Isabella watched the sad procession out of sight around the curve of the esplanade. Plenty of the residents and visitors to Salterton were treating it as a rather amusing spectacle. She felt sick at the sight. She crossed to the mirror that stood on the dressing chest. She leaned her hands on the sturdy wooden top and stared long and hard at her reflection.
Life cannot always be neat and painless, Marcus had said, and she knew it was true, for now she was faced with the greatest dilemma of all. She knew now that she was not pregnant with Marcus’s child. To her confusion and shock, she had cried when she had discovered it, as though she had secretly wanted his baby after all. Now there was nothing to keep them together unless the love and trust they had been trying to build over the last few weeks was strong enough, and that she did not know. What she did know was that she respected Marcus enough to tell him the truth about Emma’s parentage and after that it was up to him.
She was terrified.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
IT WAS A GLORIOUS SUMMER DAY in Kinvara Cove. Pen and Isabella had taken a picnic down to the sands. They had swum from the rocks and sat in the sunshine and talked lazily. After the painful emotions of the previous day, it had been wonderful.
Pen was looking flushed and pink and very young. “Bella,” she said.
“Hmm?” Isabella murmured. They were sitting in a sheltered spot. The sun was making her sleepy. She knew that she must tell Marcus the truth very soon. But she wanted to have one peaceful day before she and Marcus discussed the future.
“Being here at Salterton has reminded me of something that I should have told you long ago,” Pen said. She hesitated. “I am sorry…”
Isabella opened one eye and squinted at her sister from under the brim of her straw bonnet. “More confessions, Penelope?” she said “You frighten me.”
She thought that Pen was looking quite frightened herself.
“It was about the letter.”
“Which letter?”
“The letter that Marcus sent you asking you to elope with him.”
Isabella sat bolt upright. “Elope?”
Pen stared. “Surely he has told you? I always wondered whether it would have made any difference…. Whether you would have run away from Ernest.”
Isabella raised a hand and stopped her. “Wait, Pen. Marcus never asked me to run away with him.”
“Oh, but surely…I was certain that was what it must be!” Pen bit her lip. “I found the letter under the door of the bedroom that had been yours. It was addressed to Miss I. S. I remember it particularly because it was the day after your wedding to Ernest and I wondered at someone addressing you by your maiden name. Anyway, you were no longer at Standish House, of course, because after the wedding breakfast you had stayed with Ernest in Brunswick Gardens.”
“I remember,” Isabella said. “It rained.”
She felt strange. The day of her wedding had been hot but the following day there was a thunderstorm and the lowering clouds and constant downpour had seemed perfectly in tune with her mood. Even now the mere thought of it brought the same trapped and angry sensation to the pit of her stomach.
“It did rain,” Pen agreed. “That was the problem. I put the letter in my pocket, intending to give it to you when I saw you before you left for your wedding journey. But then Miss Bentley took me out to the Academy that afternoon—I think she thought I felt neglected with all the fuss around you—and we were soaked in a downpour of rain. My dress was ruined and Molly took it away as soon as we got home and I forgot all about it and never gave the letter a second thought….” There was an edge of desperation to her voice now. “It was only later, after you had gone on your wedding trip, that Molly brought it to me. It had been washed and dried and flat ironed before they found it—” Her voice broke somewhere between laughter and tears. “I knew it must have been from Marcus but it was too late and I did not know what to do—”
Isabella’s attention snapped up. “Why did you think that it was from Marcus? Did you read it?”
Pen shook her head. “No. It was illegible once it had been through the wash. I threw it away. But I thought…” She stopped, bit her lip. “I knew that you and Marcus had been deeply in love,” she said, after a moment. “I knew that you had been lovers. I did not think that he would give you up so easily.”
The sunlight dazzled Isabella momentarily and she blinked.
“I saw you slip out of Salterton House one night when we were staying with Aunt Jane,” Pen added apologetically. “And although you and Marcus were always proper when you were in public together, I could tell that there was something very strong between you. I was too young to understand properly, of course, but…” She smiled. “I am not certain how you managed to keep it such a secret.”
“It seems,” Isabella said dryly, “that we did not.”
Pen looked down at her hands. “I am very sorry, Bella. I cannot rid myself of the thought that it might have made a world of difference.” Her eyes were full of pleading tears. Isabella swallowed an answering lump in her throat.
“It does not matter a scrap, Pen. Do not give it another thought.”
She reached out to give her sister the hug they both needed and Pen clung tight.
“Be happy, Bella,” Pen said, muffled.
“I will,” Isabella said. Her heart felt wrenched. Pen would be so distressed if she and Marcus separated now, but her sister would never understand just how complicated matters had become.
Looking over Pen’s shoulder, she saw Alistair Cantrell coming down the cliff path toward them. He and Marcus had been over to view the progress of work on Salterton Cottage.
“Alistair is looking for you,” she said, releasing Pen with a final hug. “Run along.”
Pen needed no second bidding, although once she was on her feet she paused, looking down at her sister.
“You will be quite well on your own, Bella?” she asked.
“I shall be quite well,” Isabella confirmed with composure. “In a little while I shall go to find Marcus.”
She watched Pen speed away up the cliff path and throw herself into Alistair’s arms. They waved at her enthusiastically before they turned away and started to walk, arms entwined, across the heather toward the ruined chapel. Isabella sighed and turned away. She felt suddenly frightened. She had told herself that this was the day on which she would tell Marcus that she was not pregnant—and tell him the truth about Emma. She should have known from the start that the truth, partially told, would never be enough. But now she knew that she was in danger of destroying all the fragile structure that they had started to build between them, for what she had to say might send Marcus away forever.
She interlocked her fingers and stared out across the sea. She loved Salterton and she loved living here, but without Marcus it would be empty of real meaning, for she loved him more than anything else in the world. Nevertheless, she owed it to him to be honest. If they were to part, at least it would be with no more secrets between them.
She was shot through with another pang of terror.
Nevertheless she got to her feet, dusted the sand slowly from her skirts, and started up the path toward home. She had never avoided making hard decisions, right or wrong, and now, twelve years on from the first one, she had to do it again. She prayed fervently that this time she was making the right decision in telling Marcus about Emma.
By the time she reached the house, serene and sleeping in the afternoon warmth, she was almost beside herself with nervousness. As she went into the cool shade of the hall, she could hear Marcus talking to the architect. Their business was not quite concluded. Which meant that she had time for the one other matter that preoccupied her.
She knocked softly on the door of Freddie’s sickroom and pushed it open. The housekeeper was sitting quietly beside the bed. It appeared that Freddie was asleep. He still looked pale but he was breathing easily and his fever had subsided now. Isabella felt a great rush of affection on seeing him.
&nb
sp; The housekeeper tiptoed out and Isabella took her vacated seat. She took Freddie’s hand in hers and, a moment later, he opened his eyes.
“How are you, old thing?” he said with a slight effort.
“I am well, thank you,” Isabella said, smiling. “You are a hero, Freddie. You saved my life.”
A hint of color stole into her brother’s lean cheek. “Devil a bit,” he said gruffly. “Did what I could. That man was a nasty piece of work.” He blinked. “Did Marcus tell you—”
“Yes,” Isabella said. “I understand why you worked for him, Freddie. There is no need to explain.”
“I’m sorry,” Freddie said fretfully, pulling a loose thread from the blanket and avoiding her eyes. “Made a terrible mull of things.”
Isabella squeezed his hand. “We shall sort them out.”
“Marcus has offered to pay my debts,” Freddie said in a rush. “Splendid fellow, your husband, Bella.”
“There was a time when you did not think so,” Isabella said, a little dryly. “Was that because of India, Freddie?”
She felt Freddie jump. His blue eyes opened wide and fixed on her face. “Dash it, Bella, what can you mean?”
Isabella smiled ruefully. “After Warwick had shot you, you told me that you were glad that you had been able to help me at last. I understood that well enough, Freddie….” Her smile deepened with affection. “But you also implied that you had done it because of India as well.”
She waited. Freddie lay still, his eyes closed now, his lashes dark against his cheek. Isabella’s heart wrenched. He looked like the schoolboy he had been when he had fallen in love with his cousin.
“Pen just told me,” she continued softly, “about a letter she found in my bedroom at Standish House, the day after my wedding. It was addressed to Miss I.S. and she assumed that it was for me. But it wasn’t, was it, Freddie? It was for India. She had been staying with us for the wedding. She shared my room the night before the wedding and she had it to herself afterward. The letter was for her.” Isabella took a careful breath. “I think it was from you.”
Freddie’s eyes opened. His gaze was very clear and very blue but there was something still in the depths that told her more than any words of his feelings for India Southern.
“I wanted her to run away with me,” Freddie said. His voice was a little hoarse. “I could not bear it any longer. She was so unhappy. She had been ever since Lord John forced her to give Warwick up and give her child away. I knew that she did not love me—she had always been in love with Warwick and no one else—but I loved her.”
The muscles of his throat corded as he swallowed painfully. “She was not like you, Bella. She wasn’t strong. She could not look after herself. I wanted to care for her and so I proposed marriage, but she said that her family would never agree.” He moistened his lips. “Not only was I her cousin but I was penniless—almost as poor a match as Warwick himself. And I knew. I knew about the child. Lady Jane wanted to make sure that India married someone who never knew the truth.”
“Marcus,” Isabella said. “He was not in Salterton when India first met Warwick and the following year he was so wrapped up in his feelings for me….”
“And Marcus was looking to replace you,” Freddie said, “whether he realized it or not. Lady Jane thought it was a match made in heaven. It was only later, when she realized that Marcus would never feel for India as he had done for you, that she told her daughter that she wished she had been your mother instead, rather than hers. India was monstrously upset.”
“And told Marcus that I had driven a wedge between mother and daughter,” Isabella said, remembering. “How much you have always known, Freddie!”
Freddie shrugged, then winced beneath his bandages. “I could never like Marcus,” he admitted. “First I blamed him for letting you go and then I blamed him for marrying India, yet I must confess that I was at least as culpable. I could have stood up to Papa, I could have gone to Lord John and insist that he permit India to marry me….” He shook his head. “All a damned waste.”
Isabella slipped an arm behind him and propped him up so that he could sip from the glass of water she proffered.
“Thank you,” Freddie said, as she put the glass down. “Thank you, Bella.”
Isabella smiled and, as she left him to sleep, she placed the miniature of India that she had taken from Lady Jane’s chamber on the table at Freddie’s bedside.
SHE FOUND MARCUS IN THE HALL, bidding farewell to the architect. Belton, who had arrived the previous week from the London house, was holding the man’s coat and cane. Marcus’s face lit when he saw her.
“You are in perfect time to take tea with me, my love, whilst I tell you my plans for the cottage,” he said. “Belton, a pot of tea for two in the library, if you please.”
“Of course, my lord,” the butler murmured.
Isabella allowed Marcus to escort her into the library but once the door had closed behind them, her nerve nearly failed her. She could see the plans and drawings scattered across the table. Marcus started to speak, but she had no idea what he was talking about and after a moment he stopped, sensing her urgency. Isabella’s heart leaped, battering her rib cage, and then settled to a frightened patter. Marcus came across to her.
“Bella?” he said. “Is something wrong? You look—” he paused, took her hand “—you look frightened.”
She was frightened. She allowed him to draw her to sit beside him on the love seat in the window and then he waited, one brow quizzically raised, for her to explain. Isabella swallowed hard. There had been so little time; too little time to rebuild all the love and trust that had once been between them. And now she was going to put it all to the test. If it failed—if it was not strong enough—then she had made the wrong decision again.
“Marcus,” she said. Her voice came out as a croak and she cleared her throat and tried again. Best just to come out with it. “I am sorry,” she said. “I am not going to have a child.”
She saw the flare of dread in his eyes. He made an instinctive move, as though to take her in his arms, and then he stopped, his expression tense. He took a breath; hesitated, and waited.
Isabella understood then that he was afraid. Wrapped up in her own fears, she had not thought of how Marcus might feel. Yet he had seen that there was something very wrong and now he must be afraid that she was about to extinguish the last shreds of hope for them by telling him that she was going to leave him. There was wariness in his expression now and he held himself very still.
“I am sorry, too,” he said quietly. “But this need not be the end for us, Bella.”
Isabella pressed her hands together so tightly that the bones cracked. “I was very afraid when I thought that I might be pregnant,” she said. “It is difficult to explain. I lost my daughter before and I never wanted it to happen again.”
The expression on Marcus’s face eased into tenderness. He put his arms about her.
“I understand.” He spoke very softly, his mouth pressed against her hair. “But I shall always be here with you, Isabella. It will be different next time. And though you may not be enceinte now, there will come a time when we shall have our family.”
Isabella shrank from him. She shook her head. He thought that he understood and he wanted to comfort her, and it almost broke her heart to see his gentleness. But he did not know. And now she had to tell him. She warded him off with one hand.
“No, Marcus. You do not understand because I have not told you. I should have done so long ago but…” She cleared her throat. “It is to do with Emma.”
Marcus went very still. His eyes were on her face, dull with shock. “You are going to tell me that she was my child,” he said.
“No,” Isabella said. “It is worse than that.” She looked at him, then swiftly away.
“I could never be absolutely sure,” she said rapidly, “whether Emma was your child or not. I was young and it never even occurred to me that I might be pregnant. I missed my monthly courses
but I told myself it was a result of the strain of the wedding….” She broke off. “Emma was born seven months after I married Ernest.” Her voice was toneless. “She was a frail child. She could have been Ernest’s daughter—she might have been born early. That was what we told everyone, of course. But I was never sure, one way or the other. It was always a torment to me.”
She stood up blindly, taking a step away from him. “I wanted her to be yours!” She said. Her heart was breaking again, once and for all. “I told myself that she was! She was all that I had left of you and then, years later, I lost her.” Her voice fell again. She looked up, looked Marcus in the eyes. “I failed her. I could not keep her safe and I cannot live with that. I never wanted it to happen again. That was why I never wanted another child. I lost you and then I lost the child I always thought of as yours and I do not wish to lose any more.” Isabella turned away. “I tried so hard to protect her.” Her shoulders slumped. “But in the end it was not enough.”
There was a terrible silence. Marcus was very white. “Did Prince Ernest suspect that you thought Emma was not his?”
Isabella could not look at him for fear of what she might see in his face. She felt icy cold from the inside out.
“I do not know. We never spoke of it. As I said, Emma was small and frail when she was born. She could have been a seven-month child. Ernest never cared for her but I doubt that was a personal matter. He detested all children.”
Marcus was silent, watching her. Isabella could feel the tension in all her muscles. Her body was as tight as a drum.
“After Emma died, I tried to forget the whole matter,” she said. “And then of course I grew to know you again.” She wanted to tell him that she loved him, that she had always loved him, that she always would. Instead she bit her lip. She had to finish this now, before she found it impossible to carry on.
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