Isabelle sat up in bed, exasperated with herself and her unquiet mind. There was nothing to be gained by lying awake all night, pulled first one way, then another by the tug of war between her eager anticipation and her dread of the morrow. She fumbled for a match and lit the oil lamp on the bedside table, turning it down low. Its yellow light poured over the damask bed hangings, warming their rich red to the color of glowing coals.
Isabelle jiggled the curtain beside her. The shadows within its deep folds undulated softly. In the interplay between dark and light, she imagined flames bursting forth all around her, wrapping her in their searing heat as they licked up toward the canopy.
She had coaxed the story from Nellie, how the master of the house nearly burned alive in his bed, pulled from the flames by a brave and selfless servant who died for his efforts. Will’s father.
Isabelle finally acknowledged the uselessness of fighting her insomnia and threw the covers aside. Lack of sleep encouraged morbid thoughts. She feared that dwelling on the tragedy might cause her to view Mr. Nashe with pity and thus to act accordingly. Though she hardly knew the man, she didn’t need to be told that he would not tolerate her pity.
Isabelle slid off the bed and padded across the carpet in her bare feet. When she reached the enormous wardrobe, she opened it and peered inside, but the bedside lamp did not shed enough light from that distance for her to see the contents. She reached in and patted through her clothing like a blind person until she found the thin woolen coat hanging beside her dresses.
The coat would have to serve as a dressing gown. She had left hers at home for Jenny, whose own had fallen apart after years of use. And beside, it little mattered what she wore. There was no one about at this hour to see her. She eased her arms into the coat and buttoned it top to bottom. After fetching the lamp, Isabelle left her room with a sense of purpose.
Since her arrival, she had stayed in those parts of the house where she had reason to be—her room, the kitchen, the parlor. No one had offered to show her around and, out of reticence, she had not asked. Too many unspoken rules constrained her employer’s household staff. Until she acquired a better understanding of them, she meant to avoid calling undue notice to herself.
Though she hadn’t explored the house, she had often passed by the library, and had seen enough to know it housed an impressively large collection. In all that vast number of books, Mr. Nashe was certain to have the particular one she was seeking.
Isabelle entered quietly, easing the door closed behind her, not quite shutting it. Holding the lamp at shoulder height, she looked around the room. A massive wooden desk dominated one end of the library, flanked by two wooden stands. One held a world globe, its circumference as large as a carriage wheel; the other, a lectern fashioned from a single column of wood, supported an oversized tome at least a foot thick.
Isabelle set the lamp on the desk, where it would cast light on the lectern, then walked around and carefully opened the book. She peeled aside the thin pages until she found the most likely place to begin her search, starting at the top and trailing her finger down the column, bending forward in the dim light to peer at the fine print.
Not knowing how to spell the word, she took several minutes to find it. And then, there it was, a word Mr. Nashe had tossed off lightly, one she had never heard before.
“A.man.u.en.sis.” She whispered the syllables under her breath, trying the feel of them inside her mouth. “One employed to write from dictation. A slave with secretarial duties.”
Isabelle smiled to herself. A slave. Mr. Nashe had made a clever play on words. Rather than laughing at her ignorance, he had assumed she understood, attributing to her a knowledge she didn’t possess.
“Do you make a habit of nocturnal study, Miss Tate?”
Isabelle started, slamming the dictionary shut with a solid thump. She looked up to see Mr. Nashe crossing the room toward her.
“Sir, I’m sorry.” She was already edging away from the lectern. “I didn’t mean to trespass where I don’t belong, forgive me, I’ll leave right away, I—”
He cut her off, his rasping voice lower and rougher than usual. “You are answering a question I never asked.”
“Oh.” She flushed. Her coat suddenly felt heavy and much too warm. Beneath it, a bead of sweat trickled down between her breasts. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Neither could I.” He was standing directly in front of her now, nodding toward the lectern. “Do you find the dictionary an effective cure for insomnia?”
Isabelle shook her head slowly, mortified that he might have guessed her purpose. He seemed unaware of her consternation, turning his head to direct his gaze across the shelves of books. “And I am trying to avoid the only cure I’ve ever found.”
The way he mumbled the words left Isabelle uncertain whether he expected her to answer. She wished she could read his eyes, but they were lost in the deep shadow beneath his mask.
He turned his attention on her once again, pointedly looking down at her bare feet. “You must be freezing.” He gestured her nearer. “Here. At least come stand on the carpet.”
Uncomfortable at coming any nearer to him, she hesitated, then immediately realized her mistake. But it was too late, he had already taken offense.
“Am I the reason for your sleeplessness?” When she failed to move nearer, he closed the distance between them. “Do you have nightmares about this mask? About what lies beneath it?”
“No, sir—no, of course not. Not at all.”
He backed away. “Methinks thou doth protest too much.”
His quaint phrasing distressed her nearly as much as the intent of his words. She hated the feeling that he was talking over her head, making allusions she couldn’t understand.
“Sir, if I told you the reason for my sleeplessness, I fear you would think me utterly foolish.” Although such a possibility was to be preferred over allowing him to believe that she was disturbed by his appearance. “Or worse, you would think me wicked,” she added, immediately regretting her words.
“Now I am intrigued.” He inclined his head to one side. “Tell me what troubles you.”
Because Mr. Nashe was her superior, Isabelle at first assumed he was giving her a command. And perhaps he was. But it was given with a tone of benign interest apparent despite his damaged throat. Her ear was growing accustomed to his rough voice; she was beginning to discern its gentler notes. And yet she hesitated, not so much from fear of his displeasure as the fear that he would think her ridiculous. Isabelle took a deep breath and silently prayed that would not be the case.
“I want to fit in here. For the others to think well of me. But . . . ” She lowered her eyes, unable to meet his gaze.
“But?”
He asked so gently, she was able to look at him again. She stared into the deep shadows where his eyes were meant to be, hoping they held as much kindness as his voice.
“You see . . . ” She bit her lower lip, then caught herself at it and made an effort to compose her features. “You see, I’ve run out of excuses for declining their offers to attend church services.”
He stared at her, making no reply. The absence of expression and of gesture, of any clues to his reaction, unnerved her.
“It’s as I feared, you think me wicked.”
“Wicked?” He laughed. “Are you a heretic?”
“No.” She shook her head, then added uncertainly, “I don’t think so.”
“A non believer, then?”
“No.”
“I cannot guess. What is your reason for avoiding your sacred duty?”
Irony filled his question, and scorn as well, though Isabelle decided it wasn’t directed at her. For the first time, she began to hope he might actually understand, and this emboldened her to express her true feelings.
“The sermons are always about how we have sinned. Damnation is preached, not Christian charity.” The memories returned, along with her anger, and she added bitterly, “I have suffered enough condemna
tion. Why should I seek more?”
Mr. Nashe bowed his head, once more staring at her feet, and again, Isabelle grew uncomfortably warm beneath her coat. An eternity passed before he raised his head to look at her. When he aimed his dark eyes directly at hers, Isabelle had the distinct impression he was smiling beneath his mask.
“You are quite right,” he said, then lapsed into silence, lowering his gaze to stare at her feet once more.
Isabelle said nothing, tongue tied by her growing embarrassment. Her bare feet were scandalous, she knew, but the way he kept staring at them was lewd.
He jerked his head up, as if she’d spoken her thoughts aloud. “It occurs to me that I have some urgent correspondence that must be seen to tomorrow morning.”
He sounded very much like the master commanding his servant. It took a moment before she realized the full import of his words.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Why should you thank a taskmaster who requires you to work on the Sabbath?”
His tone was cold as ice. Combined with his rough voice, the result produced a strange stirring in the pit of Isabelle’s stomach. She tried again to thank him, to let him know she understood his kindness.
“But you’re not—”
He cut her off. “I should think you would be vociferous in your complaints to the others.”
“How can I thank . . . ?” She didn’t finish. He was staring at her feet again.
“I’ll expect you at ten o’clock.” He turned abruptly and strode toward the door, then stopped just before leaving the room. “Miss Tate?”
He spoke with his back to her.
“Yes, sir?”
“Feel free to make use of the library whenever you like.”
Chapter Nineteen
Isabelle stood at the parlor window watching Will scramble onto the driver’s seat beside Roger. As the carriage pulled away to take Mr. Nashe’s household staff to their Sunday worship, she held up her hand to wave good bye. Nellie saw her and waved back. Cook leaned across the seat and said something to Joe. He nodded, and they both looked toward the parlor, disapproval written on their faces.
Their disapproval was not meant for her, Isabelle knew. It was directed toward Mr. Nashe, just as he must have known it would be when he allowed her to use him as her excuse. And though the guilt was all hers, the others would believe her an unfortunate victim of their employer’s lack of consideration.
Nothing could be farther from the truth. Mr. Nashe had shown her an unexpected kindness, all the more surprising because she hadn’t asked it of him.
She wondered whether he stood at the second floor window that very moment, watching the carriage on its way toward the village. More to the point, would he make an appearance to lend further credence to their deception?
“Good morning, Miss Tate.”
Isabelle hadn’t expected Mr. Nashe to risk arriving before the others were out of sight. She turned to greet him, smiling broadly, words of thanks already forming on her lips.
He halted his approach abruptly, staggering back a step as though he’d collided against an invisible wall. Isabelle’s smile faded.
“Sir? Is something the matter?” Her first thought was that he must be having an attack of some sort. That he might need medical attention. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
He shook his head, putting out a hand to signal her to come no nearer, his gesture so stiff and awkward that Isabelle felt her own muscles tense in response. When she retreated a step, Mr. Nashe dropped his hand but otherwise stood motionless, staring at her with those unreadable eyes of his. Their intensity sent prickles of fear along her flesh. Or perhaps not fear. The feeling puzzled her more than Mr. Nashe’s odd behavior.
The continued silence grew increasingly uncomfortable, but she stood as motionless as he, her wits paralyzed. Neither of them, it seemed, knew how to extricate themselves from a situation that had begun as merely awkward and was now growing more embarrassing with each passing moment.
Outside the window, a songbird trilled cheerfully. They both turned toward the sound eagerly, the way a captive might react to an unexpected rescuer.
Mr. Nashe was first to seize the opportunity offered by the distraction. He inclined his head toward the window. “Lovely day.”
His harsh voice contradicted the intent of his words. Isabelle laughed at the incongruity, then realized with horror that he couldn’t help being offended. Her nervous laughter sounded dangerously close to ridicule, and he would no doubt interpret it as such. Isabelle spoke quickly to cover her rudeness, giving little thought to what she was saying.
“We should go for a walk.”
The words hung between them, irretrievable now that she had spoken them. Her brashness astonished her. She bowed her head, wishing there was a way to withdraw her invitation.
“A walk?” he repeated incredulously.
Isabelle forced herself to meet his gaze.
She had been wrong, thinking his eyes were unreadable. The fear and longing she now saw there made her own embarrassment seem trivial by comparison. How profoundly sad that someone could feel such ardent desire to escape confinement, yet never venture out in the light of day for fear of being seen.
What at first had seemed like a terrible mistake began to appear to be a very good idea indeed. Mr. Nashe had done her a favor. Coaxing him outside could very well be the best way to repay his kindness.
“It’s much too fine a day to spend indoors,” she went on persuasively, adding when he didn’t respond, “No one else is here.”
He started to shake his head, but she persisted, prefacing her final argument with a sly smile. “I shouldn’t wish to distress you by wandering about unaccompanied.”
She watched him closely, expecting him to put her in her place, or to take offense at her boldness and storm from the room. Instead, he drew a deep breath, then let it out in a soft huff of laughter.
“You have me there,” he said, with a slight shrug.
Isabelle pretended to construe this admission as his assent. “Let me fetch my hat,” she said breathlessly. “I’ll meet you at the front entrance.”
Isabelle hurried from the room before he took the opportunity to correct her pretended misunderstanding. She felt his eyes and knew he must be gaping after her in stunned amazement.
And why not? She had amazed herself.
* * *
Jonathan waited in the open doorway, staring past the shaded portico with unseeing eyes. He had read of cases in the medical journals, soldiers who returned from the war in a state of permanent shock, in their minds still living with the sounds of the battlefield ringing in their ears. Cannoneers, especially, had suffered, deafened by the blast of the giant guns, stunned to muteness by their force.
Her smile had affected him the same way. When she turned it on him, the suddenness, the force of it had knocked him back like a cannon ball to his gut. He never expected such a greeting, so warm, so unforced, its meaning undeniable. She had been glad to see him. Him, for God’s sake. The monster.
Even now, he trembled at the thought.
“Thank you for waiting, Mr. Nashe.”
He turned as she came up beside him. Unable to trust his own voice, he bowed, then stepped aside to let her pass before following her into the sunshine.
Not an inch of flesh was exposed anywhere on his body, yet he felt the sun pouring over him, washing him in its light as completely as if he had been naked. He tilted his head back and let the heat warm his mask and, beneath the mask, the sentient half of his face and throat.
“This way, sir. There is something I’d like to show you.”
He heard her directing him, though she might have been a hundred miles removed. He followed her, a mindless slave to the distraction of his senses. They passed the rose garden—thank God. He would have balked at entering his mother’s sanctuary with her. Or with anyone, for that matter.
“Where are you taking me, Miss Tate?”
His voice had neve
r sounded like his own since the fire, but he had accommodated himself to its strangeness and rarely gave it a thought. Today, however, he heard his words emerge as rough approximations of what he wished them to be, their surface abraded and deformed as they passed through his damaged throat.
“Indoors, again.” She gestured toward their destination and then, of course, he saw what he should have guessed from the path they were following.
“The stables.”
By the time they entered the building, he welcomed the shade. After years spent living behind the thick stone walls of the mansion, sheltered from the sun by heavily curtained windows, rarely leaving—and then only under cover of darkness—he had come to resemble a nocturnal creature. The sunlight dazzled his vision. It was beginning to overwhelm him.
Inside, the rich aroma of oiled leather, hay and horseflesh assailed his olfactory sense. Their mingled odors penetrated his mask and evoked a rush of memories that nearly brought him to his knees. Half his life fell away, and he was a boy again.
“William?” Miss Tate asked, and he realized he’d spoken the name aloud. He turned his head aside and cleared his throat to feign a reason for his lapsed speech.
“William,” he repeated, then remembered Miss Tate couldn’t know of whom he spoke. “Will’s father. He always saddled my horse for me.”
Jonathan ran the backs of his gloved fingers down a length of bridle hanging from a wall hook. He let his hand drop, then stood as if in a trance, considering the brass and leather tack the way one might muse over a fine painting.
“He made me work as well,” he continued after a long pause, still staring at the bridle. “Taught me to muck the stalls. When I complained, he said even the king of England would do well to know how to care for his own horse.”
He glanced at Miss Tate, meaning to look away quickly, but she held his gaze with those disturbing, all knowing eyes of hers. He wondered whether she saw how deeply his memories had affected him, and he forced a laugh, pretending not to mind.
“I could never resist flaunting my superior knowledge by reminding him that England had a queen, not a king, and I was more than certain that she never messed about in horse muck.”
A Bed of Thorns and Roses Page 12