To Wed A Rebel

by Sophie Dash

  Isaac shook his head, for he was unsure if he could believe the man or that Ruth’s so-called friend had been party to the deception the entire time. “So your whole family is rotten to the core?”

  “One has to look after one’s own.”

  It was Isaac’s turn to hold a mocking smile. “How is that working out for you?”

  He did not need the answer. He knew it already, but Griswell supplied one nonetheless.

  “It’s a damn miracle I got Pembroke to make a will. That boy is more stubborn than I thought.” Anger fired up the merchant and made his eyes gleam like haematite. “I cannot pull any funds from him, I cannot garner his interest or influence in my own undertakings. The money he holds is spent on trinkets and waistcoats, on banal, inconsequential items, not increasing his fortune – our fortune. He has no common sense and he’s too pig-headed to understand a good investment when I shove it down his throat.”

  “Then I would say it’s a happy ending all round.” Isaac grinned. “You won’t see a penny from that lout until he’s six feet under and his wife’s a happy widow. But knowing men like him, Albert will long outlast your daughter and then, I suppose, he’ll easily replace her. You will end up with nothing.”

  Griswell’s sneer was satisfaction enough. Forget the money, forget him and all the reminders of a life he was finished with. Isaac left him to it – or would have done, had an offer not reached him.

  “I have another task for you and this one I will pay you handsomely for.”

  Isaac turned on the top stair. “I don’t want anything more to do with men like you.”

  “Men like us,” corrected Griswell, his pointed feet shifting closer. “You are right in what you say about Pembroke. Unless something happens to him, I will never get what I want.”

  Ah.

  The suggestion made Isaac’s blood run cold. “And you want me to be that something?”

  “Do not act like it would be too much of a stretch for you.”

  “I am not a killer.”

  “No, I suppose that would require some grit on your part,” said the merchant. “Instead you will coast by, choosing weakness, blundering your way about and never taking what you want.”

  “As ridiculous as Pembroke is, the man doesn’t deserve to die.”

  “Trust me, he does,” snarled Griswell. “What will it take? How much? Name your price and it will be yours.”

  “No.”

  “The act need not be done tonight and it could appear accidental.”

  “Find another.”

  “We could arrange a little outing, orchestrate a fall – or rather flop – from a great height.”

  “The fat man can barely walk three paces without panting, what makes you think he’d agree to such an activity?”

  “I shall tell him it would please Lottie. He’s at a loss when it comes to women, what to do with them or how to make them happy. When he knows you will be going, he will agree to anything. He would never like to be outdone by your sort.”

  Your sort.

  “We could be very rich men, you and I.” There was a challenge in those eyes, one begging to be met. “What say you, Isaac Roscoe?”

  Chapter Seven

  Ruth

  Lottie’s greeting sent a shiver down Ruth’s spine and brought her back, for a second, to the person she had once been. Lesser, smaller, younger, overwhelmed and filled with self-doubt. She did not even have the presence of Isaac beside her, to remind her of who she had become. There was nothing to keep Ruth steady and anchored, only the aloof Captain Gibson who was another source of anxiety.

  “I had hoped to see you sooner, Ruthie,” the young woman continued, as if no time had passed since they last spoke. As if they were not both different people, as if her father had not bruised and betrayed her. “Alas, being married does so take up one’s time, as I am sure you know. We were wed not long after that night at the opera. It all fell into place, you see.”

  Or Lottie had fallen into Ruth’s place.

  Ruth was quick to remember herself, her hand on her previous dance partner’s arm. “Do let me introduce Captain Gibson.”

  It was a minor delaying tactic, a way to assemble her thoughts into something that resembled order.

  “Oh, so you’re Captain Gibson. I have heard about you,” said Lottie, without missing a beat. “I was staying with Albert’s relatives, well, he’s related to everyone it seems. They mentioned something about that runaway you’re after? Anyway, it’s a terrible inconvenience. I do hope you’ll sort it out soon. I cannot stay late at any parties, because they are so worried about the matter. We have even been pushed into lodging at a dire little inn by the harbour for the night, in case there’s any trouble on the roads.”

  Captain Gibson smiled a wide, uncharacteristic smile that was all teeth. Ruth was used to men fawning over Lottie and this was a repeat of all that had happened before. He, as many had been in the past, was enraptured by her. Ruth had not seen Lottie in two months, had not been able to reset her barriers to the woman and her charms and her pretty features and her butterfly ways.

  And to her shame, Ruth was as much struck dumb as Gibson was.

  Soon to join Lottie with a dour expression was Albert. Since last Ruth had seen him, he had gotten fatter and flabbier, with his clothes pushing at the buttons around his middle. He didn’t talk at first; he only lifted the corner of his mouth, as if he knew he should make some greeting but the effort was too much for him to manage.

  “Father said I shouldn’t talk with you this evening, but I couldn’t help it,” she continued, waffling on, forgetting herself and their company. “Now the whole ball is talking about you. That’s all they can talk about. Apparently you made a big impression at some dance. I don’t know the host’s name – Mars? It is almost as if they don’t know all that happened back in London.” The scandal, the exile, the loneliness. God, Ruth remembered it like it was yesterday, though the pain had dulled. Lottie added, “I do think someone should tell them, don’t you? At least it would put a stop to this nonsense. Anyway, gosh, Ruthie, look at you – look, I – well, you’re certainly still you.”

  Ruth’s stomach felt like it had been wrung dry. “Do you mean to say that your father is here?”

  “There is a problem with a shipment nearby apparently and he decided to drop in,” supplied Albert, waving his meaty hand. “I do not know the details; it’s all so tiring to me. Working for a living is so crude and common. I don’t know why he expects me to take an interest.”

  Ruth felt Isaac’s absence like a void, an empty space beside her, a piece missing. She rustled up a few words, picking them up off the floor. “And you are both well?”

  It was impossible not to stare at Albert. To contemplate all that could have taken place between them. Marriage, servitude, chained to him for ever, another life lived where she was another woman. And yet here was Lottie in her place, but it was not the Lottie she knew, nor the one she had loved. The other woman wasn’t happy; Ruth could tell it by a mere glance. She had known her too long not to notice. It was a mixed feeling, not jealousy – God, no, Ruth would never trade places now – it was a bitter concern. All that had been done to Ruth was not Lottie’s doing, but her father’s, and yet the girl’s link to it still stung.

  Even if it had turned out for the best.

  Ruth had come up the victor, entirely without meaning to.

  One look into Lottie’s eyes told her that she knew it too.

  “I am as well as I can possibly be under the circumstances,” answered Lottie through her small teeth and Ruth could sense all that was unsaid, see it in her subtle movements, a need to confide, to say all the things she thought at night, but could tell no one. That had been their routine, to air all their grievances, to be honest to a fault, buried under bedcovers, their secrets pulled out from their hideaways.

  “Well, it is good to see you again,” said Ruth, breathlessly, half meaning it, half not.

  The music began again. Captain Gibso
n, unaware of any tension, asked Lottie to dance and she gleefully accepted. Anything to get away from her husband. Albert was not one for such activities and the moment his wife was occupied, he left, without even a word to the woman he could have been wed to.

  Ruth was not sorry to see him go. She watched his round form leave and saw nothing there to pull her in, entice her, tempt her. In a time before, she had tried to trick herself, told her he would be better, kinder, braver and all a man should be once they were married. Lies. She had known from the start she would never be happy with him. And the man she’d seen with Lottie was as cruel and unkind and self-absorbed as he had always been.

  What have you done, Lottie?

  The dances continued, twirling couples, humble country tunes, and Ruth declined any man who wished to be her partner. She had never been so popular, never had such offers in the past, and yet the only man she longed for was gone from her sight. She could not see Isaac anywhere, nor that Griswell fellow – that despicable creature – and so her heart thudded a heavy, cynical beat in her chest and the music carried on without her.

  How long had it been since she had seen him? Half an hour? More?

  Lottie was breathless, happy, for once. Captain Gibson was delighted too, having long forgotten why he was in the county altogether. He wasn’t the first to be lured in by the woman – and the pair seemed well-matched. Both fickle, ambitious creatures. They danced again and again, until people began to talk and whispers were overtly spoken. In fact, one angular woman tried to prise a little gossip from Ruth at one point, but she gave nothing away, never would, not about a friend – even an old, absent and cruel one.

  And she wanted Lottie to forget the troubles she had heaped on herself, if only for tonight.

  But where was her own Isaac?

  Ruth swept her skirts up in her hands and moved quietly through the dance floor, with gracious smiles to those few friends she had made. Marshall the clergyman nodded in greeting, Colin even forced a smile as she passed and Lady Mawes beamed with pride. Surprisingly, Ruth felt she belonged here. She had never belonged anywhere before.

  An oily black figure caught her eye. Lottie’s father, Mr Griswell, slunk upstairs towards the administrative spaces that were empty and quiet. Ruth would have moved past him, forgotten him, been repulsed by him, had she not been so wary. That man had ruined her life (or tried to) and why was he here – to ruin someone else’s? She could not let another fall. If she could help, she would. It was what any decent person would do and she had always craved to be that, only that.

  Quiet, cautious, Ruth’s gloved hands smoothed up the bannister as she found the landing. It was deserted, but for Griswell – until she heard another voice. She knew that voice.

  Isaac.

  No, it couldn’t be. He was not this man any more; he was better than this. There had to be a logical, reasonable explanation.

  “You are owed nothing by me,” she heard Griswell way.

  “Your daughter is married to Pembroke, as you always intended her to be.” She should not have been listening. Eavesdroppers never hear what is good for them, but Ruth could not pull herself away. She stood in the doorway, trapped in its shadow, legs locked, not daring to breathe.

  “What of it?”

  “I contained any threat to that union, at a great cost to myself,” said Isaac. “Thanks to you I have a wife I never wanted – a life I never sought.”

  Ruth’s knees almost buckled. It was as though she were falling, though she stood still, as immobile as glass and just as brittle. There was a stone in her throat, lodged there, closing off her breathing until her head was swimming.

  A great cost to myself – a wife I never wanted – a life I never sought.

  Ruth’s own mother’s words came back to torture her, tangled through time, as distorted as the view before her blurry eyes: “Never be a burden, my darling.” Was she that to him? Had Isaac forgotten all he’d done to her, had he forgotten that she’d never had a choice in this? Had he forgotten all they’d done together and what it had meant to her?

  “Yours was always a risky business,” surmised Griswell.

  “And you hired me,” said Isaac, though Ruth was certain she did not want to hear any more. “But you only gave me half the funds agreed to ensure the deed was done…”

  No – no more – no more.

  Isaac had been all she’d never had, all she had been left with, all she had clung to in the storm. That first night they had spent with one another found her, tormented her, reminded her she was a fool – and a tool – to be used by others. And she had let herself be used. My love, he had said, kissing her, holding her, and she’d assumed he’d never said it to another.

  How stupid she was, to ever think he was Home.

  Ruth gripped the bannister, her feet tripping down the stairs. She didn’t want to be seen and she did not want whatever cold comfort those below could offer. With a hand over her eyes, she dashed through the hallway, searching for privacy, needing to be alone. The servants had been darting in and out of a narrow door all evening and she felt a cool breeze come from it and chased it down. A small courtyard welcomed her and Ruth collapsed on the nearest stable crate.

  There was no one to hear her cry and cry she did. It was a minor breakdown, a quiet sob, and it did not last. She would never let it. Self-pity was for other people and she was better than that, more controlled than that. Anger was better, and anger came.

  Kitchen sounds and smells met her from a nearby doorway and there was comfort in that normalcy. Life continued, in one way or another and so would she. But he would never take her in again. It was what he did, wasn’t it? Trick people, use them, and then throw them away. He had not changed and he never would. To think she’d pitied him, almost forgiven him…

  Above, the sky had lost its daytime warmth and it was colder now – a cold that seeped into her bones and sobered her emotions. She’d leave; she’d have to. Weren’t the French always looking for English governesses, for tutors? Lottie had mentioned it a long time ago, about a former student they’d known who’d fled across the Channel. Ruth would sell her new clothes. She’d pull enough funds together to buy passage. She would seek out a new life where no one knew her.

  And it would be far, far away from Isaac Roscoe.

  “Miss?”

  “I am fine,” she choked out, seeing a clean white apron before her.

  “That’s good to hear, miss,” said the servant, who looked over her shoulder to a few other faces from the kitchens. She shot them a severe look and gripped her hands: it was clear she had drawn the short straw of the lot in being forced to approach her. As much as Ruth appreciated the gesture, she wanted none of it.

  “Please, leave me.”

  “Well, I would,” continued the young girl, “But you’re sitting on a box.”

  “And?”

  “We need what’s in the box for tonight, the supper, you know?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Ruth quickly, cheeks colouring with embarrassment. She rose quickly, brushing off her dress, swiping at her eyes though she was nowhere near done with her heartache. “I apologise. Please, do what you must.”

  “You can sit in the kitchen if you want? It’d be more comfortable than squatting on a box.”

  “No, I should go back.” I should leave now, leave for good. “Thank you.”

  “It’s not a proper ball if there’s no tears before the end,” said the girl, lifting the crate with a wiry strength and balancing it on her hip. “You sure you’ll be all right?”

  Ruth nodded with more conviction than she felt. “I shall have to be.”

  ***

  No sooner had Ruth returned to the ball did a scream split the vast room. The noise chilled all the assembled guests, like a storm sweeping in, pressing icy hands under collars. Numerous men and women within the ballroom took the sound to be a hysterical figure, driven to fits by too much wine and excitement. The shrill cry came again, accompanied by further startled noises that caught o
n and spread. The guests were crowding back from the main hallway and there, on the stairs, was a figure splayed out on the red carpet and another over him – no, it wasn’t a carpet – and it should not have been red.

  Ruth gingerly edged through the mass. A curious Lottie had found her way beside Ruth, fingers resting on her elbow as if it were old times at Miss Lamont’s Academy and they were pushing through their peers to find the latest talk, gossip and scandal.

  The scene before Ruth was hard to decipher, as though her mind was unable to make sense of what her eyes were seeing, almost protecting her from what reality offered. Lottie released a gasped cry, a raw, ragged noise. It pulled Ruth’s senses together, a sharp, brutal snap. Albert was lying across the stairs, motionless, head draining over the marble.

  There was too much blood.

  Ruth knew head wounds always bled a lot.

  Everyone knew that.

  But this was far too much blood.

  Albert was not moving and he looked as though he would never move again.

  A man stood over him, sleeves stained crimson. He looked lost and angry – and it was only when he looked up, through dark strands of hair, straight into Ruth’s eyes, that she saw him, knew him, and wished she did not.

  Isaac.

  He was crouching over her almost-had-been husband.

  With blood on his hands.

  Ruth did not hear the first person hiss, “Murderer,” and yet, before long, the whole crowd was teeming with the accusation. No. They had to be wrong; Isaac was not capable of it. They didn’t know him like she did. And then it struck her, an unwelcome seed of a thought: did she really know him? She knew he was strong, capable, at times impulsive and…a liar. He’d lied to her, hadn’t he?

  God, no, it couldn’t be true.

  Ruth did not know what to do or how to act, but Lottie was at her side, unable to walk alone, to see through her tears, shaking uncontrollably. It gave her purpose. The croaks that left Lottie’s mouth were startled, warped sounds, like a frightened animal. Lottie had never been a strong woman and now she crumpled entirely, turning to the only one who’d ever been there to comfort her. Ruth did so now, though her own nerves were shot, her skin had grown pale and her eyes felt as though they had widened too far to ever fit back into her skull.