Passion's Song

by Carolyn Jewel

  One day, when Philip was again home to ask his father for a few more dollars, she passed him in the hall, and to her surprise he caught her arm and made her stop.

  “Good afternoon, cousin Isobel.”

  She gave him a strained smile. “Philip.” When he did not let go of her arm, she tried to shake loose. “What do you want? Your mother will not be very pleased if she finds you are keeping me from my work.” Her warning had no effect, for he continued to grip her arm.

  “Why didn’t you come?”

  “Philip, if you truly loved me, you would never have insulted me by asking me to meet you!” She met his gaze unblinkingly.

  He pulled her close to him until she was pressed up against his chest. “Isobel, you are a cruel and cold woman.”

  There was a hungry look in his eyes that frightened her, but she was unable to look away. His face was so close to hers she could feel his breath on her cheek. “Let me go!” She tried to twist away, but he only held her tighter.

  “Isobel, I do love you.” He stared into her eyes and then let them close as he lowered his head to her mouth. His lips were hard on hers, and when she felt him trying to thrust his tongue into her mouth, she kicked out at him as hard as she could. To her great relief he suddenly released her. “You’ll regret that, you little bitch!” he snarled, bending over to rub his bruised shin.

  “You are a gentleman, Philip Samuels, but you seem to have forgotten it!” she cried, resisting the urge to wipe her mouth.

  He straightened up and sneered, “If you want to get on in the world, cousin, stop your airs and remember your station. There’re easier ways for a woman to make a living. Even one like you!” He stepped back. “You won’t be so proud when Father boots you out of here. You won’t think yourself too good for me then!” He brushed against her as he went down the stairs.

  She leaned against the wall after he was gone and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. She finally understood that Philip Samuels meant her no good.

  VI

  Philip had not been home for several weeks when Isobel found herself enjoying a rare evening of solitude after Mr. Samuels took Mrs. Samuels and fat Miss Emily to supper and a new Italian opera. When she came home from Mr. Archer’s she discovered Mrs. Morris was also out, probably taking advantage of the empty house to visit her brother, and so Isobel ate a very lonely supper. She was in her room, brushing out her hair, when she decided she would read for an hour or so before going to bed. She pulled on a cotton wrapper, then went downstairs to the library. In this quiet room, surrounded by books, she could pretend she was in Boston, that her father was still alive and was going to come into the room to talk with her as of old, or that her mother would come in to say she was going to play the fortepiano. She opened her book and was soon so utterly absorbed in the death of Socrates that she did not hear the door open.

  “Good evening, cousin.” Philip leaned one shoulder against the doorway and crossed his arms over his chest, eyes fixed somewhere below her shoulders.

  “What are you doing here?” Isobel snapped the book closed and stood up, startled because she had not heard him come in.

  “I live here,” he said. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

  She wasn’t sure, but she thought his voice sounded just the tiniest bit slurred. “It’s quite late, Philip, and I must be going.” She started toward the door, but the look on his face stopped her. His lips were pressed together in a thin smile. “You leave me alone!” She tried to fight her panic when he took a step toward her.

  He shook his head and let his eyes drop to where her wrapper failed to hide the swell of her breasts. “Do you know, my dear little Isobel, there’s no one here but us?”

  “Mrs. Morris is here!” Her eyes darted to the door, judging whether she could get past him.

  “I’ve given Mrs. Morris the night off.”

  “What do you want, Philip? It’s very late.”

  “Do you remember my letter? I meant every word I said, and I still mean it.” He reached out to touch her hair.

  He was close enough that she could smell liquor on his breath. “You’re drunk!”

  “Ah, but not too drunk to appreciate how pretty you are,” he spoke softly, and before she knew what he was doing, he took another step toward her.

  “Philip!” she said, backing away from his uncomfortable closeness.

  “I’ve been thinking about you, Isobel,” he said in a low voice, “almost every night.” She put her hand out to stop him from coming any closer. “You know I love you. Let me prove it to you.” When she saw he meant to try to kiss her, she pushed him away.

  “I don’t want –“

  “Why not? You know, Isobel, you’re the one who made me think you were in love with me.” He scowled angrily and stepped toward her again. “You followed me all over! And now you’re surprised I’m attracted to you? I’m a man, after all, I’m only human.”

  “Philip!”

  “Come here,” he snarled, suddenly grabbing her arm.

  Her reaction was instinctive. She jerked her arm from his grasp and pushed him away as hard as she could. He stumbled backward and then fell, hitting his head against the side of a small table.

  Chapter 4

  “Philip! Are you all right?” Isobel bent over him, relieved to hear a drunken moan.

  “Good God! What’s happened here?” Samuels was standing in the doorway, his wife behind him, clutching his arm.

  “My son!” Mrs. Samuels exclaimed when she saw Philip. She pushed past her husband to kneel at his side. “My son, my son,” she said in a choked voice. “You’ve killed him!” Mrs. Samuels twisted to look at Isobel.

  “I have not!” Isobel protested.

  Another groan from Philip made Mrs. Samuels return her attention to him. “Hush! Don’t talk right now. Thank God we came back before she could do you even greater harm!” Mrs. Samuels turned to her husband. “She might have killed him, Mr. Samuels! I told you that girl would be nothing but trouble.”

  “I did not! He was trying to –“

  “Think twice before you accuse my son of something you can’t prove,” Samuels cut in. “I think, young lady, you had better go to your room and stay there until I call you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Some quarter of an hour later, Samuels rapped sternly on Isobel’s door. “Please give me the key to this door,” he said.

  “But—”

  “The key.” When she turned it over to him, he stood stiffly with his hand gripping the side of the door. “Philip assures me,” he said, “that your attack on him was unprovoked. I suggest you spend some time thinking about the consequences of falsehood.”

  “It’s Philip who ought to be punished, not I!” she cried as the door shut in her face.

  “Philip,” she heard him say as he turned the key in the lock, “is at least a member of this family.”

  A week later, Philip found Isobel in the study. She jumped when he put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Unless you intend to apologize, I have nothing to say to you, Mr. Philip Carter Samuels,” she said stiffly.

  “So, you still think you’re too good for me, do you?”

  “If you ever touch me again, I swear I’ll tell your father!”

  “Really?” He sneered. “And when I deny it, who do you think he’ll believe—his only son, or some distant relation? If you are related at all, that is.”

  “I would die before I let you touch me, Philip!”

  “I promise you, I’ll make you the sorriest woman in New York.” He whirled around and left, slamming the door after him.

  Isobel stared at the papers scattered on the desk and tried to fight her rising panic. It was becoming all too clear they meant to rob her of her inheritance, and there was no one in New York she could turn to for help.

  The next day she told Mrs. Morris of her fears. “I’ve got to find someone to help me!” She slapped the tabletop angrily.

  Mrs. Morris patted Isobel�
��s hand. “My nephew is a law clerk for Mr. Horace Bardess. Maybe he’ll help you.”

  “Do you think he would?”

  “Well, it never hurts to ask.”

  Isobel’s reply was interrupted by someone’s knocking loudly at the door. When she realized no one was going to answer it, she stood up. “I’ll be right back, Mrs. Morris,” she said over her shoulder.

  Chapter 5

  I

  Mr. Edward Fairfax St. James had no great love for America. He’d been shot at by the damned colonists during the war and he had the uncomfortable feeling that they’d still like to shoot an Englishman. He wanted nothing more than to put an end to this wild-goose chase his brother had sent him on and go home to good solid English soil. He was of the opinion that his niece was dead. If she was still alive, Catherine Rowland, who had once cherished the hope his brother would one day recognize their daughter, would never have stopped sending the letters. The war had interrupted his brother’s search for the girl, and though Edward was convinced the twice-yearly communications had stopped because the girl was dead, Robert had been adamant that he go to the colonies and confirm it. If she were alive, she was to be brought to England. Edward would never have gone but for the fact his brother had given him a goodly sum of money and the promise of a lucrative post in the government on his return. Since he had recently resigned his commission in the army, and had nothing much better to do, he had gone. He had already spent the better part of a month trying to discover what had happened to the American Catherine Rowland had married. He’d spent even more time trying to locate their daughter. It was several weeks before he discovered she’d moved from Boston to New York. By then, he was more than ready to go home. It was so like those deuced colonists to make things difficult, Edward told himself. He knocked at the door of the house where he had been told Catherine Rowland’s only child now resided. He glanced around while he waited for someone to answer the door. The dingy building was not large, but it looked as if it might once have been rather pretty. Now, it was in need of some whitewash and, he thought as he looked out over the side lawns, a good gardener. An appallingly pale girl opened the door. Judging by her appearance, the owner did not treat his servants too well. She was as drab as the house. Her skirt and blouse were clean but faded to a uniform gray, having seen better days long ago. Her hair was covered by a dark kerchief, though a few strands of light-colored hair had escaped to curl around her wan face.

  “Yes, sir?” Her voice was soft.

  Edward thought it was odd that he should notice her eyelashes made a dusty curve on her cheeks. Something about her made him whip the hat off his head as he spoke. “Would you be so kind as to tell me if I have found the relatives of Mr. Jonathon Rowland?”

  “His cousin, Mr. Carter Samuels, lives here.”

  “Mr. Carter Samuels,” he repeated, looking at her more closely and deciding if she weren’t so thin she might, almost, be considered handsome. She had high cheekbones and a slender nose, and the hand that held the edge of the door had long fingers. Because she was standing in the shadows, he couldn’t see the color of her eyes.

  “Mr. Samuels isn’t in. Perhaps you might leave your card?”

  “Perhaps, miss, you may be of service,” he said, handing her his card with a little flourish. “Is there, by any chance, a young girl by name of Isobel, seventeen or so, living here?”

  “Yes, Mr. St. James, there is,” she said.

  He masked his surprise at her being able to read. “I should be extremely grateful if I could speak with her.” He sighed with relief. He could taste good English roast beef even now. All he had to do was collect the girl and head for home.

  “Why?”

  “I’m afraid that’s confidential.” He was nonplussed at the question, as if it were any business of hers! He was of a mind to chastise her for her impertinence, but instead, he forced a smile and said, “If you would tell her I am here, I would be in your debt.”

  “If she knew why you wanted to speak with her, I’m sure she would consent to see you.”

  It was a shame she was relegated to a life of petty labor. Poverty ruined women at a regrettably young age. She was no older than sixteen or seventeen, and he was certain that inside of ten years her looks would be entirely spoiled. He took out a coin and pressed it into her hand. “Perhaps I might convince you to tell her I am here?”

  “I don’t want your money.” She held out the coin until he took it back.

  “As you wish.” He shrugged and pocketed it, restraining himself from telling her she looked as though she could ill afford to refuse any coin. “I am staying at the DeWitt Hotel. If you would be so kind, please tell your mistress where she might find me and that I wish to speak with her on a matter of the utmost importance.” He was about to go when his eye was caught by a flash of light off something around the girl’s neck as she took a step toward him. He tried to hide his excitement as he reached out to examine it. “What an unusual locket! May I see it?” She quickly covered the locket with slim fingers. “I only want to look at it,” Edward protested. She was silent while he examined the motto engraved on its reverse side. “Where did you get this?” It was no wonder she hadn’t wanted him to look at it; the little thief had stolen it!

  She tucked the locket back into her shirt before answering him in an offended tone. “It was given to me by my father. Now, if you do not mind, my cousin will be upset if you take up any more of my time, so unless you have a message for him…?”

  “Your cousin?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are a servant here?” He could keep the incredulity from neither his voice nor his face.

  “Mr. Samuels is kind enough to allow me to earn my keep,” she answered stiffly, looking him full in the face. He saw then the unmistakable deep blue of her eyes.

  “You are Isobel?” She nodded. “Then, I have the pleasure of telling you that I am your Uncle Edward.” He bowed and, when he straightened up, continued: “I am gratified to have found you at last.”

  She was looking at him with a stare unnervingly like the one his brother had used on him just before ordering him to America. “I don’t find your little joke at all amusing,” she said, anger flashing in her eyes. “Philip put you up to this, didn’t he? You will tell him, if you please, that it did not work.” She would have shut the door in his face if he had not quickly put his foot in the way.

  “I assure you this is no joke! My brother—that is, your father—has spent the last several years and a great deal of money trying to locate you. He expects me to return to London with you.”

  “My father is dead.”

  “His lordship would be surprised to hear that.”

  “His lordship? Oh, really!” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. “Do you think me so stupid as to believe such nonsense? Next you will be telling me King George has decided to ask for my hand!”

  “I can prove I tell the truth!” Edward exclaimed. The last thing he had expected was to be disbelieved. Provided he even found his niece, he had envisioned informing her of her good fortune and taking the grateful girl back to England. No arguments, no reluctance, and certainly no suspicions about his veracity.

  “How?” she asked skeptically.

  “Do you recognize this?” He took a miniature out of his pocket and held it out to her.

  “No,” she said bluntly, barely glancing at the painting of a small blond child before thrusting it back at him. He refused to take it.

  “Turn it over.”

  Isobel read the inscription on the back:

  Your daughter, Isobel St. James on the occasion of her 3rd anniversary, 23rd April 1772.

  She looked at him. “So?”

  “Your mother sent this to your father.”

  “If she sent it to my father, how did you get it?” She handed the miniature back to him.

  “Jonathon Rowland was not your father.” He pocketed the painting with a long sigh of frustration.

  “Perhaps you have the wrong
Isobel?” She had offered the suggestion to be helpful and she looked taken aback at his sharp reply.

  “No! And that necklace proves it.” He jabbed a finger at her chest. “It was a gift from my brother to your mother.”

  “And just who is it you say is your brother?” She crossed her arms over her chest as though challenging him.

  “Your father is Robert St. James, third earl of Chessingham. Your mother sent him news of you every year on your birthday and at Christmas. Her letters stopped coming several years ago.”

  “My mother died when I was ten. Why didn’t he try to find me then?”

  “I think that’s a subject you’d best discuss with your father.” Edward began to have hope he might be back in England before too long.

  “Am I to understand I am to meet him sometime?” She spoke slowly, trying desperately to absorb what this stranger was telling her.

  “Your father has instructed me to find you and bring you back to England.”

  “But I don’t want—” She was going to say she did not want to go to England, but stopped herself. What was there for her in New York if what he was saying was true? “Miss Isobel St. James.” She said the words as though savoring their sound. She looked at him and asked, “Is he very rich?”

  Though Edward was surprised by her question, he did not show it. “He’s a wealthy man, yes.” If finding out his brother was rich would get her to go with him, he was willing to tell her he was Croesus.

  “Perhaps you had best speak to Mr. Samuels.” She opened the door and let him in. “If you don’t mind waiting, I think he would be very interested in hearing your story.”

  II

  Edward took Isobel’s arm as they boarded the English packet bound for Bristol, concerned that she would be frightened to be on a ship for the first time. As it turned out, he needn’t have worried, for, as she told him, she’d been sailing with Rowland more than once. During the weeks it took to cross the Atlantic, she did not suffer a moment of seasickness, not even when the weather turned foul. She spent hours standing on the deck looking out over the water as though she expected the shores of England to magically appear.