The clothing is ragged, and it greatly needs cleaning, and I fear that if it is left there for many more years, it will disintegrate. It is dry in the tower, but still, it cannot be the best conditions in which to house something which ought to be a keepsake.
Esme, I have it in my mind to go out to the tower and rescue the little doll. I should like to make it a new gown and clean its face and its hair and have it returned to its former glory. And then, when it is done, I would like to give it to Elliot in the hopes that it will give him some comfort and peace.
Of course, I realize that I could be making the gravest error in doing so, and yet I am suffering the greatest notion that the Duke cannot move forward. It is as if he is trapped in a moment, not just a prisoner these seventeen years within the walls of his own mansion, but a prisoner within the walls of his own heart.
Even if I cannot look upon him properly, I should like to make some move that may help to ease his suffering.
I must think the thing through before I choose to do it, but I am almost certain already that I will try it. I will do something that will make a difference although, at this moment, I cannot tell if that difference will be for good or ill.
Wish me luck, my dear Esme.
With much love,
Isabella.”
Chapter 16
By the time she had finished, the doll looked almost as good as new. Isabella had made her a new little gown and had been surprised at how easily the stains of smoke had come away when she had cleaned the creamy porcelain face.
As she worked, Isabella had been quite transported, remembering her love for her own dolls when she had been a girl of twelve. At that age, although one knew better, little dolls like that were almost real, very nearly friends. Especially for a young girl like Isabella who lived under the roof of a tyrant and spent a good deal of time on her own.
Isabella worked with the care that she would have lavished upon one her own dolls in her youth and, as she put together a very pretty little gown, her fingers working nimbly as she stitched, she almost forgot that the doll was not hers.
She made a bonnet to match the gown and tied it under the cold porcelain chin. When she had finished, Isabella laid the doll on her own bed and looked down at her. All in all, Isabella had done a very fine job of returning Lady Eleonora’s doll back to her former glory.
As she stared down at the doll, Isabella began to grow a little afraid. Now the thing was done, there was no turning back. She had taken the doll early that morning in the hopes that its absence would not be noticed. She knew that Elliot did not go out to the tower every day, and she had to hope that he had not been surprised by the doll’s absence. She had to hope that he had not been out there.
But, of course, she knew she could wait no longer. The doll would have to be handed to him when she met up with Elliot that evening in the drawing room, and there was no other way around it.
If he had not been out to the tower that day, then he might go the next one, or the one after that. Isabella thought that the whole thing would work so much better if he did not suffer the shock of seeing that the doll had been taken.
Going out to the tower to retrieve the doll had been a curious experience. As she had walked along the path, she knew that her steps were getting slower and slower the nearer she got. She was putting off the inevitable, not wanting to set foot ever again inside that place.
However, when she finally arrived, when she finally pulled open the tatty wooden door, things were not quite as unsettling as she had remembered them.
Everything looked the same, but perhaps having a little understanding of what had happened there had removed some of the uncertainty, had stemmed the imagination just a little.
Still, when she made her way upstairs to retrieve the doll, Isabella did not waste any time. She scooped up the precious cargo and set off for home almost immediately.
Any fear she had of re-entering the tower had now been supplanted by the fear of Elliot’s reaction.
Having eaten very little of her evening meal, Isabella finally made her way down to the drawing room. She was late by a few minutes, something which was most out of character. But just as she had dragged her feet on her way to the tower that morning, she was dragging her feet on the way to her husband.
“Isabella, I had thought you would not come,” Elliot said when she walked into the room.
“I am a little nervous, Elliot,” Isabella said truthfully.
“I hope you are not nervous of me? I had thought that you were perhaps not quite so uncomfortable in my company anymore.”
“I am not at all uncomfortable in your company, Elliot,” Isabella said and suddenly wished that the whole thing was done, finished, for good or bad. “Not in the slightest. But I have done something, and I do not know if I did right or wrong.”
“You sound very worried, and I would not have you so. But please, do come in, Isabella. At least come and sit down and tell me what has happened.”
Isabella knew that the time had come and, instead of making her way in and sitting in the chair she ordinarily sat in, she walked right through the room and stood before him.
She looked at his face through the dim light but tried hard to simply concentrate on the untouched side. She could not have her own reactions to him clouding the evening. This was about something very different and making him feel uncomfortable about his appearance would make everything so much more complicated.
“Forgive me if I ought not to have done so, but I have twice been in the little tower that I found in the woodland. I know that you said that I am free to wander where I may, but I am not so sure that you had meant to extend that right as far as the tower.”
“Nothing has changed,” Elliot said in a quiet voice as he studied her. She knew that he could see she held something behind her back and already he was becoming unsettled. “I meant what I said; you may go wherever you choose.”
“Thank you,” Isabella said but knew that, despite his current calmness, the thing was not over yet. “When I was there I saw a doll on the floor.” She heard him draw his breath in sharply. “And whilst I do not know the full facts, I realize that the doll must surely have belonged to your sister.”
“Yes.” His voice sounded husky, thick with emotion, and Isabella grew more nervous.
“I had the greatest concern that the doll would one day perish, its materials unable to withstand the conditions any longer. And so, I decided to make some repairs to her, to clean her and make her some new clothes.” Her voice trailed off as she saw his mouth gape open.
She knew at that moment that he realized that she held the doll behind her back, and he seemed for the entire world as if he would back away from her had he not been sitting in a chair.
“No,” he said finally, his voice hard and angry. “No. No.”
Isabella began to back away, the doll still behind her back. Her hands were shaking, and she knew there and then that she had done the wrong thing. She should never have interfered, even if she had thought to help him.
“Forgive me,” she said as she backed away through the darkness.
She did not want to turn around to make her exit for fear that he would get a glimpse of the doll he was so determined not to see.
“No,” he said again, and Isabella thought it was in response to her pleas for forgiveness.
Was he refusing to forgive her?
“Elliot, I am so sorry. I thought only to help, truly I did.” As she continued to back away, her heel caught the leg of the little table at the side of her armchair, and she lost her balance.
Isabella fell backward, landing hard, but thought at the last moment to pull the doll out in front of her. Had she landed on her, the porcelain face which had survived such destruction eighteen years before would have most certainly been cracked.
Finally, Elliot got his feet and hurried towards her. He made such haste that her eyes flew to his disfigurement, her imagination suddenly running as wild as it might have done when s
he and Esme were little girls. The monster was bearing down on her.
She began to slide back across the floor, her feet paddling to propel her backward in a bid to escape. And yet, despite her sudden fear, still she held the doll gently in one hand and out of harm’s way.
“Isabella. Isabella, stop. Stop moving,” Elliot said and stood stock still staring down at her. “I have not come across the room to hurt you; I have come to help you. I am not a monster!”
Isabella knew that she had thought exactly that. She knew what it was to have an angry man race across the room with the intent to hurt; a real monster, albeit that her father was fair of face.
“I am sorry,” she said, too shocked and fearful to even cry.
“Let me help you to your feet if you are not so afraid of me,” he said and held out a hand.
Isabella took the hand and no longer felt afraid. Instead, she felt ashamed. She had assumed the worst of him and had likened him, in those dreadful moments, to her father.
But she knew that that was not what Elliot had seen. He had seen the girl who was afraid of the ugly monster, the monster that was going to hurt her, and she could have cried for all the pain she had just caused.
“Thank you,” she said quietly as he pulled her to her feet with ease.
She stood before him not knowing what to do or say with the doll hanging limply down by her side. If only she had left it alone; if only she had realized that, had he wanted the doll kept safe, he would have retrieved her years ago. If Elliot had wanted to keep his sister’s doll as a memento, it would never have lain out in the cold, desolate tower for eighteen years.
Why could she not have seen it all at the time? Why could she not have let it lay there, let it be?
“Elliot, I do not know what to do now,” she said, fighting hard against tears.
“No, neither do I,” he said, and she felt as if a strong wall had just been built between them.
“I will return the doll to her original condition, as best I can, first thing in the morning. And I will take her back to the tower and leave her where I found her.” Her throat was so tight it was painful to speak.
Elliot did not move or speak but stood there in front of her. His face seemed devoid of expression, and he did not, for once, seem to consider that he was standing looking at her face on. He made no move to hide himself or arrange things as he ordinarily did. He simply stood there.
Away from the fire and the lamps, Isabella could not see him very clearly, but he was clear enough. Instead of concentrating on the ruination, instead of allowing her eyes to be drawn that way, she looked into his eyes.
It was too dark to see them as anything other than brown or black in the gloom, not the beautiful green that they were in lighter surroundings. He held her gaze firmly as soon as she looked at him; he did not look away, not even for a heartbeat.
They stood in silence for some moments, neither one of them looking elsewhere. The room was deathly quiet, and all that could be heard was the laboured breathing of them both.
Isabella could not help thinking that their breathing suggested exertion, physical exertion. But of course, there had been none; only emotional exertion.
She wished she knew what he felt as she stared at him. She wanted to know if he hated her for what she had done. She knew it would not help her to be in the dark in every sense, not knowing if he would ever forgive her, not knowing what would come next.
“I think we should part for the rest of the evening, Isabella.” When he finally spoke, she recognized his voice again. He was back.
“But Elliot.”
“No, I cannot think it will do us any good to remain here in this state.”
“I wish I could know if you would forgive me.”
“Let us not speak of this.”
“Never speak of it? Never allow me to apologize properly? Never allow me to explain why I did it?” Isabella could feel herself becoming frantic.
“Goodnight, Isabella,” Elliot said and finally broke their gaze.
“No, no. I will not say goodnight. I will not say goodnight and leave the room as I always do when you are no longer happy to speak. I do not want to go away until we have resolved it.”
“There is nothing to resolve.”
Isabella knew that he cast his eyes down for a moment, almost as if he was chancing a look at the doll.
“I am sorry, Elliot. I am truly sorry.”
“Goodnight, Isabella,” he said again.
He walked around her and out of the room without another word. Isabella turned to watch him leave and then followed him, holding onto the door frame as she watched him walk away along the corridor towards the entrance hall.
Silently, she crept along behind him, thinking all the while that he might turn back at any moment, that he might come back to talk to her and settle it once and for all.
But as she saw his foot take the first of the stairs, Isabella knew that he was not coming back. She knew that he was going up to his own chamber, and she had no idea what would happen next.
Isabella left it more than ten minutes before she began to make her own way upstairs. She walked up slowly, feeling heavy in every sense.
When she walked into her room, the doll still hanging limply by her side, Isabella could not remember ever feeling more alone and isolated in her life. She knew she had come to rely on Elliot’s company in the evenings, and she had the worst feeling that she would not be in his company again.
As she sat down on the bed, the doll in her lap as tears rolled down her cheeks, Isabella tortured herself with the idea that she would spend the rest of her life at Coldwell Hall without ever seeing Elliot. He was successful enough in keeping away from her in the daytime, in hiding from her. If he wished to hide from her in the evening too, Isabella had no doubt that he could achieve it with ease.
She looked down at the doll in her lap and, in her misery, felt a rush of despair that almost saw her smash its porcelain face against the heavy wooden bedpost. She did not; she knew it was wrong.
This was not her doll; it was Lady Eleanor’s. Isabella should never have removed it from its resting place and never should have changed it in anyway. If only she had not been so foolhardy; if only she had not assumed she knew what was for the best.
And if only she knew exactly what it was she felt for Elliot. So much had happened that evening, and she had felt so many emotions. She had felt nervousness, apprehension, and then fear, shame, and regret. Would she really have felt any of those things if she did not care for him?
And what if she never saw him again?
With a heavy heart and unrelenting tears, Isabella finally put herself to bed.
Chapter 17
“It has been almost seven days, Kitty,” Isabella said when she finally gave in and discussed the awful episode at length with her maid.
“Perhaps he just needs a little time, Your Grace.”
“No, I think that he shall never forgive me for what I have done.” Isabella shook her head wildly. “Never.”
“But you have done nothing so terrible.” Kitty gave her a warm smile. “In fact, I think what you did was very kind.”
“But you think me misguided in my kindness?”
“No, I do not. After all, you are left with very little to go on as far as my master’s personality is concerned. You see him but two hours a day and you could not possibly have been expected to have known how His Grace would have reacted.
“True. But I could have perhaps asked you first. You or Mr. Maguire. Who knows my husband better than the two of you?” Isabella sighed and felt the sadness of that truth; she did not know her own husband as well as others did. “Oh, if only I had spoken to you first, Kitty, then this would not have happened. I would have left the doll where it was and kept away from that dreadful tower.”
“Please, do not distress yourself, my dear.” Kitty’s tone and the lightest touch on Isabella’s shoulder were more soothing than anything on earth to her.
“Wh
at is it about that awful place that draws one so? It is a place of such misery and feelings of awful foreboding. And yet Elliot takes himself there almost every day and I, like a fool, seek to follow in his footsteps when I should never have set foot inside those evil, blackened walls.”
Isabella knew that the tower was not an intrinsically evil place; it was just the site of an awful tragedy. But still, she wished she had never set eyes on it; she wished she had never looked out of her chamber window and wondered at the turret she could see through the tall trees.
A Beauty for the Scarred Duke: A Historical Regency Romance Book Page 13