He shrugged, lifting one shoulder indifferently, the way he sometimes did. Their conversation had taken an unfortunate turn. Isabelle searched for a means to lighten Mr. Nashe’s mood. Remembering his enjoyment of their previous philosophical debate, she decided to pursue a different direction.
“You believe in absolute truth. Do you also believe in absolute beauty?”
“That depends,” he answered carefully, “on what one means by beauty.”
“You held me to account when I expressed a similar opinion concerning truth.”
He turned sideways in his seat to face her. Though he tucked his long legs beneath the bench, the move brought his knees forward so they touched her skirt. As he seemed unaware of this intimacy, Isabelle could not bring herself to fault him for it. In fact, she surprised herself by leaning toward him, until she felt the slight pressure of his knee through the folds of her skirt.
“Burke defined beauty as a quality,” he was saying, “one which acts in a purely mechanical manner on the human mind through the intermediary of the senses. I would postulate, therefore, that, as each human mind is unique, so too must the perception of beauty be unique to each individual.”
Isabelle thought of a line from a romantic novel that had affected her deeply when she first read it. “Mr. Burke is saying, then, that beauty is in the eye of the beholder?”
Mr. Nashe made a soft sound in his throat which Isabelle took for laughter. “More or less.”
He seemed in danger of abandoning their discussion. Isabelle tried to think of a question, a challenge to keep him interested. “What of these statues?”
“What of them?”
She gestured the length of the hedge opposite them. “The ones still covered. Are they beautiful only when we see them? What of a blind man? Is he incapable of knowing beauty?”
“There are other senses than that of sight.”
Isabelle looked at Mr. Nashe’s mask and considered what lay beneath it. She considered the knot of shame that lay deep inside her like a slow growing tumor. If it were possible to cover ugliness, or to bury it, then could not the same be true of beauty?
“Is there a beauty not apparent to the senses?” she asked. “A hidden beauty?” Perhaps in hiding their shame from one another, they also hid that which was beautiful.
“A beauty of spirit,” Mr. Nashe murmured. He lifted his hand as if he might touch her cheek, then withdrew it the same instant, letting it fall heavily onto his lap.
“Yes,” Isabelle agreed. Then she nodded, uncertain whether she’d spoken the word aloud.
Mr. Nashe seemed about to speak. Everything grew still, as if the whole world held its breath in anticipation. The air around them was heavy, charged with an energy that prickled the hair along Isabelle’s arms.
Then a stunning white light surrounded them, a flash of such sudden intensity that it seemed to suck the very air from the sky. A loud crack followed, bursting from the earth not ten feet away. Isabelle cried out and jumped to her feet. As sudden as the thunderclap, a drenching rain began to fall.
Mr. Nashe bowed his head, burying his face against his arm to protect his mask. He pointed with his clawed hand and called out against his sleeve. “The folly.”
Isabelle didn’t hesitate. She lifted her already sodden skirt with both hands and took off at a full run.
The tall weeds bent beneath the weight of the downpour, exposing patches of bare earth that were quickly churned into mud by the pelting rain. Isabelle stepped in more than one of these puddles, up to her ankles. Her shoes were already ruined, but worse than muddy shoes was the possibility of slipping and ending up covered in mud from head to toe.
She was concentrating so thoroughly on where to place her feet, that she came to a surprised halt when she reached the steps leading up to the folly. Mr. Nashe ran past her and up the steps, tracking muddy footprints across the dry floor of the fake temple. Isabelle didn’t mind his lack of gallantry. She could imagine he must be terrified of the rain soaking through his mask to reveal the scars beneath.
Already wet to the skin, Isabelle stood on the bottom step and held her feet out one at a time to allow the rain to wash the mud from her shoes. Then she mounted the steps, leaving wet footprints next to Mr. Nashe’s muddy ones.
Apparently follies were meant to be sparsely furnished. A wide stone bench sat at the center of this one, and nothing more. She dropped onto it with a sodden squelch of her skirts, then glanced over her shoulder. Mr. Nashe stood behind her at the edge of the folly, as far removed as was possible without leaving the shelter. His back was turned, and his hands were lifted to his face as he prodded at his mask in an effort to assure himself that it still served its purpose.
Isabelle looked away. Watching him felt like the worst violation of his privacy. She thought he would rather stand before her as naked as one of the marble gods than to reveal the scars he took such trouble to conceal.
She turned to face the garden. As she did so, water trapped in the brim of her bonnet dumped onto her lap. Like the rest of her apparel, her bonnet was soaked through. She tugged at the ribbons beneath her chin, undoing the knot with some difficulty before she could pull the bonnet off her head and let it fall to the floor.
Several of her hairpins came with it, and the tight chignon she had so carefully fashioned that morning collapsed. A long strand of hair tumbled onto her bodice and, looking down at it, Isabelle realized with horror that the thin cotton of her blouse had molded itself to her like a second skin. Not only that, the light colored fabric had turned transparent, leaving her as scantily clad as Aphrodite. Her nipples, hardened with cold, strained against her bodice. She was as brazenly exposed as a prostitute.
Behind her, Mr. Nashe’s footsteps sounded against the stone floor, coming nearer. Isabelle threw her arms across her breasts and hunched over, hugging herself to hide her shame. She thought to pretend a chill, but a skill for acting was not required after all. The temperature had fallen, and, wet through, she began to shiver in earnest.
Mr. Nashe came around to the front of the bench and stood next to her. She sensed his movement out of the corner of her eye, but didn’t dare look up. The back of her bodice was no doubt as revealing as the front. She felt his eyes on her and wanted to scream for him to look away. She had sworn she would never again let a man see her naked. She would rather die.
Isabelle tensed when the weight settled gently onto her shoulders. Warmth covered her back and upper arms. She breathed in a clean scent of citrus and pine carried by the warmth that lingered inside the jacket, a warmth that stirred her own when she realized its source was his body. Mr. Nashe had covered her with his own frock coat.
She turned when he sat beside her, ready to thank him. Before she could do so, he grasped the lapels of the coat and snugged it tighter around her. The gesture left her mute, robbed of speech by the power of a sudden memory. Her own mother had done the same, years ago, so long ago that Isabelle had forgotten the face that looked down at her then.
She may have forgotten the face, but the love that accompanied the deed sprang to life full blown, raised from dormancy by the warmth of this man’s jacket, and the tenderness of his touch. A man who, like her mother, had no face.
Tears of gratitude filled her eyes, tears he couldn’t possibly understand, because she didn’t have the words to explain. Behind the mask, his eyes darkened with concern. At that moment, Isabelle hated the mask as she had never done before. It robbed her of judging his feelings. Like the years had robbed her of her mother’s memory, it stole away her knowledge of him.
She didn’t need to see his face to recognize the hurt clouding his eyes. The mask drew inward. He was taking a breath, ready to speak, and she knew she had to stop him before he apologized or, worse, covered his hurt with anger.
“Just then, I remembered. My mother. She used to do the same.”
He looked at her such a long time that Isabelle began to wonder whether he had heard. Or if he might be trying to work out the m
eaning of her incoherent speech.
After a time, he shrugged, the one shoulder lift that expressed his ambiguity. “Memories,” he said, and left it at that.
Isabelle noticed then that he had not worn a waistcoat under his jacket. Dressed in the light, albeit dry, shirt, he looked thin, thinner than she’d imagined.
“You must be cold,” she said, stating the obvious as an indirect means of thanking him for his chivalry.
He shook his head. “My wool suit repelled the rain better than . . . ” He finished the thought with a tactful gesture, too courteous to actually mention the embarrassing condition of her clothing.
“Thank you.” At last, she had finally succeeded in saying what should have been the first words from her lips.
“Besides,” he continued, “I suffer more from heat than cold.” Isabelle thought he tried to laugh, but the sound stuck in his throat. “Scars are all that remain of my sweat glands. I don’t have the ability to regulate the surface temperature of my upper torso.”
He stated the fact with a clinical detachment that belied the embarrassment Isabelle detected beneath his words. She realized how insensitive she had been to his plight. All along she’d thought his problem a matter of appearance, nothing more. Other than the obvious affliction of his hand, she hadn’t considered the physical discomfort he was forced to endure. What else, in her ignorance, had she ignored? It was a question she couldn’t bring herself to ask him directly.
“Let me.” She lifted her hand, indicating the back of his head, where the bottom tie of his mask had come undone. “Let me tie this where it’s come loose.”
She hesitated, expecting him to pull away. Instead, he turned his head to the side to allow her to perform the task.
A strand of dark hair lay curled against his collar, freed by the loose tie. Isabelle tucked it beneath the mask, trying to do so discreetly, without exposing his scars. She understood that such exposure would be the same for him as when she was forced to stand, alone and naked, ogled by a man she couldn’t see. A coward hiding behind a screen.
She finished knotting the tie, then ran her finger one last time over the wayward curl, which refused to remain tucked from sight. Truth be told, she wanted to touch his hair, this small part of him that appeared as normal as any man’s.
“There,” she said, leaning back. “One good turn deserves another.”
He turned to face her once more, stopping unnaturally in the middle of the movement, as rigid as one of the marble statues in the sculpture garden. Too late, Isabelle realized that the jacket had fallen open when she lifted her arms to tie his mask. She quickly pulled it closed, but he had seen. He had seen.
As soon as she covered herself, Mr. Nashe relaxed, behaving as though nothing had happened. Isabelle counted this charade to his credit and tried her best to act the same, as if nothing had happened.
He nodded toward the garden. “The rain has stopped.”
The rainstorm had been as short lived as it was violent. The clouds parted to reveal an azure sky. Scattered across the garden, small pockets of mist steamed from the ground as the sun burned away the moisture.
“Look.” Mr. Nashe pointed. “A rainbow.”
“Oh,” Isabelle said, stretching the vowel until she nearly sang it. “I’ve never seen one so beautiful.”
“Nor I,” Mr. Nashe murmured. “Not for many years.”
They sat in companionable silence, admiring the sight. “My point is proven,” Isabelle said, turning to Mr. Nashe. “What better argument for absolute beauty than this rainbow?”
“There are others,” he answered cryptically. His eyes narrowed behind the mask. “Arguments, that is.”
“It should be proof enough for those in possession of their sight.” Isabelle resumed her study of the rainbow, which had begun to fade. “I pity those who are not.”
“So do I.”
Mr. Nashe uttered the words as though he drew each one out at the expense of great pain. Isabelle glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, then quickly looked away. He was staring at her pointedly. She flushed, feeling the heat spread throughout her body.
“Miss Tate,” he whispered. “Isabelle.”
Hearing him whisper her Christian name sent prickles down her spine. She had always disliked her given name. Izz abelle. It sounded like a buzzing bee. But he gave her name the French pronunciation. Ee sa bel. She liked the soft sibilant sound of her name when he said it.
“La belle,” he said. “Do you know the meaning of your name?”
She shook her head.
“Beautiful. Belle is French for beautiful.”
“Oh dear.” She could never live up to her name. The thought made her want to cry. “Please, sir.”
“But you are beautiful. It mystifies me that you don’t seem to believe that fact.”
“My mirror tells me otherwise every day of my life.”
“Then accept that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and my eyes tell me you are beautiful.”
“Oh Mr. Nashe.” She leaned away from him, not knowing what to say. No one had ever called her beautiful.
“Forgive me, I have distressed you, and I would not.”
He stood, stepping back. Putting distance between them, Isabelle thought. Perhaps already he regretted his words. She stifled an impulse to brush the hair from her face. It must look frightful.
“I don’t have a pocket watch, but we’ve been here some time. The others will be returning soon.”
“Of course.”
Isabelle got to her feet, understanding his urgency. Feeling it herself. He spent his life avoiding the eyes of others. If they were to arrive before he was safely inside, in the privacy of his own rooms, she might never coax him out of doors again.
“They always gather in the kitchen. If we cross the garden and enter through the back, we should escape their notice.”
He allowed her to lead the way, falling as silent as he had when they began their walk. It seemed to Isabelle that whenever they found a degree of ease in one another’s company, something would invariably happen to upset the equilibrium. She felt as if she were riding one of those cycling machines with the single, enormous wheel, the ones that required the operator to sit perched at a ridiculous height. She couldn’t imagine ever learning to navigate one any more than she could learn to maintain her balance with Mr. Nashe. She was always tipping dangerously to one side or another. And it was so very far to fall.
* * *
“Oh, Lord, what a storm. Roger did right to bring us home early.” Cook already had her apron on over her Sunday best and was putting the finishing touches to their lunch. “Nellie, fetch some onions from the root cellar, dear. I think I’ll add them to the gravy.”
“I’m already out the door.”
“And try to find where Will has got to. I swear, that boy can disappear into thin air just when you need him most.”
Nellie headed for the root cellar, not liking the thought of entering the narrow door that led into the dark cave where they kept their winter vegetables. Not in her Sunday best. If she could find Will, she’d make the boy do it. He didn’t have any Sunday best, for the simple fact that he could ruin a set of clothes before he even put them on.
She didn’t have far to look for Will. He was standing atop the grass covered hillock of the root cellar. Standing stiff as a soldier and not moving a muscle.
The boy never in his life stopped moving. Nellie called out, afraid something was the matter.
“Will! What on earth are you doing?”
He turned to face her with a suddenness that had Nellie clapping a hand over her heart. “I’m looking, Nellie. You got to see.”
What she did see then was that he had the brass telescope from the library, the one that had belonged to old Mr. Cornelius.
“What are you doing with that, boy? Cook will beat your backside raw when she finds out you’ve taken something not belonging to you.”
Will had already turned his back, ignoring her wh
ile he fixed his sight through the telescope, studying whatever it was he’d been watching before.
“If I don’t do it first,” she added.
The kitchen door slammed, and Cook crossed the short distance to the root cellar, wiping her hands on her apron. Seeing Will, she turned so red, Nellie feared she might have a stroke on the spot.
“What in blazes are you doing up there, Will Summers? Get down here this instant!”
Will glanced over his shoulder, obviously unwilling to tear his gaze from the telescope for more than a moment. “No!” He started to turn back, then remembered Cook’s question. “I’m looking at Miss Iz and Mister Nashe.”
Nellie put her hands on her hips. “Here we are, just come from church, and you’re lying to us. You know better than that, Will.”
The boy ignored her scolding, smiling down at her like she was the slow witted one. “I don’t know, I think they may be practicing his name.”
Cook’s color had faded to a rosy pink. She came forward, shaking her finger at Will. “Just what sort of nonsense are you spouting?”
“You know.” Will waved the telescope in the air. “Like Nellie and Roger be doing when they—”
Cook cut him off before he could finish. “That’s enough of your foolishness.”
Her color had deepened once again to the shade of a ripe tomato. Cook looked across at Nellie in exasperation. “What in heaven’s name are we going to do?”
“I’m going to have to go up there and bring him down.” Nellie was already lifting her skirts, leaning forward to brace herself with her hand to give herself a push up the hill.
“Careful, that grass is wet. Don’t slip.”
“Don’t fret.”
Nellie was already halfway there, worried more about grass stains on her skirt than falling. She scrambled onto the top of the mound. First brushing her hands down the front of her skirt, she then took aim and swatted Will hard across his backside.
A Bed of Thorns and Roses Page 17