ignore her for the entirety of the day; why should she not repay the gesture?

  “I will see to it being done, my lady. Is there anything else you require?” the housekeeper asked warmly, despite Isabelle’s icy demand.

  Isabelle eyes fell to the floor between them as she felt guilt flood her. “That will be all, thank you, Mrs. Long.” Guilt was a lump, it was loneliness and despair, it was an uncertainty about who she was and how she should act. It was a pressure behind her eyes, a dam just waiting to burst.

  She felt a warm hand on her back, a comforting gesture that caused her to, unwillingly, collapse inward, onto the waiting shoulder of Mrs. Long.

  Isabelle heaved two heavy sighs, just barely containing the emotions that wanted to spill forth.

  “It’s all right, my dear,” Mrs. Long said as she gingerly rubbed her hair.

  “Oh, your dress,” Isabelle said, straightening, pulling away from the comfort. The housekeeper’s dress would be covered in the same grime that she was. But her concern only lasted a moment.

  Abruptly, the lump in her throat was replaced by another sort of lump altogether. Isabelle clasped her hands over her mouth as though it could stop the explosion she felt coming. Swallowing it down, hands still held over her mouth, “On second thought, perhaps no dinner tonight,” she said, the words muffled beneath her palms. Then she ran up the stairs, each moment forcing the pressure pushing up from her stomach to build, until she was certain that it could no longer be contained.

  No sooner had she flung the door to her bedchamber open than she rushed to the chamber pot, opened her mouth, and unleashed the contents of her stomach.

  When she finally sat back, moments later, she realized that she hadn’t closed the door behind her. She wiped her brow with her dirty hand and moved to stand. As she did she felt her unsteady legs wobble beneath her. Isabelle covered her eyes with a hand to combat the nausea that was flooding her, and reached blindly for something to support her weight.

  She felt the dip in her stomach before her body followed suit. She accepted the fact that she was going to land, unceremoniously, on the floor… and just when her bruises were beginning to fade—even if just barely. It was going to hurt, but there wasn’t much she could do about that. Besides, pain had almost become familiar to her, it was a part of her life that she couldn’t remember not being there.

  Isabelle felt her knees give way, felt the air whip around her as she collapsed on top of herself in a heap that would never reach the floor.

  Strong arms wrapped around her tightly causing Isabelle to gasp, a shriek of pain expelling involuntarily out of her mouth as her bruised ribs were crushed beneath the pressure. She felt her weight being lifted so that she was standing with the support of what was undoubtedly Desmond. She didn’t need to open her eyes to recognize the scent and feel of him. He’d marked her memory. She could go blind today, at this very moment, and never forget him.

  She couldn’t begin to understand why, but for some reason the thought made her want to cry. She bit her lip to stop the release.

  “Here, let’s get you to the bed,” Desmond murmured into her hair, guiding her slowly.

  Isabelle could do nothing but nod, her head bobbing back and forth on the axis of her neck until she was lying against her pillows on the edge of her bed. “Thank you, Desmond,” she said, his given name caressing her lips.

  He looked at her for a long, hard moment that felt like it was softening, until he stood straight and tall and said in his always-formal tone, “I will send for a doctor immediately.”

  Isabelle’s mouth fell open in surprise.

  Had she really expected more from him? Did she really expect that anything on him would ever be soft?

  She swallowed. Then looking into his eyes, pleading in hers, she said, “Desmond, it’s not necessary.”

  “It most certainly is,” he argued. And even though he had hardened, Isabelle couldn’t keep her heart from fluttering with the knowledge that he cared. Desmond cared. At least, for her well-being.

  “My lord,” Mrs. Long stepped in, “pardon my intrusion, but I agree with the lady. I do not believe that a doctor is necessary.”

  “And I believe it is,” Desmond retorted. “She nearly collapsed. She would have had I not been there to catch her in my arms.”

  “Due to her exhaustion. She has been tending the gardens all day, my lord. She didn’t take a single break. She merely needs rest and refreshment.”

  Desmond looked from the housekeeper to Isabelle doubtfully. “I’ll give you until morning. But if you still are unwell by then, the doctor will be summoned.”

  Isabelle nodded her head in agreement, her heart seizing in her chest.

  She knew what was wrong with her. She knew that he would not marry her if he knew. She knew that he would never forgive her for what she was doing, for what she was about to do.

  She was planning to marry him and pass off another’s child as his own.

  No, he would never forgive her if he knew. Which was why she had to make certain that he didn’t. The doctor could not be summoned. In the morning, she must be well.

  She nodded, closing her eyes to keep the world from bouncing.

  Chapter 20

  Isabelle woke early the next morning, though she forced herself to stay in her room until the sun at least decided to make an appearance. Only then did she go down to breakfast.

  Nausea departed, she finished her plate, and then a slow second. It seemed as though she had been seated at the table for hours, though it couldn’t have been any more than one.

  Desmond, it was unnecessary to say, hadn’t yet come down. Which was precisely why she was waiting.

  He wasn’t a perfect person—far from it. But he had a past she didn’t fully understand, demons she couldn’t even imagine. And though he might be hard and cold and distant, he was all she had. And she didn’t want to spend yet another day alone.

  Even if their shared breakfast consisted of nothing more than basic pleasantries, followed by silence, she wanted the company. That was what she craved, no matter who the company was. It was more preferable that her companion be her husband-to-be. It was slightly less awkward than dining with the servants—for all parties involved.

  She looked to the great behemoth of a clock standing tall at the far end of the room. The hour was not yet eight. Isabelle stood. Her tea had grown cold and she might as well prepare herself a fresh cup to keep up the rouse that she was actually still eating, as though the servants waiting by the sideboard didn’t know how pathetic she was. She had just plucked a fresh cup and saucer and was about to pour herself another cup, when she heard heavy footsteps making their way down the hall.

  She took her place at the table again, but the heavy footsteps continued right past the open door. He continued right past. Isabelle knew because she was smiling demurely at the empty frame in anticipation when she saw him pass with nary a glance in her direction.

  Her smile fell into a frown.

  It was merely a brief picture she’d seen of him, but he wasn’t dressed as himself. What was he wearing? A billowing white shirt and taupe pants held up with suspenders? It was most unusual.

  She made for the door when she heard mumbling down the hall. Scurrying across the room, Isabelle poked her head out of the doorframe to see him engaged with the butler, Mr. Long. And outside the open exterior doors, she could see a hitched wagon prepared.

  He was leaving. Without a breath of warning to her! Leaving her in an unfamiliar house. Again. It was unimaginably rude!

  “My lord,” she called, stepping out into the hall, striding towards the pair. When the butler made his excuses, she querie
d, “Are you going out?”

  It wasn’t prying, she told herself. And she didn’t mean to nag. But she deserved to know why he was leaving her here alone to her own devices.

  “I have some work to attend to on one of my farms,” he explained off-handedly, as though it were of no importance.

  Well, it was important to her.

  “What kind of work?” she asked, adding, “I ask only because I wonder if I might be able to accompany you.”

  She deduced that most bred ladies would choose a day of solitude and rest over physical labor any day, however, Isabelle was finding herself to be no ordinarily bred lady. She couldn’t fathom being alone for much longer without losing her sanity—if she even had any left to lose.

  “I don’t think that would be wise.”

  “Oh, please,” she implored, improperly taking his hands in hers and giving them a squeeze to try to force him to realize just how much she needed this. “I would be of no trouble. I could take a horse with me and return if I feel tired or if I get underfoot. Please, Desmond?”

  His expression didn’t change, and Isabelle hoped beyond hope that behind those hard eyes that were the color of caramel he was considering it. He raised a quizzical brow and asked, “How are you feeling this morning, my lady?”

  It wasn’t the answer she was expecting and, in her shock, she couldn’t help keep her face from slackening slightly. Swallowing, she answered, “Very well, my lord. Much restored.”

  “You overexerted yourself yesterday. Perhaps it would be wiser for you to stay here and rest for the day.”

  “But I don’t want to rest,” Isabelle insisted.

  To which Desmond swiftly responded, “You’ve been through quite an ordeal this last week, and Doctor Hart did say—”

  Isabelle cut off what was surely about to turn into a lecture, with, “Forget what Doctor Hart said. I’m telling you that I am fine. I can walk without pain and my bruises are beginning to subside. I feel well. Please let me come with you.”

  I can walk without pain. Well, it wasn’t entirely a lie. Though her aching hip and sore arm told her otherwise. Luckily for her, Desmond couldn’t see pain that she didn’t show him.

  His caramel eyes nearly liquefied in consideration or, at the very least, she imagined that they did, before he answered. And when he did, she could have sworn that in those eyes was a fire, a fury, a plan. “Fine. But you’ll need to change. And you will not argue if I decide you must return home.”

  Isabelle smiled to herself at her small victory as she rushed up the stairs as fast as her skirts and aching body would allow, changing in record time. She didn’t even wait for Rose to come attend to her before she’d pulled off her dress, feeling several stitches rip in the process. She put on the most worn muslin skirt she could find in the pile of clothing she’d been given and a loose top that would permit her more motion, before she took off out into the hall. It took great restraint to slow herself as she neared the top of the stairs. Every second was of the utmost importance. She couldn’t jeopardize him leaving without her.

  As she approached, all cool and calm demeanor, she tied her bonnet to her head to keep the sun off her pale cheeks. So far north, the late Spring’s heat was not anything close to overwhelming, however, the May sun still posed a problem to her fair skin.

  But Desmond hadn’t left without her. He was waiting, silently, in the hall, staring absently into oblivion, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “Desmond?” she probed, just barely containing herself from fanning a hand in front of his face to check his reflexes.

  Luckily, it wasn’t necessary, as her voice was enough to pull his mind back from wherever it was he had gone. “It will just be a moment,” he explained, his eyes remaining fixed on something across the room. “Cook is preparing a basket.”

  Isabelle’s smile was genuine as she waited by his side. After four days at Hamilton Hall, she was finally getting out of the house. And not just outside the door to the garden; she was going out. And, well, she was excited about that. Though, by Desmond’s grim expression, one would think that they were heading to a funeral. She tried not to allow his disposition to waiver hers, but she couldn’t help letting her smile slip as the silence tore through her.

  Minutes later, when Isabelle was sure she couldn’t stand another second in the agonizing silence, Desmond accepted a basket from a maid and, with a nod, headed for the door. No warning, no “time for us to go.” Nothing. He just walked off. Leaving Isabelle to follow behind like an unwanted stray.

  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. She wanted company—company that wasn’t paid for—but she didn’t want it to be hostile. And why would she think that Desmond would be anything else? It was just the night before last that he’d been practically frothing at the mouth with anger. He didn’t like her, he didn’t want her, and he certainly didn’t want her here. So why was she so determined to have his attention, gain his favor?

  Outside, Isabelle found, instead of a mount, only the wagon was prepared. She walked slowly across the gravel, the rocks grinding together with each step, the gears in her mind grinding the same way.

  The seat was nearly as tall she was, and she was expected to climb into it? It seemed impossible. And how was she supposed to ask Desmond for the assistance? I know I promised to not be a handful or get underfoot, however, I cannot even climb into my seat on my own. She almost rolled her eyes. That was precisely how she’d sound to him. A childish school girl in need of saving. Not a strong, independent woman who could care for herself and make herself valuable; an asset as a wife, not merely a trophy.

  Desmond climbed easily up and took his seat at the reins.

  Isabelle rubbed her lips together, eying the curricle she was approaching far too quickly. She was putting together a mental plan she was sure wouldn’t work and would instead make her look like a fool, when a hand took hers. She had to blink before realizing it was Desmond who had leaned down, grabbing her hand. Wordlessly, he pulled her up until she was sitting next to him.

  The country roads were bumpy and she had to hold on to keep her seat, and hold her mouth closed as her stomach flip-flopped in her belly. Blessedly, they didn’t have to travel very far before they stopped at a small cottage which, by the looks of it, was supposed to be a farm. She stood, trying to decide how to properly lower herself down, when Desmond’s strong hands shocked her to be found about her waist.

  He plucked her down on a shriek of surprise that had her gripping his shoulders, and set her down upon the firm ground once more. She closed her eyes, both in thanks that she was no longer moving or bouncing, and in an attempt to keep the extra breakfast she’d had where it belonged.

  She shouldn’t have eaten that second plate.

  She opened her eyes when she heard voices, female ones, three of them. “My lord,” the three women curtsied in unison.

  “Mrs. Banks, Talia, Esmeralda,” he said, with considerably less curtness than he showed her. “It is lovely to see you all again. I’m happy to see you’re still tending the same land after all these years.”

  “My lord, the pleasure is all ours,” the one Isabelle derived to be Mrs. Banks said. She then looked around Desmond’s shoulder to Isabelle, and asked kindly, “And who is your friend?”

  Isabelle’s eyes widened just barely. She really should have foreseen this happening when they’d stopped, when they’d left the house. Servants were paid not to be curious—not that that ever stopped them, but it did make them far less direct. However, she couldn’t expect the entire world to show the same respect.

  And what could she say? She wasn’t supposed to have a name.

  She moved out from behind Desmond, whose back muscles had all tightened as if being pulled taut by a rope, and said with all the grace she could manage to effect, “Lady Isabelle.” It wasn’t as though she could say nothing.

  “Oh, my lady! It is wonderful to meet you!” Mrs. Banks said, eyeing her and then Desmond with a glint in her eye that Isabelle knew sh
e hadn’t mistaken.

  Isabelle, however, kept her attention firmly on the women before her and didn’t let a stray eye cast its way over to the man at her side.

  The same could not be said about her ears. She heard him very clearly as he said, “Lady Isabelle and I are to be married.” It wasn’t her imagination the degree to which the joviality had dissipated from his tone.

  And the thing of it was that she couldn’t even be stubbornly annoyed by it. She didn’t have a right to be. He’d think she was lying about her name. When really, all she was lying about was her memory.

  “Oh, my lord!” it seemed the three women cried in unison. Then their titters and congratulations all melted into one incoherent mesh that Isabelle could discern not a word of except for their overall joy at the news.

  Isabelle merely smiled and tried to look bashful at all the attention. After all, knowing Desmond’s demeanor, she would have to play the role of the happy fiancé for two.

  Eventually, the silence overtook the assembly, and Lord Thornton filled it with, “I heard that your fence needs mending, Mrs. Banks.”

  “Yes, my lord, it does. The winter was hard on it, I fear.”

  “Well, I shall not see to the repairs being delayed any longer.”

  As he turned around to procure the tools he’d brought with them, Mrs. Banks said, “Oh, my lord, I must not allow you to trouble yourself.” She meant it, Isabelle realized. Unlike so many who pretended to be reticent—pretended to be anything—this woman truly meant what she said.

  It was rather refreshing to be around someone such as her. Though, startling in the same for one who found it all too natural to pretend.