The feeling made little sense, considering her surroundings. The roses’ naked limbs stood starkly bare, hardly a sight to cause one to linger. Yet the promise of their future beauty made her yearn to see the garden in its full glory. But that was weeks away.
Isabelle left the way she had come, through the opening in the yew hedge which was the only access to the rose garden. She followed the gravel path in the direction of the stables, curious to see if the horses were housed in the same luxury as the humans who lived in the mansion.
“Hullo, Miss Iz,” Will called out when she entered the barn. Though to name it a barn was like saying the Palace of Versailles was a cottage.
Will reached over to pet the horse inside the stall one last time before clambering down from the gate. Watching him skip toward her, Isabelle smiled. Like the exaggerated grins clowns drew on their faces, his was so wide it seemed to precede him, giving him an air of innocent gaiety that bordered on hilarity. The untamed tuft of hair at his crown bounced with his every step, adding to the effect.
“I’m in charge here while Roger’s gone,” he announced proudly when he arrived before her.
“Oh?” She hadn’t heard Roger drive off. At the very least, he always took the one horse dogcart when he went into the village. It was enough of a distance that he rarely made the trip without carrying back supplies for the household. “Where did he go?”
“He be off practicing his name.”
Will adopted a serious demeanor, as though the grave importance of Roger’s undertaking should be apparent. Had he said that Roger meant to take up the practice of medicine or law, he couldn’t have stated the fact with greater earnestness.
“I don’t understand, Will.” Although telling him so did little good. She rarely understood the half of what Will said.
“Oh, it be so, Miss, ’cause he went off with Nellie.”
Isabelle shook her head. His explanation made even less sense.
“Don’t you get it?”
Will pressed the tip of his index finger to his temple, as if she were slow to understand. Isabelle wondered if he had seen the same gesture used behind his back. Or, more’s the pity, to his face.
“No, I don’t get it.”
Will shook his head, his expression full of disbelief at her lack of comprehension. “It’s like Cook always says to Joe when Roger and Nellie is gone.”
Will put his hands on his hips and cocked his head disapprovingly, mimicking Cook so wickedly that Isabelle laughed in spite of herself.
“Joe, she says,” Will continued, spurred on by her amusement, “he be off Rogerin’ that pore girl.”
“Oh!” Isabelle clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing again though, truth be told, she was as much shocked as amused. Will grinned, looking even more pleased with himself.
Considering Will’s look of proud accomplishment, Isabelle realized he needed to be discouraged from sharing this choice bit of information with anyone else. She could just imagine him blurting it out in church. “Can that be our secret?”
“A secret, Miss Iz?”
“You know.” Isabelle bent closer, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Something just the two of us share. Something you won’t tell anyone else.”
He looked at the ground and thought hard, frowning. After awhile he looked back up at her and broke into a grin that could have powered one of Mr. Edison’s electrical bulbs. “Sure enough!”
With that settled, Isabelle thought it was probably a good idea to change the subject. “I was hoping you would show me around your stables, Will.”
“Sure enough!” He grinned even wider and, taking her by the hand, began dragging her along, nearly dislocating her shoulder in his eagerness. They stopped in front of a stall that housed a magnificent stallion. The horse sauntered up to the gate, tossed its head in curious expectation, then whinnied a greeting that caused Will to laugh in delight.
“My!” Isabelle backed away. “He has such big teeth.”
Not to be outdone, Will turned toward her and bared his own teeth. “This be Mr. Nashe’s horse,” the boy announced, then added proudly, “My Pa helped birth him.”
“Indeed?”
Isabelle tried to hide her fear of the animal, but couldn’t bring herself to come any closer. Will dug inside his pocket and pulled out an apple, which the horse deftly plucked from his outstretched palm. Isabelle watched the animal’s jaw working as its huge molars ground the apple into pulp.
Something about what Will had said made Isabelle wonder. “Will, did you mean Mr. Nashe rides this horse?”
Will spun around to face her. “No ’um, not any more. Not since, you know.”
“Not since when?”
Will pointed to his temple, indicating the stupidity of her question. Coming from anyone else, the gesture would have been an insult.
“Since the fire, Miss Iz. Don’t you know nothin’?”
No, Isabelle thought, apparently she didn’t.
A bright string of whistled notes called out from the other end of the barn. Will bounded off in the direction of the sound, calling back over his shoulder, “It’s Roger!”
Isabelle moved toward the center of the building, just in time to catch sight of Roger placing a brief though vigorous kiss on Nellie’s lips, hugging her to him so her generous breasts pressed against his chest.
Isabelle felt her cheeks burn at the memory of the secret she shared with Will. Shame added its own heat, shame at the sudden jealousy that took her by surprise. She couldn’t help wondering how it must feel to trust a man enough to share such affection with him.
Nellie saw her then and, breaking away from Roger, started to run toward her. Isabelle hurried forward, meeting Nellie halfway, her heart pounding with expectation. Even before Nellie opened her mouth, Isabelle knew what she would say.
“I have word from Mr. Nashe for you.” Nellie grinned at her.
“What?” Isabelle asked, aware that the rosy glow that suffused Nellie’s complexion had more to do with her previous exertions than the short run across the barn.
Nellie reached in her skirt pocket and produced an envelope. She handed it to Isabelle, who studied the embossed monogram on the vellum flap.
“Open it,” Nellie urged.
Isabelle turned the envelope over and stared at its blank surface. “There’s no writing. It isn’t addressed to me.”
“He spoke to me through the door and said it was for you.”
Gathering her courage, Isabelle slipped her finger beneath the flap. The seal broke easily. She drew out the sheet of paper and unfolded it with shaking hands. Writing scrawled across the page, the ink so thick in places that it pooled in large blobs. Isabelle stared at it, biting her lower lip.
“I can’t read it,” she said, looking up at Nellie.
“Let me see.” Nellie came around to peer over her shoulder. Roger joined them, resting his hands on Nellie’s waist as he stood behind her.
Nellie pointed to a spot on the page. “It looks like a number to me. Four—four o’clock.”
“And that?” Isabelle indicated the next set of markings.
Roger leaned over Nellie’s shoulder as the three of them studied the writing. “P,” he said. “Definitely a P.”
“Parlor!” Nellie tapped at the word with her finger. “Four o’clock in the parlor.”
No longer able to tolerate the lack of attention, Will began to dance around them, singing. “Four o’clock in the PAR lor. Four o’clock in the PAR lor.”
“Hush, lad,” Roger scolded. Will’s mouth immediately snapped shut.
“He means the downstairs parlor,” Nellie said, stepping around to rest a hand on Isabelle’s arm. “Not the upstairs. We’re not allowed upstairs, only me, and that just to take him his tray and leave.”
Isabelle refolded the sheet of paper. She tried to slip it back into the envelope, but her hand shook so badly, she gave up the effort. “Do you think he means to let me go?”
“No, Miss.” Nel
lie patted Isabelle’s arm. “I think the letter is a good sign.”
“Nellie’s right. If he meant to let you go, he wouldn’t have put himself to the trouble.” Roger nodded toward the letter. “It may not look like much, but I’d wager those chicken scratches took him a fair amount of time.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Nellie grinned at Roger, then at Isabelle. “And I’d wager he needs a secretary. A man can’t write any better than that needs a secretary.”
“I hope you’re right, Nellie,” Isabelle murmured. “I sincerely hope you’re right.”
Chapter Eleven
Isabelle fretted the rest of the afternoon about her meeting with Mr. Nashe. She worried about the precise time she should arrive, which of her dresses to wear, whether he would find her appearance too shabby.
These were trivialities, to be sure, but infinitely preferable to dwelling on more relevant concerns. The same nagging questions occurred to her time and again, undermining her already meager confidence. Would she be up to the task? Would her mediocre education prove sufficient? Would her employer consider her socially unfit?
The backdrop to these concerns was the one she rarely articulated to herself, and never to others. It shrouded her in a dark cloud of apprehension, saturating the atmosphere around her until the very air she breathed seemed tainted with it. Hers was a vague, all encompassing fear, this fear of men. All men, especially those in a position to claim authority over her.
At ten minutes to four Isabelle left her room and made her way to the parlor. The door was closed, and she hesitated, wondering whether to walk straight in. Deciding it was better to err on the side of caution, she knocked softly. When there was no response, she opened the door slowly, expecting at any moment to be upbraided for her temerity.
She needn’t have worried. She was alone.
It took a while for her vision to adjust to the dim light. All the drapes were drawn, save for one window where they had been left partially open. Light filtered through the lace curtain beneath, illuminating a delicate French writing desk that held an inkpot, a stack of writing paper, and several pens.
Isabelle crossed the room and seated herself at the desk, facing the door where she had entered. She sat up straight, making a conscious effort to compose her features into a credible semblance of calm. If Mr. Nashe guessed that anxiety had nearly incapacitated her, he might wonder whether her lack of confidence stemmed from incompetence.
She prayed it did not.
The parlor was a modest size, almost intimate as compared to the other rooms in the house. There was a single fireplace, swept clean, that looked as though it had not seen a fire in years. On the mantelpiece above, a large ormolu clock ticked loudly, like water dripping from a tap, one hollow note for every two beats of her heart.
The sound of the ticking clock filled the room, seeming to grow louder with each passing second—although the time didn’t pass so much as accumulate, like sand in an hourglass. She could feel it pouring down on her, slowly burying her alive.
Her nerves were getting the better of her. She took measured breaths, trying to slow her racing heart, reminding herself that she did this for Jenny. She did this so her sister might have a better life.
A door opened behind her, then closed again. Isabelle turned in her chair to see. She hadn’t known that another door led into the parlor, but saw now that it was hidden by a tall tri fold screen painted with elaborate rococo swirls and flourishes. There was movement behind the screen, as of someone seating himself in a chair, followed by utter silence.
“Sir?” she asked, half rising from her chair.
“Please stay seated.” He spoke from behind the screen, his voice low and slightly rough, like someone with a bad sore throat.
“Miss . . . ” He hesitated, as though searching his memory. “Tate, is it not?”
“Yes, sir.” She sank onto her chair once more, holding onto the desk with both hands to steady herself.
“I would like you to take a letter.”
She heard the disembodied words, but they sounded far away, as if they came from the bottom of a deep, deep well. And rising up from the darkness below, a different voice, one she tried to push away.
“Where are you?” That wasn’t the question she meant to ask. A weight pressed against her chest, making it hard to breathe. Hard to think.
“Well?”
She no longer knew if that was his voice or the other’s.
“This arrangement is for your own good.”
Good. Good girls. Good girls don’t hide.
“Don’t hide.” She recognized her own voice, repeating the words from her nightmare.
“ . . . my own concern.”
What had he just said?
In trouble. Now. You’re in trouble now.
Isabelle pushed up from her seat and staggered back, bracing herself against the chair to keep from falling. She had temporarily lost the sense of her own physical presence. The need to catch herself brought her back to the reality of the moment.
“Forgive me, sir. I’m not feeling well.”
“No?” He sounded concerned, but made no effort on her behalf. When she failed to reply, he added, “Why don’t you pour yourself a drink from the sideboard?”
His offer came as casually as if theirs was a social visit, an easy informality between friends. Isabelle looked around the room and saw a sideboard against the wall opposite her desk. It was intricately decorated in the Italian style with a marquetry design of inlaid veneer and mother of pearl. It struck her as odd, why she was considering such details when she barely knew where she was or what she was doing.
What was she doing? It came to her—of course, she had just been asked a question, one that required an answer. “Thank you, I will.”
She started across the room, focused on reaching the sideboard the way someone lost in a desert staggers toward a distant oasis. The sand shifted beneath her feet with a softly undulating motion as the monster hidden beneath the surface stirred itself. Born of her own dark, unreasoning panic, the creature waited, patient, ready to suck her into its gaping maw.
With no memory of how she had arrived, Isabelle found herself staring blankly at the heavy crystal decanters clustered near one end of the sideboard. They wore silver collars engraved with the names of their contents: brandy, whiskey, sherry. Moving as in a dream, she pulled the glass stopper from the decanter of sherry and poured some of the amber liquid into a small, delicately stemmed glass etched with a design of trailing grape leaves. Her hands trembled almost uncontrollably. In spite of her calculated movements, the stopper rattled against the neck of the decanter when she replaced it.
Holding the glass with both hands, Isabelle took a cautious sip. The dry, nutty flavor blossomed on her tongue, burning slightly as she swallowed. She told herself the wine would help. The black panic triggered by the voice behind the screen was the residue of a horror now eight, almost nine years past. This voice did not resemble the one in her nightmares. She took another sip, then walked unsteadily back toward the desk, carrying the glass of sherry with her.
“Are you recovered, Miss Tate?”
She had convinced herself that she’d regained control until his question broke her tenuous hold on rationality. Hearing his voice again, she sank onto the nearest available support, a loveseat unfortunately situated with its back to the screen. Isabelle downed the remaining contents of her glass. Then, in a desperate attempt to be rid of her unreasoning panic, she threw the glass to the floor. The delicate crystal shattered.
Its bright sound drew an exclamation from behind the screen, followed by a low question asked with forced calm. “What happened?”
Isabelle ignored the question, instead bending forward to retrieve a triangular remnant of glass from the floor. Holding it with her right hand, she aimed the sharp point at the fleshy pad of her left thumb, stabbed through the skin, and gouged a deep crimson line down to her wrist.
She cried out in pain, even as she marveled
at how right it felt to cut into her flesh. The throbbing pain propelled her out of the nightmare past and anchored her firmly in the present. She held her arm away from her, transfixed by the sight of her cupped hand filling with blood.
A chair crashed to the floor. The sound seemed distant. Everything seemed so, except the pain and blood. Then someone was standing beside her. She saw his trousered legs out of the corner of her eye, but she couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t look away from the sight of her self mutilation.
“Christ!”
The cushion beside her sank beneath his weight. A gloved hand cradled hers. Another gloved hand produced a white linen square and pressed it against her cut. The cloth slowly turned red as it absorbed her blood.
He curved her fingers against the linen square, encouraging her to apply pressure to the wound. She stared at her fist, noticing his wrist below it, the thin sliver of flesh that showed between his white shirt cuff and brown moleskin glove. When he tried to pull away, she brought her uninjured hand down on his and held him there.
“You must let me leave. I’ll call the maid.”
His voice reminded her that the hands belonged to the man sitting beside her. She turned toward him, wanting to include him in the new reality she was piecing together from the remains of her previous one, which had shattered along with the wineglass.
She gasped, a sharp intake of air that might have become a scream had her breath not caught in her throat. She thought for a moment she was back in the nightmare. He had no face, this man, just a fabric mask with two dark circles cut out for eyes.
Yet after she recovered from her initial surprise, she was strangely unafraid. Frowning, Isabelle leaned forward and peered into the dark circles, then said the first thing that came to mind. “You have the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen.”
She said this with great wonder, because she had seen her own eyes in the mirror.
The man beside her had turned to stone. The only thing about him that seemed alive was the mask, which moved when he spoke.
A Bed of Thorns and Roses Page 7