by Anne Brear
The rider dismounted and she noticed his dark brown trousers hugged his thighs before tapering into long leather boots. He wore his dun coloured jacket loosely over a cream shirt. His wide-brimmed hat looked odd, but vaguely familiar. He looked like no Yorkshire man. He muttered something to the cart driver and then walked along the path to her.
Isabelle racked her brains to think if she knew the tall man. Why did he ride Copper? Did grooms wear such outlandish hats? He walked with a comfortable stride, confident in who he was. He was no groom, she was certain. Then it came to her. Ethan’s friend, MacGregor or something.
A few feet from her, he took off his hat and bowed, displaying a thick crop of dark red hair with gold highlights. ‘Good day, Mrs Farrell.’
She blinked. His Scottish accent threw her into disarray. She’d forgotten all about him. ‘Good…Good day, Mr?’
‘Hamish MacGregor. You may not remember me.’ He didn’t smile and his gaze swept over her, assessing her every feature.
Isabelle stiffened. ‘Is there something I can help you with, Mr MacGregor?’
‘My good friend, Ethan Harrington, cares to know if you are well?’ He waved his arm back towards the cart. ‘I come bearing his gifts…to ease your recovery.’
She stared at him as though he’d grown a tail. ‘Ethan sent you?’ A pain lanced her heart. Ethan wasn’t coming.
‘Indeed. He sends his apologies for not calling in person but pressing business detains him.’
‘Oh.’ Dumbfounded, she didn’t know what else to say. She felt cheated and somehow robbed of dignity and this man had done it. His condescending stare and upright stance conveyed exactly what he thought of her and it filled her with a burning anger, an anger that had built, albeit unknowingly since the market confrontation.
‘Shall I have the cart unloaded at the back of the house?’ MacGregor’s tone was akin to disdainful mocking.
Her face grew hot with embarrassment. He knew! Was there not a soul who didn’t by now? His whole manner revealed his awareness of what she meant to Ethan and he hated her for it.
She jerked to her feet, letting the knitting and blanket fall to the grass. ‘No, thank you. Please inform Mr Harrington that I appreciate his tokens of assistance, but I am not in need.’
MacGregor’s piercing blue eyes widened. ‘You are refusing it? All of it?’
‘Does that surprise you, Mr MacGregor?’ She sneered. ‘You think I am without morals or standards?’
‘I…I do not know you, Mrs Farrell, to make such judgement.’
‘Oh, come now!’ She laughed harshly. ‘You had decided on my character before you arrived.’
He had the grace to flush nearly as scarlet as his hair. ‘That is true. I do know about your relationship with Ethan.’
‘At least you are honest.’ She coughed and slumped back into the chair, her strength gone. The intense beautiful love she and Ethan shared was now soiled by everyone’s knowledge of it. How had it happened? How had the purity of their feelings been destroyed, sullied?
Unease shadowed his features. ‘Mrs Farrell-’
‘My name is Isabelle.’ She looked away. ‘I have no marriage, my title is a falsehood.’
Unbelievably, he squatted down on his haunches beside her knee. ‘I mean you no disrespect coming here today.’
She stared into his sharp blue eyes; eyes that missed nothing. ‘No?’
He shook his head. ‘No. My one thought was for Ethan and his family. To protect them.’
‘From me?’ She snorted. ‘How can I possibly harm them? I want naught from them, except Ethan’s love.’
‘You have that, but are you content to be just his mistress? To bear his illegitimate children? To be scorned in public?’
‘Of course not!’ She rose and walked a few feet away from him. Her hands shook for she had already sampled public scorn and knew that she could stomach no more of it. ‘But…but as soon as we both are granted divorces then we’ll be free. Ethan says we can go to Australia to his sister.’
MacGregor slowly straightened. ‘And what if one of you isn’t given a divorce?’
‘We’ll fight it until we do.’ Isabelle raised her chin. ‘Rest assured, Mr MacGregor, I am not some alley slut that you can toss a bag of coins to and hope I’ll disappear.’
‘How many bags will it take?’
The urge to slap his face was barely contained. She raised her eyebrows. ‘My, my, you are skilled at these types of arrangements aren’t you? Do you buy all your women?’
The blue of his eyes honed to ice.
Isabelle sighed, drained by the thrust and jab argument. ‘Just because I have very little doesn’t mean I want-’
‘Ah, but you do have something.’ He folded his arms and looked down at his boots, before pinning her with a glare. ‘You have Ethan’s love and he’s never given that to anyone before. Therefore, the power is all yours. He’s yours to do with as you please.’
‘And you believe I will misuse my so-called power.’
‘Many women do.’
‘I am not as other women.’
He nodded. ‘I am learning to understand that.’ He looked away into the distance. ‘This is not easy on either side. I realise this.’ His eyes softened. ‘I wish you and Ethan had met years ago and saved everyone this misery.’
She studied him for a moment. He was a tall, powerfully built man. Creases spread from the corners of his eyes and she had the inkling that he smiled a lot. Searching her memory, she recalled Ethan speaking of this Scot, who’d sailed to Australia and fashioned a life in the frontier. Suddenly, she wished they were friends. It would be pleasant to just sit and talk with this man and learn about his and Ethan’s friendship. Sadness filled her. ‘I’m sorry that you and I didn’t meet under better circumstances, Mr MacGregor.’
He stared at her for a long moment. ‘So am I.’ A self-depreciating chuckle escaped him. ‘I thought Ethan was mad to love you.’
‘And now?’
‘And now…’ His face became unreadable, closed from expression and emotion. ‘And now I think he is equally blessed and cursed.’
***
Hamish gave his hat to the butler, and ran his fingers through his hair, steeling himself to meet Ethan. What would he say? His dispute with Ethan over giving Isabelle up rang hollow in his head, tasted nasty on his tongue. Isabelle Farrell had managed, without even trying or being aware of it, to find an unguarded place in his heart. All it had taken was one look from those pale blue eyes of hers and he had struggled to breathe ever since. He remembered their first meeting months ago, and if he was honest he would agree that he’d felt a stirring of attraction then, and immediately squashed it. There were rules in friendship and one of them was to not ogle your best friend’s woman.
Today he had expected to feel attraction, but he certainly hadn’t been prepared for the hit in the gut that he experienced the moment he saw her sitting alone in the garden. No wonder Ethan lived and breathed the woman, she was something exceptional, unique. Hamish shook his head at his own stupidity. He’d handled the situation poorly and, no doubt, left with her hating him. Somehow, her dislike caused him more distress than the fact he lusted after his friend’s woman. Lord, what have I done?
The drawing room door was wrenched open and Ethan stood there, tension lining his face. ‘Well? Did you see her? How was she? Why are you standing out here in the hall?’
Sucking in a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, Hamish strode past Ethan and into the room, heading straight for the drinks cabinet.
Ethan followed him. ‘I’ve been watching out for you. I noticed the cart came back still full. Why didn’t Isabelle accept them? Did her father not let you see her? The bastard! I’ll-’
‘I saw her.’ Hamish threw back the whisky shot and plonked the glass down. This was a nightmare he wanted to shake off. What possessed him to get involved? The image of Isabelle’s furious face flashed before him. He groaned and turned to Ethan, who looked at him expectantly. ‘S
he is well.’
‘Thank God. I was so worried.’ Ethan sagged. ‘But why-’
‘I have changed my plans. I’ll not be staying a few weeks here, but shall return to Edinburgh tonight.’
‘Oh?’ Ethan frowned. ‘Hamish, if it is because of Mama’s lapse in manners and her writing to you, I do apologise. The last thing I wanted was for you to be caught up in this business. She should never have written to you.’
‘It is none of that.’ He felt the heat rise in his cheeks. ‘I have other matters to attend before my return to Australia.’
Striding to the drinks cabinet, Ethan slapped his arm in good humour. ‘Of course you have, my friend, but I’d really like your presence here for a day or two until Mama and I can look at each other without either of us losing our tempers.’
‘I’m not certain…’ Hamish faltered. Until meeting Isabelle, he’d been looking forward to spending a couple of weeks or more at Bracken Hall. To go shooting, play billiards in the evenings, go drinking in town. He and Ethan enjoyed each other’s company, behaved like brothers and he wanted to take some more memories back to Australia.
‘Say you’ll stay, old friend.’ Ethan smiled with that boyish charm he’d always had and Hamish knew he would give in. Besides, he’d not meet with Isabelle again. He would pretend she didn’t exist. It was highly unlikely she’d be calling in for tea.
Chapter Thirteen
Isabelle tested the heat of the iron and wiped her hair from her eyes. Her back ached from standing for the last hour. Pressing the iron over her father’s shirt, she winkled her nose in distaste as cold winds blew outside causing the kitchen fire to smoke. A cool draught from under the hallway door circle around her ankles. The miserable weather had wrecked havoc for the last three days. Gales shattered roof tiles, blew down trees and simply became a nuisance. Any attempt at outside work ended in frustration and abandonment.
She glanced at her father and the boys as they sat around the table playing cards. After days of being cooped up inside she had run out of jobs for them to do. Still, she couldn’t complain. They had accomplished much. The bedrooms received a coat of whitewash, the loose banister on the stairs was fixed, all the needlework was attended to and new knitted garments begun.
Her father dropped his cards on the floor and Bertie, laughing, bent down and scooped them up for him. Isabelle frowned, noting the blueness of her father’s tight lips.
In the last week she had noticed his pallor gain a yellowy tinge. His appetite had fallen, too. A trickle of fear crept up her spine at the thought of him becoming really ill. Until now, he’d shown no signs of the sickness that plagued him on the inside, but then her own recent illness had kept her from watching over them.
Aaron slowly looked up at her, as though the movement had cost him a great deal, his eyes wary as always of her rebuff. ‘Don’t be over doing it, lass. You’ve only been on your feet a few days.’
‘Yes, I know and just look at this pile waiting for me.’
He glanced down at the table.
She sighed and silently berated herself for her artless snipe. When would she ever stop cementing the walls between them? Each time her father tried to knock a brick down she was quick to replace it.
‘Me and the boys can wear wrinkled shirts about the farm,’ he murmured. ‘No one can see them underneath our vests and coats.’
‘Come sit and have a game, Belle.’ Hughie coaxed, grinning. ‘Those clothes won’t mind.’
‘You mind your manners, my-’ Isabelle broke off as her father gradually tilted sideways and fell to the floor. ‘Father!’
In a heartbeat all three were fussing over him. Hughie lifted him up and cradled his head. ‘Da! Da!’
‘Help me get him into the front room, Hughie.’ Isabelle lifted his legs by the ankles while Hughie strained under the weight of Aaron’s top half.
Shuffling, they carried him in the front room and laid him on the sofa.
A summer shawl lay at the end of the sofa and Isabelle threw it over her father’s chest. ‘Make up a fire, Bertie, quickly now!’ As Bertie ran from the room, she turned to Hughie, who was chaffing Aaron’s hands between his own. ‘You must go fetch the doctor, Hughie.’
He straightened immediately. ‘Yes, I’m on my way!’ He collided in the doorway with Bertie, who carried an armload of kindling.
Isabelle placed the fire screen to one side. ‘Here, Bertie, give those to me and fetch pillows and blankets.’ She set about making the fire. Fumbling and cursing, she managed a small blaze and was about to rush out for more kindling when her father moaned from the sofa.
Hurrying to his side, she picked up one of his hands and patted it. ‘It’s all right. You’re all right.’
Aaron eyes flickered open and focused on her. ‘B…Belle?’
‘Yes, I’m here. Right here.’
He closed his eyes and his tongue poked out to wet his lips. His grip on her hand was feeble at best.
Bertie, hidden beneath a tumble of pillows and blankets, burst into the room.
‘Lord, Bertie, did you strip every bed?’ Isabelle snapped, taking them from him. ‘Tis a wonder you didn’t fall down the stairs!’
‘Is Da awake?’
‘Not completely.’ She squeezed his shoulder as he stood staring at their father. ‘Listen, do you think you could make up a tray of tea without burning yourself?’
He straightened up and raised his chin. ‘Aye, course I can.’
‘Good, do that for me then, will you?’
When he had once more left the room she turned back to add the last bit of kindling to the fire and then crouched down beside her father.
As if sensing her there, Aaron opened his eyes. ‘Not…too…good.’
‘No you’re not at the minute.’ She placed a pillow gently under his head and then covered him with the thickest blanket they had. ‘But you soon will be again.’
‘You know the truth.’
Bustling about folding blankets, she nodded. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Don’t waste good money…on doctor…’
‘I’ll waste my money in any way I see fit.’ She gave the fire a serious poke with the fire iron.
‘Belle.’
‘Yes?’
‘Can you help…me up to bed?’
‘I don’t think that is such a good idea.’ She studied him and although his face was grey, there seemed more life in his eyes now than before. ‘Let us wait until the doctor has been, yes?’
He nodded and closed his eyes, obviously too worn-out to argue further.
Sighing, Isabelle knelt on the hearth and stared into the blaze. If this was the start to her father’s end then she’d better prepare herself to nurse him. And to see less of Ethan...
***
Ethan plumped up his pillows and settled back against them. He checked over the end of his bed to make certain that the fireguard was secure and took a sip of whisky from the small glass on his bedside table. Lastly, he reached for his book, W.M. Thackeray’s The Virginians.
He wasn’t one for fiction all the time, and liked to inject his reading habits with works on husbandry and, since Rachel’s departure, books on England’s colonies. Most nights he did his reading in the study or drawing room, but since the incident with his mother and the ensuring coolness between them, he had taken to his room of an evening and found a hidden pleasure in reading in bed.
A discreet knock interrupted him. He looked towards the door. ‘Come in.’
Clarice sidled into the room and closed the door with a soft click. She nervously glanced around the room, as a blush crept up her face.
Ethan stared in amazement. His wife had never been in his room before. He swallowed and hoped to God she didn’t want to share his bed. ‘Is…is there something you wanted, Clarice?’
She nodded, clearly agitated that she had ventured into his domain. Her fingers twisted the material of her nightgown and she couldn’t quite meet his eyes. ‘I…I need to talk to you.’
‘And i
t cannot wait until morning?’
She shook her head.
Frowning, Ethan sat a little straighter and wondered if he should escort her downstairs, but abruptly she rushed forward and gripped the timber foot rail of his bed.
‘You want to divorce me?’
He groaned. ‘Clarice, please don’t-’
‘Your mother tells me I must not allow it to happen.’
Under his breath, Ethan swore violently. ‘I understand-’
‘I know we aren’t as…most couples are,’ she paused to pull at her hair that hung loose about her rounded shoulders, ‘only, I never wanted a husband.’
‘I know.’
Her chin trembled. ‘If you divorce me where will I live?’
Pity filled him for this childlike-woman. ‘Please do not worry yourself, Clarice. I will always provide for you.’
‘You will?’
‘Naturally.’ He forced a smile. ‘You will have a house of your own to do with as you please, plus servants and an income.’
‘Could…could I have a house in London?’
‘London?’ His eyes widened. ‘Why London?’
‘Because there are many shops there that will deliver and…and wonderful libraries. I wouldn’t want to go about town much at all and in London everything can come to me.’
He was completely astonished. She had obviously been thinking this through. He nodded. ‘I see. Well, I shouldn’t think that would be a problem, you having a house in London.’
She seemed to sag, and gave him a tenuous smile. ‘Thank you, Ethan. You are a good man.’
‘No, I am not.’
‘Yes, you are. I am not the wife worthy of Bracken Hall. I…I know this will upset your Mama, but…but I never really wanted to be here. I’d rather be divorced and in London than here and married.’ She hurried from his room and closed the door.
Ethan slumped back against his pillows. It was the most he’d heard her speak in all the time they were married. Wiping a hand over his eyes, shame washed over him. She had called him a good man. It was laughable really. He was divorcing her and she called him a good man. He cringed at the situation he found himself in. Yet, despite his unfavourable position, he could no longer change it even if he wanted to. A life without Isabelle was no life at all.