Isabel: A Regency Romance (Families of Dorset Book 2)

by Martha Keyes

  Hetty's eyes shifted back and forth between him and Isabel, the energy which she had brought with her on entering completely faded. She seemed to understand and then nodded and walked over to Isabel.

  "How I shall miss you, Izzy!" Her hands and bonnet hung awkwardly at her sides until she suddenly threw her arms around Isabel and buried her head in her chest.

  Isabel wore a sad smile as she returned the embrace. "We shall write, of course."

  "I would like that," Hetty said as she pulled away. She put a cupped hand on her rounding belly. "If it is a girl, I shall name her Isabel."

  Isabel's lips pursed, and she brushed away a tear.

  Hetty turned to Charles. "And if it is a boy, I shall name him Charles."

  Charles had been watching the interaction with appreciation, but such a comment caused his jaw to slacken and his eyes to blink in rapid succession.

  Hetty only smiled at his reaction, turned to Isabel with a sigh, and then left the room.

  Watching the interaction between Hetty and Isabel had softened Charles's frustration. Whatever reason Isabel had for keeping her own counsel, he didn't desire to guilt her into telling him. He only wished that those confidences would be given freely.

  Her face looked drawn and tired, and he couldn't help but move toward her.

  "Isabel," he said gently. "I can tell that you are troubled. Can you not relieve whatever burden you carry by sharing it?"

  Isabel looked at him, and her eyes were filled with...what was it? Pain? But she made a valiant attempt at a smile. "You have already relieved a burden, Charles." Her eyes flitted to the door Hetty had gone through.

  "Then surely I can manage a little more?" He reached out toward one of her hands which hung at her side, but as his fingers met hers, she pulled them away, clasping her hands together.

  His stomach lurched, and he dropped his hand. What had he been thinking? She didn't wish to confide in him—why would he assume she would wish for comfort from him? Their entire relationship had grown out of one goal: her desire to avoid a future with him. He was forcing himself on her.

  He took a step back, swallowing, and then manufactured a smile. "Forgive me. I should go help Hetty into the carriage."

  He turned on his heel and left.

  22

  Isabel's eyes stared blankly at the door Charles had gone through. Behind her impassive face, though, her emotions warred.

  Every interaction with Charles became more haunting to her—a reminder of what she wanted but could not have. It made her sorely regret his presence in her house that fateful night and her own naïve offer to help him win back Miss Darling.

  Guilt pinched at her for not being honest with him about her interaction with Mr. Farrow. She hadn't been able to bring herself to tell him what had passed between them at the Park. To do so would have been to draw his ire, to wipe the smile from his face in exchange for the thick, furrowed brows which made him look so intimidating.

  With Hetty gone from Belport Street, though, the only remaining threat from Mr. Farrow was to Isabel, and Charles need not concern himself with that. He was not bound to protect her, after all. And she did not want him to feel duty-bound more than he already did.

  A general and persistent anxiety loomed underneath all her other emotions, ready to temper any happy moments with a reminder of her increasingly-desperate situation. The part of her plan integral to her own happiness was floundering; things seemed to be at an end between Cecilia and Lord Brockway.

  Cecilia's moods reflected the emotional upheaval that it was causing her. She was by turns sullen and lively, though the latter moments had a brittle quality to them.

  It seemed that Cecilia was trying to hide the emotions she labored through by appearing more energetic and animated than ever. Those moments were most often to be observed when she was in company, but Isabel watched with some sympathy as Cecilia's demeanor changed drastically when she thought no one was watching, falling into fits of abstraction.

  Whatever suitors Cecilia had imagined to be both superior to Lord Brockway and ready to make an offer for her, they had proven to be more interested in flirtation than in any more serious courtship.

  But Cecilia would never admit such a thing.

  Without the prospect of a brilliant marriage for Cecilia, Isabel had to face a difficult reality: her future was in her father's hands. She had little hope that he would show any more mercy to her now than he had previously.

  If anything, he would be furious at her dishonesty besides being even more set on the marriage than ever, having accustomed himself to the idea. To take that away from him would be to rob him of something he had come to think as rightfully his. He would not sit quietly; he would exert all the pressure he could manage onto Isabel and Charles to force them to marry.

  Isabel shuddered as she thought of such a confrontation between Charles and her father. She knew that Charles would honor his word in such a scenario, and that it would mean throwing away the future with Miss Darling which seemed now to be at his fingertips—it would make him a martyr.

  Isabel thought she could face anything if it meant avoiding that.

  She could throw herself on the mercy of her father, hoping for the minute probability that he would understand. She had to at least try.

  She raised up her shoulders with a large breath and then exhaled, moving with determination toward the door. From Paxton she learned that her father had asked for the carriage to be pulled around so that he could visit Brooks’s, but that he could currently be found in the book room. Isabel hesitated a moment. It might be wiser to wait to speak with her father until he had returned from Brooks’s. She had no idea, though, when that might be. Some days, he stayed there until dawn. She couldn't wait that long.

  She knocked lightly on the book room door, feeling her heart beat rapidly in her chest, and stepped into the room.

  Her father looked up from his desk chair as he placed a stack of papers into one of the drawers.

  "Ah, Isabel,” he said, standing up and smiling at her. "I have been meaning to have a word with you.” He placed a stack of papers in a drawer and then looked back toward her. “Even if you and Galbraith wish to put off the wedding—though why a dead woman should have anything to say about such a thing, I don't understand—I believe it will be better for us to make all the arrangements we can now."

  Isabel hesitated before taking a slow step forward and placing a hand on a nearby chair back. "What sort of arrangements do you mean?"

  Her father put his hands and fingers together, looking down at a paper on the desk and straightening it with one hand before clasping his hands back together. "Oh, only the usual things: when to have the banns read, settlement talks—nothing you need worry your head over. Galbraith and I can arrange the details. But perhaps you and your mother can begin making preparations for the dinner party where the engagement will be announced."

  Isabel took her lips between her teeth. This was not a promising start to the conversation. But it was a conversation that must be had. "Father." She stood behind the armchair, feeling more confident with its mass standing between her and him. "I'm afraid that such a discussion with Charles would be a waste of time."

  "Don't be silly, Izzy," he said with a chuckle. "These things must be discussed at some point.” He waved a hand. “But I should not have even said anything. It is not a matter for women to worry their heads over—leave it to us." He reached for his hat and cane. He was obviously under the impression that the conversation was over.

  Isabel’s grip tightened on the leather chair back. "Please don't make me marry him, Father."

  His head snapped up. "Eh?"

  She clasped her hands together in front of her chest, looking at him in the eye. "I know it is a great wish of yours to see us married, but please—" she shook her clasped hands in a pleading gesture "—it is not what Mr. Galbraith or I want. It would be to consign us both to a state of misery and—"

  "Stop." Spit flew from the corner of Mr. Cos
grove's mouth, and his face was mottled red and white. "Ungrateful jade." His voice shook. "You had no prospects of marriage until I arranged this extremely providential union for you, and you dare to ask me to undo it all? To agree to your living out the remainder of your life hanging upon my sleeve?"

  Isabel's nostrils flared. She should have anticipated that he would react by making her out to be a thankless child. He could never face his own selfishness, always casting blame upon those around him.

  Her voice was quiet and calm when she spoke, staring down at her splayed fingers. "A providential union? Providential for whom, Father? Not for Mr. Galbraith. And though it must seem strange to you, I can assure you that it is not providential for me."

  "Listen to me," her father said, grabbing her arm with a white-knuckled hand. "You will marry Galbraith as agreed or you will be a stranger to this family—unrecognized and unwelcome."

  Isabel stared forward, not meeting her father's hard stare. “Like Aunt Eliza?”

  He slapped her across the cheek. Her eyes stung, and her cheek burned.

  “You dare speak her name in front of me?” he spat. “Take her as evidence that I speak truth when I tell you that you must do as I say.”

  She swallowed and nodded once.

  Her father thrust her arm from him and stormed from the room.

  Isabel clasped and unclasped her hands, sitting on the cool wood pew and feeling the rector's gaze on her. She had come in hopes of gleaning wisdom from him and calming her anxious and confused mind and heart. She needed reassurance that she had chosen the right path, even if it meant dishonor and disownment for herself.

  "And Mr. Galbraith does not know that things are at an end between your sister and Lord Brockway? Or that you face being disowned if he does marry Miss Darling?" he asked.

  Isabel didn't look up, only shaking her head. She repressed a desire to squirm under the rector's gaze. She had not set out to willfully deceive Charles, but it had become impossible to avoid. What was worse? Withholding information from him or taking away a future of joy?

  "Does Mr. Galbraith have any idea of your feelings?" the rector asked gently. He sat in the pew in front of her, his body turned and his arm resting on the back of the bench.

  "He must," Isabel cried softly. "I have tried to conceal the truth, but I believe I have done an ill job of it."

  "Ah," said Mr. Safford, nodding his head. "Therein lies the problem, child." He took the Bible from his lap and handed it to her, nodding toward it. "Open it. The eighth chapter of the Gospel of John, verse 32."

  Isabel looked at him with skepticism in her eyes but obediently opened the book and searched for the New Testament.

  "What does it say?" Mr. Safford asked.

  Isabel put a finger on the page of Chapter 8, searching the verses until she came to the right one. She read aloud, “‘And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.'" She looked up at Mr. Safford with incredulity on her face. "You think I should tell him?"

  Mr. Safford smiled at her expression and nodded.

  What he was saying was not at all what she had come to hear. She had come for reassurance from him that she was doing right. Seeking the happiness of others was more important than her own happiness, wasn't it? She stared at the page, her stomach knotting.

  The verse was wrong. If Charles knew the truth, it wouldn't set him free. It would bind him. It would take away the happiness he was so close to. His sense of duty would demand that he sacrifice himself for it—sacrifice himself to save Isabel from the future she faced if she didn't marry him.

  She closed the Bible with a snap and jumped in her seat, surprised by the violence with which she had shut it. She sent an apologetic glance at Mr. Safford before saying, "The truth is impossible."

  "It is not," he said. "What if the truth changed things?"

  "It would change everything," she argued. "But it would not be a change for the better. Do you not see? For Charles to know the truth would mean one of two things: rejecting me for the life he truly desires or, much worse, making a martyr of himself to save me. I may be in pain right now, but to tell the truth would only add to my pain and to his. That cannot be right, surely?" She let out a large breath. "What I want cannot be. It is as simple as that."

  "How can you be so certain of that?"

  Isabel laughed harshly. "Quite easily. The first time we spoke alone, I asked Charles if he still wished to marry Miss Darling, despite their falling out. He confirmed that he did indeed wish it; that his feelings for her remained unchanged. Everything we have done since then has been a result of his desire to marry Miss Darling."

  "Or," said Mr. Safford with raised brows, "perhaps things are not now as they were then. Why not be sure? It might be as simple as asking the same question you asked him before."

  Isabel clenched her teeth. There was nothing simple about asking if he still wished to marry Miss Darling. To be sure, it was easier than confessing everything to Charles, putting herself undeniably open to rejection, risking the weight of obligation that the truth would crush him with.

  "The alternative," continued the rector, "is to spend the rest of your life wondering what would have happened if you hadn't concealed the truth; wondering if you made the right decision. You have to live with the results of this situation every bit as much as does Mr. Galbraith. It will affect you in much more drastic ways than it will affect him. I do not think that a desirable path for you, child."

  She stared down at the Bible in her hands, turning it so that the gold letters on the cover caught the light and gleamed. Would she wonder for the rest of her life? There had been moments with Charles when she had questioned what he felt for her, whether there was something more than common regard or friendship. But what did it matter when both Charles and she worked toward a common goal: reuniting him and Miss Darling? Would he not have told her if his desire to marry Julia had changed?

  But he had never communicated anything like that to Isabel; those moments could not have meant what she wished for them to mean.

  "I will just say a final word before I leave you to your own reflections," the rector said. "I applaud you for your desire to bring happiness to those around you, no matter the cost. I have never doubted your warm heart, child, and I think God is pleased by your desires. But is your happiness less to God than is the happiness of Mr. Galbraith? Or of Miss Robson or Miss Darling? I don't believe so. Perhaps your heart is troubled in part because you have not allowed its full expression and honesty. Your conscience urges you to rectify that.

  "So, tell the truth to Mr. Galbraith, difficult as it may be. Tell him of your regard, for love is never wasted—it begs to be expressed. God made us thus. I cannot promise that the truth will lead to the outcome your heart now desires. But I believe that it will ease some of the burden you are carrying and will allow you to move forward with confidence. Have faith in God, put your trust in Him that the truth will set you free in the way that He sees fit to free you. He works in mysterious ways."

  He set his hand over hers with a gentle squeeze and then stood, leaving her to her thoughts which were every bit as muddled as when she had first arrived at the church.

  What the rector said made some sense. Why was it better to sacrifice her own happiness in favor of Charles's happiness? And was it truly right to deprive him of the truth in doing so?

  Whatever the case, Mr. Safford had given her permission to tell Charles of Mr. Farrow's desperate situation. He had received no response to the letter he had sent his nephew and had determined he would wait one more day before taking action with the will.

  Isabel felt relieved that she could at least share that much with him, though it would very likely remove any doubt at all from the question of Charles's future with Miss Darling. With Mr. Farrow removed as competition, there was only one plausible path for Miss Darling: marriage to Charles.

  Isabel stared at the east window. She held powerful information, and for a moment, she considered keeping it to herself; letting
the chips fall as they may between Charles and Miss Darling without any further meddling from herself. She shut her eyelids for a moment then shook her head and lowered it to look at her clasped hands. She couldn't do that. Her conscience wouldn't allow it.

  But perhaps it was the last thing she did need do. Armed with the information about Mr. Farrow, Charles had everything he required from Isabel. She could confidently leave things in his hands with no further obligation to punish herself by spending more time in his presence, by strengthening a regard which was not returned.

  She straightened suddenly. Knowing what needed to be done, she felt an urgent need to act. There was no reason to wait, to postpone the inevitable. With Lord Brockway's newfound love and with things as good as arranged between Charles and Miss Darling, her future was essentially decided. She would no longer be at home. She would have to decide upon a way to support herself.

  She smiled wryly as she thought of the position Hetty had nearly sought as lady's maid and how desirable such a situation might seem to Isabel in a week's time.

  Most urgently, she would need a place to live—a roof over her head and food in her stomach. Her father's temper was volatile enough that he might well expel her from the house as soon as he discovered that she had no intention of marrying Charles, even if he intended to try to force the issue upon Charles himself. It was best to be ready with a plan.

  Mary Holledge came to mind only to be dismissed quickly. Once it was known that Isabel had been disowned, she could hardly take refuge within society. Her marriage prospects wouldn't improve upon such a thing becoming known, as it inevitably would be. Nor did she wish to bring problems to the Holledge family by her presence. She would have to look elsewhere for refuge.

  Aside from her brother Tobias, who was undoubtedly off kicking up larks with his friends, all of Isabel’s relations were in town for the Season. Except one.

  Isabel traced the letters on the Bible with her forefinger. The last time she had seen Aunt Eliza, Isabel had been a young girl. For years, Aunt Eliza had been the favorite aunt and a regular face among the Cosgroves. Isabel's memories of her were fond ones—picking daffodils together in the early spring, conspiring with her and Cecilia to neglect their needlework in favor of adventuring outdoors, teaching tricks to the dog.