by C. J. Archer
He made all the right responses. She opened the door but he spoke again. "Oh, and you should know that Sir Nicholas left sometime in the night. His pallet was empty when I awoke this morning. Should I send one of the servants to his lodgings to make sure he arrived home safely and is well?"
"No, that won’t be necessary. Thank you, Fox." She left him to the servant hovering nearby and walked quickly back the way she had come.
She stopped outside Nick’s door, wishing it was thinner or slightly ajar so she could overhear the conversation inside. Then suddenly the door opened silently but only enough for a mere sliver of light from the chamber beyond to pass through. And words too.
"...to tell her," she heard Lord Ashbourne say.
"I can’t." Nick groaned then swore, his voice muffled as if he’d buried his face in something.
"Because of your link to her father?"
"It’s more than a link, Ash," Nick said, sounding clearer. "I killed him."
Isabel’s heart stopped beating and everything around her ceased to exist except the slit of light beaming past the door which she must have unwittingly opened with her powers. He'd killed her father? No, it wasn’t possible. He had gone mad. Her healing had confused him, made him spout ridiculous things.
Yet she knew that wasn’t true. She took a step closer to the door but stopped herself as the earl scoffed. "You didn’t kill him. Your actions may not have helped his case—"
"May not have!" Nick said. "There’s no doubt my information on Samuel condemned him further."
Information? What did he mean? What sort of information?
And then it became clear, like the letters of a complex code separating and reforming in the correct order. Nick had been absent after their marriage because he was spying, that much she had already guessed, but at least part of that time he must have been gathering information on her father.
"You were acting under Walsingham’s orders," Ashbourne said. "She’ll understand."
"I’m not so sure." Nick sighed heavily.
"I don’t understand you," Lord Ashbourne said gruffly. "You claim she loves you and yet you’re afraid to tell her the truth."
"You’re right," Nick growled. "You don’t understand me. And I don’t understand my wife anymore. She might leave me again if she knew."
Isabel covered her mouth to smother a gasp.
"Why would she leave?" Ash asked. "I thought everything was resolved between you now."
"That doesn’t mean she wouldn’t leave me again over this."
Isabel knew she should go in and tell him she would never leave him, never again. But she couldn’t move. Her feet stayed firmly on the floor.
"Where would she go?" the earl went on. "She has no one other than Shawe here in London, and you. If she leaves, who would take her in? Any sensible woman would realize she is better off staying with her husband."
"She’s not the same as other women," Nick said. The pause that followed felt loaded even from where she stood outside the room. She waited with her heart lodged in her throat for him to continue.
Then he did. "She’s not the same woman I married."
CHAPTER 14
Not the same woman I married.
The words haunted Isabel as she walked down Fleet Street past Temple Bar and over the stinking, oozing Fleet River. Her head felt like it was full of the mist that still shrouded the ditches and river. Her lack of concentration led her into the path of a cart rumbling through Ludgate and she had to hurry or be crushed beneath its thundering wheels.
Not the same woman I married. Nick’s words pressed down on her like weights. Why would he say such a thing after their recent reunion? She had thought he loved her. Every word he spoke, every action and reaction of his body was a sign he loved her.
Weren’t they?
It seemed his mind was rebelling against his body, overthrowing its desires with rationalities. Rationalities that clearly were not in her favor. Rationalities which even she could not deny. He was right—she wasn’t the same woman he had married. That girl had disappeared in the last six years, replaced by a woman who knew her own mind, who knew how to keep shop as well as any man. A woman who could cure a cough or a toothache as well as any doctor. A woman who read widely and even planned to write her own herbal one day. A woman who kept suitors at arm’s length with a few quick, witty words that ensured no man lost his self-respect. A woman who could form her own opinions, could exist on her own, without a man to guide her, keep her.
A woman who was a witch.
No, she certainly wasn’t the same person he’d married. She liked this one better.
But did Nick?
What husband would what the kind of wife who didn’t lower her gaze when spoken to? Who didn’t bite her tongue instead of giving her opinion? What man would want his wife to contradict him in a discussion, or question his motives for...spying? Or confront him over his lies?
What man would want a woman whose strength was superior to his own?
None would, no matter how much he loved her or claimed to love her. Claimed—yes, that was what Nick did. He only claimed to love her. Lies had become second nature to him through his spying so now he even lied to her. The line between his work and the rest of his life had stretched so thin it had become easy to cross, easy to blur truth and lies until one couldn’t be distinguished from the other.
But even as she considered these things, a niggling thought tapped away in her head until she finally let it out.
He’s not the man I married either.
It felt like a kind of betrayal to admit it considering she still loved him. But it was true. The man she had married would never have lied to her about anything, never have kept his life secret from her.
He would never have spied on her father.
She stumbled over an uneven stone in the road, the jolt waking her as if from a dream. It had begun to rain and she hurried on to Bucklersbury Street, running past her neighbors’ shops.
Fox looked up from the counter when she rushed through the door and made a sound of surprise. "You’re back already," he said.
She pushed back the hood of her cloak but felt too cold to remove it. "I’ll be upstairs. Is Meg back yet?"
He shook his head. "Hasn’t come in at all."
Curses. Not that she was concerned for Meg’s safety—her friend was used to finding a warm bed when she needed it—but Isabel wished she was there to talk to.
She checked in on the sleeping form of Old Man Shawe before turning to her bedchamber and closing the door. She sat on her bed and stared out the window. The room was too high up to see anything except endless gray sky but the wintry conditions suited her mood.
What to do now?
She couldn’t think of anything. Couldn’t think of what to say to Nick or how to act around him when she saw him again. She couldn’t even cry. She felt too numb.
He must be wondering what had happened to her or perhaps he thought she had left Ashbourne House with Fox. Did he really care?
A knock on the door focused her attention. Could he have come looking for her already? "Yes?"
Fox entered. "You have a caller, Mistress."
"Who is it?" She rose.
"Mistress Merritt."
She sat down again. Constance. Isabel clicked her tongue, irritated at the intrusion. What could the old crow possibly have to say to her now? More threats? Whatever it was, Isabel didn’t need another distraction. "I’ll see her in the parlor," she said, sighing.
She kept her mother-in-law waiting just long enough to annoy her and not long enough to be rude, then entered the parlor with a smile on her face as if she were in love with a wonderful man who reciprocated her feelings unconditionally. She hadn’t any idea how much of that was true but as far as Constance knew, and as far as Isabel wanted her to see, it was.
"This is unexpected," she said. It was the safest, most inane greeting she could think of.
"Where is my son?" Constance asked, her jaw hardly movin
g as she spoke. She stood with her hands behind her back, squaring her shoulders even more. She looked like a domineering school mistress watching over a particularly naughty student.
"Ashbourne House."
Constance looked surprised for a brief moment until she composed herself, tipping her head to look down her nose at Isabel. "What? Not here with you?" She spoke as if she’d won a wager.
Isabel ignored the bait. Let Constance think what she wanted. Isabel would not be drawn into giving her a more detailed answer. She dismissed the idea of telling her about Nick’s midnight escape and injury. He was healed. There was no need to alarm his mother now.
"He and Ash had business to discuss. You might still find him there if you hurry." Go, leave me in peace.
"Never mind, I’m sure you can pass on a message for me."
The hairs on the back of Isabel’s neck rose at the look of triumph still printed on her mother-in-law’s face. The confident smile, the tilt of her chin, the hard eyes all sent warning bells ringing in her ears.
And still Constance kept her hands behind her back.
"You obviously have something to say that I won’t wish to hear," Isabel said. "So get it over with. I have work to do."
"Work." Constance snarled. "You bring disgrace to your husband and the name of Merritt with your work." She almost spat the word at Isabel. Suddenly the smile vanished but her eyes only gleamed harder, like the gems in her rings. "You have become a common shop girl, debasing what it means to be married to a knight. Nicholas has worked too hard to further the Merritt name to have his efforts completely disregarded by his wife. People will laugh at him behind his back. They will mock the knight whose wife counts whores amongst her friends—"
"That’s enough, Constance," Isabel said, very low. "I will not be insulted in my own home or have my friends insulted within my hearing. You may leave."
"I haven’t finished with you yet."
"Yes, you have. If you do not leave then I will have Fox forcibly remove you. People will certainly laugh at you then."
"You are insulting and impertinent, and you will get exactly what you deserve." The smile had returned as she drew herself up to her full height and Isabel knew she was finally getting around to the real reason for her visit. "Since my son won’t set you aside then I must do it for him."
Isabel barked out a laugh. "What are you talking about?" But even as she said it, despite her outward show of bravado, a sense of dread chilled her.
"The current Lord Mayor was a friend of my husband’s. I have spoken to him about you."
Isabel’s heart pounded against her ribs. "Why?" she asked, even though she knew the answer.
"He will send the Justice of the Peace to arrest you at sundown on a charge of witchcraft."
"Sundown?" she echoed, trying hard not to show her fear. "Why not now?"
"Because I told him I will give him the evidence to charge you then. And I will only give the evidence if you are still in London."
Of course. Yet another agreement. "You want me to leave Nick again." Even as she spoke she felt her blood turn to ice in her veins.
"It will convince him once and for all that you do not love him. He won’t seek an annulment unless he can be sure of that."
Isabel didn’t think he would annul their marriage, even now after voicing his doubts about his wife and even if he thought she didn’t love him. He was too honorable to break the promise he had made to her on their wedding day. Too honorable and definitely too stubborn.
"Leave and I will not give evidence to the Lord Mayor. Your life will be spared," Constance said, steely determination making the lines around her lips deepen. She certainly knew how to make effective threats.
Isabel’s palms stung from where her fingernails had bitten into the flesh. She flexed her hands but otherwise kept her movements controlled, in direct contrast to her inner turmoil.
"You must truly hate me," she said. "To condemn your own daughter-in-law to a horrible death..."
"Witches are hanged in this country not burnt at the stake. Not anymore." She made it sound like a merciful gesture on behalf of the law makers—a gesture she didn’t agree with.
"And that makes it less horrible?" Isabel drew back in shock, swaying a little at the thought of swinging from the gallows for something she had not wanted and never asked for.
"You are no daughter-in-law to me anymore. You are the devil’s creature, an abomination against God. Death is too good for your kind."
Isabel stared at her, speechless. How could she argue against such ignorance, such blind hatred nurtured by rumors and irrational fears? It was an argument she could never win, no matter how hard she fought.
"You are not welcome in my family," Constance continued. "My son will realize it when he is freed from the wicked spells you have cast over him. Leave him. Leave London. Don’t come back."
Isabel balled up the hands she had used to heal this woman’s son only hours before, the hands that could just as easily push the old crow through the wall to the street below. She fought against the throbbing anger, not wanting to do something she would regret later, but at the same time wanting to hurt her very much.
"Do me harm and your death warrant will be signed now, not at sundown," Constance said, her gaze taking in Isabel’s clenched fists, her shaking body. "Leave."
Slowly, with great effort, Isabel nodded. "I will go. But you will incur your son’s wrath." She felt certain of it. Despite his doubts about the woman his wife had become, he would still want to remain married to her, he would still want her with him. Even though he didn’t love her as much as he once had, he was not a man who liked being manipulated in such a bald way. Nor was he a man who liked to lose. Isabel’s abandonment had been a blow the first time, twice would be humiliation striking at the very essence of his manhood. He would blame his mother, but he would also blame Isabel.
"I am his mother," Constance said with a toss of her head. "He won’t be angry at me for long."
Implying he would be angry with Isabel forever.
Constance spun on her heel and marched out of the parlor but not before Isabel noticed the shaking of her mother-in-law’s hands. From guilt? Fear? Or anger?
When she had finally gone, Isabel’s knees gave way and she collapsed onto a chair, trembling uncontrollably. She had never witnessed such pure hatred in her life, and never dreamed it would ever be directed at her. She felt nauseous, dizzy and frightened. So very very frightened.
She pressed a trembling hand to her stomach, another rubbed her forehead, trying to massage away the thick fog in her mind so she could think. What shall I do? What shall I do? The words rattled over and over like a wagon’s wheels across an endless wooden bridge. Terror gripped her like never before, crippling, blinding, and she sat frozen in the chair, unable to move or think. Even her tears remained unshed, burning the backs of her eyes.
"Isabel? What’s wrong?"
"Meg?" The paralysis eased and Isabel stood. It was all perfectly clear now, what she must do. She ran to her friend and gripped her shoulders. "Meg, I’m leaving."
Meg swayed under Isabel’s weight and put a hand out to the door frame to steady herself. "Izzy, you look terrible. Are you ill?"
"I must go," was all she could say.
"Go? Do you mean on an errand?"
"No. Leave London. Will you help me pack? I must go now. This instant." She had to be far away from London before sundown. Far away from the Lord Mayor and his Justice of the Peace and far away from Constance.
She had seen a hanging once. The ugliness of it had remained with her since. The violent, desperate kicking out, the eyes bulging in terror, the crack of the snapping neck. And the screaming, not of the victim, but of his family watching from amongst the crowds.
But she’d only face a hanging if she ever got to trial. She could die in a London prison first. She knew all about the walls that were always damp, the stones that were stained with blood and excrement, the cries of sheer misery from prisone
rs left to rot in the dark, stinking cells.
Her father had died in prison, alone and broken. She would not end her life the same way. She would fight to live. She must.
Meg held Isabel at arm’s length and bobbed her head to look in her eyes. "Izzy, you look terrified. What’s happened? What has your husband done to you?" Anger made her voice rise and her face mottled.
"Nothing. It’s not him, it’s..." No matter how much she trusted Meg, she couldn’t risk telling her about her powers, about her mother-in-law’s threats. The mere mention of witches made even good people fearful and vengeful. She didn’t want to see Meg turn against her too. Although Constance had never really liked Isabel, she had never hated her with such venom as she did since her daughter-in-law had accidentally revealed her witchcraft that day six years ago.