Laverock was a pasty color now and unbuttoned his collar. “What injuries did you sustain, Miss Pierson?”
I touched the back of my head and winced. It was swollen where it’d been gashed. “The back of my head mostly. My hands.”
Noyes backed toward the door and placed his hand on the handle. “We’ll file it in our report. I don’t have any further questions. Do you?”
Laverock shook his head but looked at me with fear and amazement.
“How did Eramus die?” I asked. “Where was he found?”
“It’s not something for a lady to know, miss,” Noyes said.
“She’s holding his ring,” Laverock hissed in a whisper. “If she asks a question, you give her an answer.” Then to me, “He was found floating in the Thames, facedown. The back of his head had been bashed in and . . .” He paused and looked at my hands. “His hands and feet looked as though they’d been held over a fire. His arms and legs were broken, and—”
Fearing I might be sick, I looked around for a basin. “And the other man?” I managed to say.
Laverock fished in his pocket for a piece of paper. “Adam Tanby.”
Constable Noyes opened the door. Isaac and James waited in the hall. Without asking permission, Isaac entered and took a seat. James motioned for the constables to follow him.
I waited for Isaac to speak, but he didn’t. Five, ten minutes passed in silence. James brought in tea and sweet rolls and set them at my bedside.
After several more minutes, Isaac rose, leaned over, and pulled a cigar box from the dresser in the room. I lifted the cover, and the scent of Macy filled the room. Inside, the missing citrine jewelry sat nestled in velvet.
“There was a note.” Isaac’s voice tightened. “Your father must not have wanted you to read it. Macy said he tracked down every piece Eramus stole except one. The necklace was stripped down, but Macy offered to buy you any necklace you desired to replace it.”
I could only stare at the glittering stones.
“Is that his robe?” Isaac asked.
I looked down, though I already knew I still wore Macy’s scarlet-and-gold dressing gown. Heat filled my face. “Yes.”
He remained blank-looking, but his jaw tightened.
Misunderstanding his dismay, I thought him jealous, so I explained, “My dress was soaked with blood and scorched. My skirt was crusted with mud, and Macy cut the sleeve of my dress trying to assess whether I was hurt or not.”
I pushed up the sleeve, surprised by the grisly marks Eramus had left on my arm. Looking at it made it painful, whereas previously it barely ached.
Isaac stared, horror-struck. Protection filled his eyes, but I could see he battled another emotion. When a pair of footsteps sounded outside the door, he rose.
My father, trailed by Forrester, appeared. “Is the story the constables told me true?”
“I didn’t hear what they said,” I replied, “but I told them the truth.”
Isaac looked askance from his corner, as though he knew I was dissembling somehow but couldn’t figure out where.
“Tell me what happened, then,” my father said.
Isaac turned his back to me—I believed so I couldn’t read the emotion on his face should he show any. Keeping my voice steady, I told about Eramus and my midnight chase to Macy’s house.
Forrester addressed my father. “He’s been right under our noses, which means she’s been slipping in and out this entire time. Notice how she knew exactly where to run.”
“I never should have taken you in! Robert’s had you pegged from the beginning.”
“Sir?” Isaac spun.
“I’ve known Eramus since he was born,” my father said, collapsing in the chair. “He wouldn’t terrorize my daughter. I don’t know how you ended up at Macy’s, but that story is a falsehood if I ever heard one.”
“She’s not lying.”
“Isaac, I know you had hopes . . .” My father placed his elbows on his lap. “I’m sorry.”
“There are things I’ve never told you about Eramus,” Isaac said. He spoke and stood as though he were separated from his emotions. “This is my fault. I—I thought I had the situation under control. May I speak to you privately in the smoking room? I don’t want Julia hearing.”
They were gone over an hour. Though Isaac had once agreed to share with me what he knew about Eramus Calvin, I never asked to learn what they spoke about. I couldn’t bear to know Isaac’s pain. I had my own terrifying memories of the man.
When they returned, my father boiled with anger. “We will mourn Eramus for two weeks, out of respect for Lady Beatrice. Then I never want his name spoken again!”
The tranquillizer Mr. Macy stirred into my drink that night brimmed over into my life. Impassivity ruled London House. Even the lavish woodwork and polished surfaces seemed cold and uninviting. Isaac, the gentleman as always, tended to my needs but never allowed me to see past his mask. My father attended sessions, but when he came home, he looked at neither Isaac nor me. He spoke softly, walked softly, and spent many hours in his smoking room, the scent of Havana smoke strong outside the door.
Each morning, as I clad myself in crepe, I felt a grim sense of relief. There could be no betrothal during our seclusion of grief. The rules of mourning did not allow me to wear Edward’s pin, which could have saved us from our daily ritual of tension, but Isaac no longer seemed to note me.
Surprisingly, it was Lady Beatrice who sought my company. The magistrates told her that Eramus died protecting me, so she clung to me, hours a day, crying in my lap. Numbness still accompanied me as I stroked her back. I’d stare, wondering if she actually wept for Eramus or for herself. Many times as I held her frail, shaking shoulders, I looked over at Isaac in wonderment. He sat with a black mourning band wrapped about his arm, his eyes distant.
Mr. Macy haunted my dreams. The dreams repeated themselves over and again until I felt that I never slept but only shifted from the same incubus into reality. It started with Mr. Macy, taller than Mr. Greenham, picking me out from the mud or a crowd of jeering people. He’d take me home and coil around me like a snake, suffocating me. Just when I readied myself to die, he was replaced by Edward, who comforted me, telling me that it was all a nightmare. He’d never left me.
I woke one night, sobbing, the images of Edward receding.
As I had every night that week, I started to collect myself by lighting a candle. Sometimes, if I turned onto my side and stared long enough at the flickering light, sleep would overtake me. But then, all at once, I realized I couldn’t do this anymore. Even if I fell asleep, I would only repeat the dream.
I wanted freedom. But how?
As I cast a desperate look about my bedchamber, I felt the nagging sensation that perhaps my freedom lay in surrender.
But surrender to what?
I kicked the covers off my feet, frustrated, eyeing Edward’s charred Bible.
I’ve looked there, I silently screamed to God. I even believed the solution was there. But what was that to me? I couldn’t make sense of it. There was no one to explain.
Yet even that thought rang false in my mind. For I’d not forgotten the way Isaac watched me read, patiently waiting for me to approach him.
Before I could change my mind, I grabbed my shawl, stole from my bed, and pattered down the hall.
When I reached his door, however, I couldn’t knock. How could I disturb his sleep in the middle of the night with questions I didn’t have the words to ask? Instead I leaned against the wood, wishing I could go back in time.
The door opened. Isaac, clad in a nightshirt, fastened on a pair of trousers as he gave me a questioning look.
I shrugged, telling him I didn’t know why I was there either.
He sighed, then took my arm and led me to the staircase that was farthest from my father’s chamber. “Sit,” he said, and when I obeyed, he took the step above me and wrapped me in his arms.
“I killed Eramus,” I whispered. “I killed him by going to
Macy.”
“Did you go to Macy with the intent to have him killed?”
“No.”
“Then you didn’t kill Eramus. You’re not responsible for what Macy does.”
It was the first conversation we’d had since the attack and the calmest I’d felt since that night.
“I can’t take you not speaking to me anymore,” I said. “It’s more than I can bear. Why do you act as though I’m not in the room?”
Isaac said nothing.
“Is it because . . . because I still love Edward?”
“No.” His voice was pained. Isaac shifted me closer against him, though somehow there wasn’t anything provocative in it.
“Then why?”
He rested his chin against the crown of my head, so that I felt him speak. He paused for a long moment as if wrestling with his thoughts. “I failed to protect you from Eramus. I believed I was capable but risked your life.” I felt his throat tighten before anger coated his voice. “And if I can’t keep you safe from the likes of him, then how . . . how dare I presume . . .” He clutched me tight.
I said nothing, realizing how precarious my footing was. This was Isaac exposed.
“You should have seen your father’s face,” Isaac eventually continued, “when I had to confess that I knew Eramus was dangerous, that I exposed you, that I lost control of the situation.”
I sighed, scarcely able to imagine how difficult it must have been for Isaac. He’d performed so flawlessly for so long that somewhere along the way he’d forgotten which part of him was real.
I rested my head against him, wondering if he even knew where his true feelings began and where duty and honor ended. He loved me sincerely—there was no doubt of that. But what I couldn’t decide was whether it was because he thought we suited each other or because it was his nature to love. Who could tell if he followed duty or ardor? He might have loved anyone with equal devotion; it just happened to fall to me.
“Why are you here?” he eventually asked.
I allowed the back of my head to sag against his chest as I recalled my struggle. “I don’t know. It feels foolish now.”
“Tell me anyway. I could use something foolish.”
I felt my cheeks warm as I pondered how to talk to Isaac about what I’d experienced. More than once I opened my mouth to speak before finally asking, “Have you ever . . . have you ever felt God?”
“Yes.”
His frank answer stunned me. For a second, I wanted to be offended that he was so certain, so sure. But then, with a chuckle, I realized I felt the same way.
“Does this have anything to do with why you’ve been searching Scripture?”
It was all the invitation I needed. My words did not flow eloquently that night, but in the darkness of that stairway in London House, I haltingly poured out my devastation and sorrow at Isaac’s feet. I told him about what I’d experienced at Eastbourne, what I hoped to achieve by seeking my father’s aid, and the time I’d finally prayed and then feared the depth of what I’d touched.
Each word cost, for they exposed years of hurt, potentially giving Isaac mastery over my forming beliefs. I tried to guard myself, waiting for him to begin defining what I should believe and then urge me to obey God by obeying my father and marrying him.
As I finished, I stole a glance at him and found his lips twisted.
“You dare to smile,” I accused.
He sobered, looking rueful. “I meant no harm. It’s just that you’re asking me to assign meaning to loss, one of the most hindering aspects of faith.” He waited several moments as if gathering his thoughts. “When considering surrender, I suppose, the primary question to ask is whether or not a person actually knows what’s best for herself.”
I stiffened at the ludicrousness of that thought.
“For example,” Isaac continued, “most, given the chance, would choose discovering they’d been left a vast fortune over suffering a crippling disease. Yet I’ve seen the former cause utter ruination and grief, and the latter drastically bring healing to someone’s relationships and outlook on life. Which is truly the blessing and which the curse?”
I sat stock-still in his arms, desiring to be open to new ideas, but still wanting to think through his argument.
“You’re on the right path; I can say that much. It is no easy decision to lay down your life, especially without assurance of what that will entail. You fear being further broken, but consider that in the hands of Jesus, a broken loaf can feed thousands, while intact it will feed only one.”
I hid my pain, feeling as though we were discussing my willingness to give up Edward.
“Maybe,” Isaac continued, “he has a mighty plan. And maybe the reason he’s not softened your approach is because he knows how difficult your steps toward him are, and it ravishes his heart that you proceed anyway.”
I couldn’t help but give a disbelieving laugh at the image of Julia Elliston captivating God. I shook my head, imagining how quickly my former vicar would rebuff that notion. “I don’t think so, Isaac.”
“Not many choose to die, and I know better than anyone how dear your former life is to you. If you hand over that, do you really believe such a sacrifice would go unnoticed?”
The idea of love won me. I could never follow the God of my vicar’s making, but this—this made me yearn. The thought of a God who waited patiently, hand outstretched, eagerly anticipating me . . . that thought undid me. Perhaps it was because of Isaac too. His daily care and tender ministrations set another example, painted another image.
I would liken my first step toward faith like stepping up to the edge of the cliff, spreading arms wide, and falling backwards in trust that God wouldn’t let me fall. I’d never felt so frightened, yet drawn. Like Abraham placing his son on the altar, I knew the conditions under which I approached. I had to release all.
That night I surrendered. I accepted that I could lay down the heavy weight of my burden in exchange for rest. The price was costly, but once exchanged, I found a deep well of peace that could coexist with grief. My only witness was Isaac, who laughed outright, a husky laugh that contained the very air of a father laying eyes on his newborn child.
The following morning as Miss Moray spread a rose-colored gown over my bed, I opened my vanity drawer and pulled out Edward’s watch. Morning light caught its engravings as I considered it. It is one thing to decide to mentally take a step of faith, but quite another to live it out physically. I fisted the timepiece, knowing that no matter what transpired, Edward alone would be the longing of my heart. A glance in the mirror told me I appeared as frightened as I felt. Swallowing, I placed the watch back inside the vanity.
Isaac immediately noted the absence of Edward’s pin as I slid into my chair. One unguarded look in his eyes gave me a glimpse of his soul, but his own brand of diplomacy quickly took over. He returned to his breakfast as if making an unspoken pledge that he wouldn’t rush me. To anyone else he would have appeared leisurely, but I noted how he couldn’t stop smiling.
I attempted to return his smile but suddenly felt shy and anxious to move the attention from me. My father, buried behind the Times of London, did not acknowledge me, so I gave Isaac a meaningful look, asking what in the papers occupied him. Still grinning, he shrugged.
When the morning correspondences arrived, a glint of purple—a royal envelope—peeked through amongst the ivory. With a growl, my father tore it open and scanned the contents.
“Write an acceptance this morning.” He handed it to me. “You and Isaac shall attend.”
Isaac lifted his eyebrows as he sipped his tea.
I held the invitation between my fingers, disliking that after so long, our first outing would be a court function. They were particularly nerve-racking, as the price of error was high.
I handed the purple page to Isaac. “It’s a costume ball.”
His face fell as he read it for himself. “I hate these. Every female asks me if I know who she is, and I never do. The horrid
feeling intensifies with each wrong guess. Two years ago, I started a feud between two rivals.” He handed the page back. “At least this year they know my heart is taken. Maybe that will help.”
“Let’s disguise ourselves,” I suggested. “Make it impossible to guess who we are.”
“No.” My father’s voice grumbled from behind the headlines. “Neither of you have been in the papers for weeks.” He folded and lowered his paper before sagging against his chair, studying us. “Which means we need costumes London will talk about.”
Isaac shot me a look of alarm before placidly buttering a scone.
My father nodded thoughtfully as though he weighed different ideas in his mind, eventually deciding on, “Tristan and Isolde. I’ll arrange for the costumes.”
“A tragedy, sir? Really?” Isaac protested. “Haven’t we had enough of those lately?”
Instead of answering, my father stood and glowered. Isaac, however, didn’t lower his chin or look askance. He stared back.
My father merely grabbed his stack of newspapers and left the chamber.
A fortnight later, I stood before my mirror at evenfall, looking over the medieval-styled dress. It was red and fastened across the chest with a band of material that connected to a blue cape trimmed with cross-stitched Celtic lions. The dress’s trim was stitched with thistles. A wispy veil, cut in the front and attached to my head with a gold circlet, fell down my back.
Another girl, from another era, stared back at me, making me think I would have fared well as a chieftain’s daughter, centuries prior. The garb suited me.
Isaac paced at the bottom of the stairs in the foyer, giving me a chance to view him privately. Alone, he wasn’t self-possessed. His normally placid face was filled with anxiety, and he chewed his thumbnail. His costume was thinly hammered armor that a smith had taken time to ornament. The silver plates weren’t bulky and were connected with some stretchable fabric that allowed him to bend elbows, knees, and waist. It broadened his shoulders and made his legs appear muscular. I frowned, considering how handsomely my father had paid for our costumes.
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