Time After Time

by Elizabeth Boyce

  She took a turn around the room while she stroked the cat’s graying fur.

  “Wouldn’t the bed look nice in something bolder?” she asked Miss Bigglesworth. “Sapphire and silver brocade, perhaps.” She sighed and turned. “And the mantel,” she tsked. It would be improved with the multitude of girlish knickknacks cleared away and replaced by a few beautiful, well-chosen pieces. “A crystal vase would be becoming against the dark wood,” she murmured, touching the left end of the mantel. “A miniature or two in silver frames here, and perhaps a potted plant … ”

  Isabelle sucked in her breath; her fingers clutched at Miss Bigglesworth’s fur. The cat yowled in protest before Isabelle relaxed her grip. You ninny, she chastised herself. She’d been mentally redecorating her room to look like the master bedchamber at Hamhurst, the one she had shared with Marshall.

  Seeing him at the inn had done her no good. She’d been fine before he turned up in the dining room at the George. Now she kept remembering the stolen hour they’d spent together.

  She’d awoken in the darkest, coldest part of the night, shivering and hungry for his touch. The flame he’d rekindled deep in her belly flared hotly every time she thought about it. It was distracting beyond all reckoning. Just a hint of kissing was dragging up other memories she would do well to forget, like the bed they’d shared as a married couple.

  Miss Bigglesworth squirmed in her arms. “You’re right,” Isabelle muttered, bending at the waist to release her onto the carpet. “I am the most pathetic woman ever born.”

  Isabelle turned her attention to getting herself ready for supper. She had no lady’s maid, and Alexander obviously hadn’t thought of assigning one of the house maids to act as such, since her trunk still sat untouched at the foot of the bed where the footmen had deposited it.

  She retrieved a lavender muslin frock that wasn’t too badly wrinkled. Isabelle put it on and tied her hair back with a ribbon. It still wasn’t time to go down to the parlor, so she spent the remaining time before supper hanging the few other simple dresses she’d brought along. The ice blue gown she’d repaired received special attention. That one, she hung with plenty of room around it so the skirt would not be crushed. Isabelle had no reason to suppose she’d need a fine gown again in the foreseeable future, but she couldn’t bear to allow that dress to be ruined.

  Satisfied with her work, she descended to the parlor. The door stood open to the room they’d always called the French Parlor. Their mother had decorated the room with furnishings from her own girlhood home in the Loire Valley so that it resembled the interior of a Provincial cottage more than an English parlor. The walls, Isabelle had always thought, were the exact shades of sunshine, an airy yellow striped with a richer, golden tone. A rustic, round table stood in front of a large window overlooking the back gardens, with an enameled milk jug serving as a centerpiece. A stout wooden chair, painted white with a cornflower blue cushion, stood near the fireplace. A low sofa in white and blue and two upholstered chairs completed the seating area.

  On a low table between the chairs was a miniature of Isabelle’s mother. She picked up the small portrait and touched her finger to the face of the woman she could scarcely remember. Her father said this was a good likeness, but Isabelle had almost no memory of her own of her mother’s face.

  “Hello, little sister.”

  Isabelle turned, hugging the miniature to her chest. Alexander stood at the threshold, his broad shoulders nearly filling the doorframe. At over six feet tall, he had always truly been Isabelle’s big brother. Of everyone in her acquaintance, only Marshall matched him in stature. Looking into Alexander’s face was like looking at an older, masculine version of herself. He had the same golden hair and green eyes. Their father sometimes said their mother must have sprouted them both all by herself, for all the contribution he made to their coloring.

  “Hello, big brother,” she said tentatively. His expression was unreadable. She still did not know whether he was welcoming her home or banishing her forever.

  He took three strides to cross the room to where she stood.

  For a moment, he only stood and looked down at her. Then he plucked the miniature from Isabelle’s hands and turned it over in his own palms, looking down at the woman who had given them both life, and died along with their sibling. Isabelle folded her hands at her waist, waiting.

  “You’re the very image of her,” he said quietly.

  Unaccountably, a lump formed in Isabelle’s throat. “Really?” she managed. She knew well enough that she had similar coloring, but no one had ever told her she looked like the beautiful woman in the painting.

  Her brother nodded. “The portraits don’t show the resemblance as well,” he declared with a wave of his hand. “But your expressions, the way you hold yourself, it’s extraordinarily similar.”

  “Thank you,” Isabelle whispered, her throat tight with emotion.

  Alexander returned the miniature to its place and guided her to the table.

  The meal passed in companionable conversation. Alexander did a remarkable job, she noticed, of keeping their exchanges on polite matters: the weather, the state of the estate’s tenants, how their neighbors fared.

  When the meal ended, Isabelle started to rise, intending to allow her brother time to enjoy his after supper drink. Alexander waved her back down.

  “Don’t be silly, Isa,” he said, smiling in his lopsided way. “I’m not going to send you off while I have a glass of port all by myself.”

  “I’ll call for tea, then,” she ventured.

  “No.” Alexander reached for the bottle the footman had placed on the table a short time ago. “Have a drink with me.”

  Isabelle blinked. “Oh. Certainly.” She felt a little thrill as he poured a glass for her, as though she were partaking in some forbidden pagan sacrament, something beyond the province of her feminine world.

  She took a sip of the beverage. As much as it looked like wine, it tasted very different. Her eyes widened at the unexpected strength of it, and then her tongue curled against the sweetness of the port. After a few sips, however, when the stress of the day’s trials began to melt away, she understood why a man might want to take such a drink after supper.

  A glass later, she and Alexander were laughing over stories from their childhoods. He told her about things that happened around the estate, stories of picnics with their parents, of being caught out at some mischief. Something inside Isabelle grasped onto the stories and cried out, Yes, I was there, although most of what Alexander related happened before she was born. The stories gave her a sense of connection to her past, yet also emphasized the emptiness she felt about her own family memories. She had none to speak of. By the time she was old enough to actively participate in family events, her mother was dead, her father despondent, and Alexander was away at school. Isabelle envied her brother the experiences he had with their parents.

  Alexander refilled each of their glasses. “So,” he said carefully, “what’s this I hear about you cooking at an inn?”

  Isabelle’s eyes shot to his face. How had he found out? His mouth was set in a firm line. This was, she realized, the reason he’d brought her home.

  Her stomach roiled sourly around the port. “Who told you?” she asked, sounding much like the guilty school girl she felt like.

  “I had a letter from Monthwaite.” Alexander leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs out to the side, crossing them at the ankle. “He gave me quite a nicely phrased dressing down.”

  Isabelle rotated her glass in circles, unable to meet her brother’s eyes. How dare Marshall interject himself? Alexander probably thought she’d put him up to it.

  “He was right, of course,” Alexander said. “I shouldn’t have cut you off. It was impulsive. I was angry.”

  Isabelle ventured a glance at him. He was staring at his own glass. “Wh
y?”

  He breathed a single, mirthless laugh. “I asked for a lady’s hand and she rejected me.”

  She wrapped her arms around her middle, trying to quail the sinking feeling. Somehow, she had something to do with his rejection. She could tell it by his tone. “Why?” she whispered, fearing his answer.

  Alexander looked at her and said gently, “On the grounds that no respectable woman wants a divorcée for a sister-in-law.”

  Was it possible for a person to feel any more wretched than Isabelle did at that moment? She buried her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry, Alex. If there was any way I could fix it — ”

  “There is.”

  She lifted her face.

  “You have to marry again,” Alexander said. He took a long pull at his drink.

  Isabelle’s eyes widened.

  He raised a hand. “Not to put too fine a point on it, little sister, but you are frankly ruining my chances at making a good match for myself. The lady I courted was a baron’s daughter, and she was not, I believe, without regard for me.”

  “Of course not,” Isabelle said in a mollifying tone. “You’re a wonderful man. Any woman with a bit of sense — ”

  “Would marry as best she can,” Alexander interjected, his eyebrows raised. “A landowner of only modest means, with no title, a smallish estate, and a divorced sister does not exactly bowl the ladies over with awe.”

  “I see,” Isabelle said miserably.

  “There is little I can do,” Alexander continued, “about my fortune, at present. I’ve made improvements to the estate that I hope will prove profitable, as well as some investments, but it may be a few years before I see a return.” He put his hands behind his head and looked toward the ceiling. “There is nothing I can do about the fact that I have no title. The chances of the Crown bestowing a title upon a perfectly unremarkable farmer are nonexistent.”

  “That’s true,” Isabelle said, “but Alex — ”

  “The only thing within my control,” Alexander said, lowering his gaze to regard her, his eyes hard, “is the fact that I have a divorced sister. I can either pack you off to a convent, Isa, or see you married.”

  “We aren’t Catholic,” she said petulantly.

  “No, but Mama was.”

  “She converted!”

  He waved a hand. “Don’t drive the conversation off course. Mama’s Catholicism doesn’t signify.”

  “But you can’t send me to a convent.”

  “You’re tempting me.” Alexander jabbed a finger at her glass of port. “Drink that,” he ordered. “I don’t like having this conversation with you quite so sober.”

  She gave him an exaggerated nod, then took a sip of her drink. “Forgive me for highlighting the logical flaws in your scheme to disown me,” she said.

  “I don’t want to disown you, Isa,” Alex said hotly. “What I want is to eradicate your divorced status. And the only way to accomplish that is for you to remarry.” He pulled his legs in and leaned toward her, resting his elbow on the table. “Don’t you want to marry?”

  Of course she did. Well, not really. She exhaled loudly. Still, she wanted children, and to achieve that goal in a respectable fashion, she needed a husband.

  Once again, she remembered herself in Marshall’s arms at the George and squirmed uncomfortably against the heat that sprang to life. No matter how she’d like to share more of such intimacy with him, she was instead going to have to share it with someone else. The thought brought a bitter taste to her mouth. “Yes,” she said in a flat tone, “I should like that very much.”

  “Good.” Alexander nodded. “I’m glad we’re in agreement.” He cleared his throat. “Now, Isa, you know I’m not one to preach; however, you must realize that you cannot go on now as you have before.”

  She furrowed her brows. “What do you mean?”

  He cut his eyes to the left and cleared his throat again. “The reason Monthwaite divorced you.”

  Hot shame shot through her. “Alex!” she cried. “Tell me you do not believe that! I have told you repeatedly, Justin and I did nothing wrong.”

  “I don’t know what to believe.” He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. The light from the candles on the nearby sideboard flickered across his features. “At this point, the truth doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters,” Isabelle protested passionately, nearly quivering with her desire to be understood. “It matters very much to me that my brother thinks I’m an adulteress, when I’m not!”

  “You were divorced for adultery, whether you committed it or not. To the world, you are an adulteress, Isa, and that’s just the way of it.”

  It was true. Society had branded her with a stigma, and there was nothing she could do to rid herself of it. Denying impropriety had never gotten her anything for her trouble but a dry throat.

  “You’re not going to have scads of suitors,” Alexander continued. “You’ll be lucky to have any choice whatsoever.”

  Isabelle’s tongue recoiled in her mouth at his words, as though being forced to swallow a particularly bitter medicine.

  “I mean for you to find a husband this Season.”

  “This Season?” Isabelle asked, bewildered. “The Season is almost underway!”

  “There is plenty of time for you to get to town and attend all the balls and routs you’d like.”

  Isabelle remembered the pitiful collection of clothing she’d brought home in her trunk. “Alex,” she said, mortified to confess her lack of wardrobe, “I sold my good dresses when I moved to the cottage. I haven’t had any new ones in years now.”

  His green eyes were piercingly clear in the light. “I cannot outfit you like Monthwaite did.”

  Her cheeks burned. “I never suggested you should!”

  “You shall have new things, of course. I’ve already written to the Bachmans. You’re to stay with them in town.”

  Isabelle’s heart lightened at the prospect of spending the Season with Lily and her family, but something else bothered her. “Are you not coming?”

  He nodded. “I’ll be down in a few weeks to conduct some business, but there’s no point in looking for a wife until I’ve made you respectable again.”

  “Oh,” she said in a small voice. “I see. That makes sense.” She remembered Iverson’s despair at her brother’s unmarried state. What would he say if he knew Isabelle was the reason Alexander couldn’t find a good wife and start filling his nursery? She lifted her glass and threw the rest of her port back with one swallow. “I’m going to bed.”

  Alexander rose. “It’s good to see you again, little sister.” He kissed her on the cheek.

  Hardly believing that, Isabelle smiled weakly and started to the door.

  “One more thing.”

  Isabelle turned at his voice.

  “You’ll accept the first respectable man who offers for you, Isa. You might not get another chance.”

  Chapter Five

  Marshall sat behind his desk in the study of his house on Grosvenor Square, going over the acquisition list sent to him by the captain of the Adamanthea, the ship he’d hired for his South American expedition. His plans were coming together more quickly and easily than he would have imagined. At the last meeting of the Royal Society, he’d announced his intention to get such an expedition underway. Several members offered financial backing, and others had given him the names of men who could make valuable contributions to such an endeavor: artists to sketch the plant life they encountered, guides, local contacts, and someone with a ship to let for just such a mission.

  His mother swept through the study door after a quick knock, dressed in an elegant, rich brown court dress over a green petticoat. She wore a three-stranded necklace of diamonds and emeralds, each successive strand longer than the previous. The requisite plumes
erupting from behind her coif gave her the appearance of a rather severe duck.

  Marshall smothered the smile tugging at his mouth and smoothed a hand down his black waistcoat. He stepped out from behind his desk to press a kiss to her cheek. “You look lovely, Mother.”

  “Thank you, dear.” Her lips curled up in a pinched smile. “But it will be a relief to change into something more comfortable for the ball.”

  Thinking of the elaborate pains women went to in preparation for a ball, Marshall could not imagine regarding a ball gown as more comfortable, but the stays and hoops involved in his mother’s court dress looked downright torturous.

  “Naomi is all in a dither about being presented,” Caro said, “and her maid is as nervous as she. I should be helping her get ready. Why did you want to see me?”

  Direct as ever, Marshall thought. Since returning from his tour of the estates, he’d been pondering how best to approach the subject of Isabelle’s accusation. At first, Marshall thought not to mention it at all. What good could come of implicating his own mother in the demise of his marriage? Then he remembered the point of Naomi’s come out and the dozens of new gowns he’d bought for her first Season: marriage. He did not expect — nor even desire — his sister to select a husband her first year out, but it might happen. And in the event of such a scenario, he wanted to have this discussion with his mother in the open and out of the way. If there was anything Marshall could do to ensure his sister a happier fate in her own marriage, he would do it.

  “I wanted to talk to you about something that happened while I was away last month,” Marshall said. “Do you care to sit?” He gestured to the chair in front of his desk.

  “In this monstrosity?” Caro swept her hands over her wide, hooped skirts. “You cannot be serious. The coach will be trial enough.”

  Marshall nodded. “As you say.” He leaned on the edge of the desk and crossed his arms.

  “Do not behave in that casual fashion,” Caro scolded. “You’ll make a mess of your coat.”