The pews were not even half full, unlike Sundays where it was sometimes difficult to find a seat. She slipped into an empty pew near the back. As she settled in, Mr. Safford stood to begin his sermon.
She looked around, noting a number of familiar faces. Lord Brockway and his mother sat a few rows ahead. He looked unusually grave.
Mr. Safford's sermon was characteristically inspiring. Isabel had attended church her whole life, but it wasn't until she came to know Mr. Safford that she had come to value her time at church services. Never had a clergyman been so obviously and genuinely devoted to his parishioners. Understanding Mr. Safford's sincerity, seeing the way he lived what he preached—it had brought new value to church attendance for Isabel. That attendance, coupled with the wisdom she had gleaned from him, had sustained her in many ways over the course of the Season.
She watched Mr. Safford read from the Bible and listened as he preached of laying up treasure in heaven. He looked older than she remembered, his face more pulled. And while his words were earnest, they seemed to lack their customary energy. She had never considered what needs or difficulties he might face in his own life. He was anxious to serve others, but who served him?
Midway through the service, two people slid onto the pew beside Isabel. Isabel turned toward the latecomers, and her mouth opened, forming a large smile.
It was Lord Ashworth and Kate Matcham—or Lady Ashworth, rather. Isabel would have to accustom herself to calling her by her new title. Lady Ashworth’s cheeks were becomingly flushed, and she seemed to have the glow characteristic of couples newly-returned from their wedding trip.
Lady Ashworth leaned over toward Isabel. “I was sure we would find you here,” she whispered. “I am very happy to be proved right.”
Isabel squeezed Lady Ashworth’s hand with a smile, noting how her other hand was clasped within Lord Ashworth’s who turned to Isabel and inclined his head with a broad grin.
She forced away the prick of jealousy she felt seeing them hand-in-hand. What would it feel like to have her own hand clasped within Charles’s?
“How was the wedding trip?” she asked softly.
Lady Ashworth took in a drawn-out breath and let it out in a contented sigh. “Spectacular. We spent it all in Dorset, you know, but I think I shall never tire of it, so I was quite content that it be so. William insists that he will take me to the French countryside if the war ever comes to an end.” She paused and raised a brow at Isabel. “Perhaps we can all make the journey as part of an extended wedding trip for you?”
Isabel drew back. “For me?” She forced a soft laugh. “You may be obliged to postpone the journey for many years if you insist on waiting for such a thing.”
Lady Ashworth shook her head. “It will happen sooner than you think, I’m sure. Who could resist such a kind soul as you are?” She smiled at Isabel with her warm eyes, and Isabel returned with her own weak smile.
Lady Ashworth’s words smarted.
A marriage as beautifully-contented as the Ashworths had never felt more desirable to Isabel. And yet never further from reach.
When the service was over, people filtered out of the chapel slowly. Isabel remained in her seat once the Ashworths took their leave. She stared at the stained-glass windows. The sun had peeked through once during the service, and it did so again, casting colorful reflections onto the pews and the stone floors. She could hear the muffled sound of conversation outside.
"Miss Cosgrove." Lord Brockway stood at the edge of the pew.
She stood and walked over to him, greeting him. "And how are you, my lord?"
"I am well enough, thank you." He moved out of the way so that she could exit the pew. He paused a moment and then, as if he couldn't help himself, asked after Cecilia.
"She is well, I believe," Isabel said. They walked toward the exit. "Did you not speak with her at Almack's the other night?"
Lord Brockway's lips pressed together. "No. I believe she was avoiding me. Your father, too, has been putting me off since I asked for an audience with him."
Isabel closed her eyes and grimaced as they passed through the door into the courtyard. The Cosgrove’s footman stood near the gate.
Isabel turned to face Lord Brockway. He was correct, of course.
“I'm so very sorry,” she said, “Cecilia seems to be going through a particularly headstrong phase. I think all the attention has gone to her head."
Lord Brockway tapped his cane on the ground, looking down at the stones below him. "In your honest opinion, Miss Cosgrove, am I wasting my time? Have I misinterpreted your sister's words?"
Isabel let out a puff of air and then took her lips between her teeth. "I can't speak to what Cecilia has told you—only you can gauge how sincere she has been. As for wasting your time—" she took in a large breath, and let her shoulders drop as she exhaled "—you must do as you feel best, my lord. But, for what it's worth, I haven't given up on Cecilia. I believe she will recognize your value. It is just a matter of whether it will be too late when that occurs."
Lord Brockway was still looking down, running the top of his cane through his fingers. He looked up and attempted a smile. "I have much to think on."
Isabel chewed her lip for a moment. "If you truly desire my advice, my lord, I would advise you to give Cecilia space. Let her sort through this struggle of hers."
He looked skeptical.
"You don't wish to have to persuade her into accepting you, do you? You'd like her to have you willingly?"
He nodded slowly, his eyes fixed, unfocused, on some spot behind her.
Isabel nodded her own head in response. "Then let her decision be reached in its own time, absent constant attention from you. Let her miss you. Let her look for you. I think she has come to take you for granted. A reminder that you are not a guaranteed presence in her life will, I think, tip the scales one way or the other. At least you will have an answer."
One of his fingers tapped the knob of his cane. "But what if it is not the answer I want?" He looked up at her.
Isabel felt for him. She knew the bitterness of caring for someone who didn't reciprocate. She heaved a sigh. "Then you must press on, believing you will care for someone else in time—someone who can return your regard the way she should." Her mouth stretched into an understanding grimace. "There is no shortage of young ladies who would do exactly that, you know."
Lord Brockway stood up straight, his gaze scanning upward toward the spire of St. James'. "And yet none of them are Miss Cecilia. What was it Pascal said? 'Le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point.'"
“‘The heart has reasons that reason doesn’t know.’ How shrewd," she said, following his gaze up to the top of the chapel and the cloud-checkered skies above. "My experience, too, has proven the heart to be very stubborn. But cheer up, my friend. We will both come about."
He gripped the knob of his cane and smiled at her. "I will endeavor to heed your advice and give your sister ample space. Thank you, Miss Cosgrove."
She looked around, noting that all the other churchgoers had departed the courtyard. The footman stood patiently waiting.
Lord Brockway tipped his hat and moved to walk toward the gate but turned back to her instead. "May your heart also attain what it wants and deserves." He walked through the gate and away from the church.
Isabel stared after him for a moment, her eyes unfocused. What did her heart deserve? She had never assumed that the type of happiness she envisioned was within her reach. When she had seen Charles Galbraith again and felt that curious attraction, that desire to know him, she had not truly considered that she would be granted the chance. Nor had she anticipated that to know him more would only whet her appetite for his company.
The more time she spent with him, the more curious and intrigued she became; the more she dreaded no longer spending time in Charles's company; the more she understood Pascal's words.
She smoothed her dress.
“I shall only be a few more minutes, Finch,” sh
e said to the footman, who bowed.
She walked toward the garden, hoping for another moment of reflection before returning home. The churchyard of St. James’s was her favorite place for sorting through difficult concerns.
Moving past the garden and toward the cemetery, she weaved through the headstones. Whatever Isabel’s own situation, Cecilia's chances with Lord Brockway were on shaky ground. Her last caution seemed not to have helped, but she would try one more time to warn Cecilia of what she stood to lose if she didn't change her ways.
She stopped abruptly. “Mr. Safford?”
He was kneeling on the ground, with his hands between two rows of headstones. His head snapped up, and his hands shot away from the space between the graves, his fingers brown with dirt.
“Miss Cosgrove.” He looked torn between chagrin and relief.
“What are you doing?” she said, staring at the small box in the shadowed gap between the headstones where the grass grew tall.
Mr. Safford followed her gaze and sighed, hesitating before offering any response.
“It must appear very peculiar.”
She said nothing. It did, after all.
He regarded her watchfully, and his shoulders settled, as if he had come to a decision.
“May I trust you, Miss Cosgrove?” he said.
She nodded decisively. What a strange question. “Of course you may.”
He lifted himself from the ground and brushed his hands together. “You know of Mr. Farrow and his role in Miss Robson's lamentable situation. What you may not know—indeed, no one knows this but myself and some near family—is that Mr. Farrow is, in fact, my nephew."
Isabel’s mouth opened wordlessly. “Your nephew?”
Mr. Safford nodded. "My late brother's son." He indicated a headstone just two places away from the one he had been kneeling at before. There was no grass growing on the upturned dirt, and the headstone was new.
"I have long been estranged from my family,” he said. “My decision to enter holy orders was unwelcome to my father—he had always been insistent that I study law. But I was stubborn. I had a great sense of purpose.” His mouth turned down in a frown, and he scratched his neck pensively. “He could never abide to be disobeyed, though. He told me I was no longer welcome in the family, going so far as to insist that I change my name. I had no communication with them for years. All that I knew of them was what I heard from parishioners who happened to mention them from time to time."
"Good heavens," said Isabel. "How terribly unfair and lonely."
Mr. Safford smiled wryly. "Mrs. Safford has been wonderful company to me, and I chose long ago not to dwell on whatever mistreatment I experienced at my family's hands. I only tell you this so that you may understand what happened next.
She inclined her head, inviting him to continue.
“Months ago, my elder brother Peter sought me out. He had fallen ill and was not expected to make a recovery. Under the circumstances, he felt a desire to make amends and to seek God. His spiritual transformation during his illness was astounding. Such humility had brought him to view his son Robert's somewhat degenerate lifestyle as unsatisfactory and unacceptable; repellant, even. He and Robert came to an agreement—reluctantly on Robert’s part, as I understand—that Robert would reform his ways or else face being disinherited of all the unentailed property he stood to inherit. My brother died not long after—but not before he provided me with an alternate will. He was concerned, for various reasons, that Robert was not sincere in his commitment. His final wish was for me to safeguard the will and only to make it known to his executors in the event that Robert refused to reform his lifestyle."
Isabel stared at him, comprehension dawning on her face. "I see. Now that you know Hetty's situation, you must decide whether to make the will known."
He grimaced. "Yes." He shook his head and stared at the leaves above. A slight breeze was rustling the leaves as sun shone through them. "If it had been a 'crime of passion,' if you will, I could look on it with more understanding and leniency. We are all sinners, after all, and often fall short even when we intend to do good.
"But Robert has not taken responsibility. Quite the contrary. He came to visit me last week—the same day Miss Robson arrived. I’m sure you remember it. I'm uncertain how he discovered the existence of the will, but he intended to have it. I refused to hand over the document, after which he threatened my life and then knocked me over the head with his pistol."
"Good gracious," Isabel cried. "I thought you had fallen! He must have taken leave of his senses! Did you inform the magistrate?"
Mr. Safford shook his head. "No. It is a delicate issue, and I have had too much experience with men of the law to entrust them with it. I believe Robert tried to find the will—the vestry was turned upside down when I came to. Thankfully, I had the forethought to hide the document where no one would be likely to look.”
"In the box?" Isabel asked.
"Yes. I have placed it in a moleskin pouch which is, in turn, protected by the silver box you see."
Isabel stepped closer to the headstone. The engraving was barely discernable between the moss and lichen filling the worn letters.
"Why are you telling me this?" Isabel asked.
He stooped down to rub a patch of dirt from his brother's headstone and traced the letters of his name with a finger. "If something happens to me, I must be sure that my brother's dying request is honored. Much is at stake for Robert Farrow, and he has already shown his willingness to use violent means to protect his inheritance."
Isabel stared. "You think he might make an attempt on your life?"
Mr. Safford sighed. "I don't know. But I must be prepared. If that time comes, Miss Cosgrove,” he said in a grave voice, “the will must be recovered and taken to Mr. John Barratt. He is a solicitor, and I trust him."
“Why not simply give it to him now? You have seen evidence that Mr. Farrow is not reformed, have you not?”
He grimaced and sighed. “I must give him another chance. I have seen even the unrepentant turn to God. My brother is a perfect example of the power of God reaching a seemingly impenetrable heart. I hope to write Robert a letter, encouraging him to reconsider his path.”
Isabel swallowed and nodded, glancing at the space between the headstones. She hoped to never be required to set her sights on it again.
She had no idea how much property Mr. Farrow stood to lose if the will was revealed. It seemed unthinkable, though, that a man would seek to kill his own kin. Why not instead reform his ways?
The inheritance was not all he stood to lose, though. If Charles’s suit with Miss Darling succeeded, Mr. Farrow stood to lose Miss Darling, as well.
And even if Miss Darling didn't come to her senses and choose Charles—Isabel couldn't dwell on that possibility for the hope it fanned within her—there was a great likelihood that Mr. Farrow’s reputation would lead Miss Darling to distance herself from him anyway.
A man with so much to lose could certainly be capable of terrible things.
13
Isabel knocked softly on the door.
The door opened only slightly at first, but when Hetty saw who the intruder was, she swung it wide.
Cecilia was seated at the far side of her bedroom, and Anaïs stood behind her, adjusting the pink riband woven through Cecilia's hair.
Hetty followed Isabel's gaze and then sent Isabel a look full of meaning.
Isabel grimaced. Anaïs and Hetty had not taken to one another.
Hetty walked over to Cecilia's chair. "That riband isn't long enough. The pale yellow would go better anyway."
Anaïs didn’t even look at Hetty, only muttering something in French, which drew a long-suffering expression from Hetty.
"We speak English here, mademoiselle." Hetty said the last word with sarcasm.
Cecilia applied rouge to her cheeks, paying no heed to the fracas occurring between the two maids. She allowed Anaïs much more license than their mother liked, but Isabel could
n’t bother herself with such things at the moment.
"If you are nearly done, Anaïs,” Isabel said, “I would like to speak with Cecilia before she leaves."
Anaïs put a final pin into Cecilia's hair and looked over at Hetty, one eyebrow raised in victory. "Parfait," she said.
Hetty's nostrils flared as she set down a handheld mirror and moved to leave the room. Anaïs stepped in front of her with a challenging glance and left the room first.
"What is it, Izzy?" Cecilia dabbed perfume on her wrist and then rubbed it on her neck. "I am late. Mama told Lord Roffey to pick us up at eight, and it is already five past. I heard the carriage wheels ten minutes ago.”
Isabel placed her hands on the back of the chair her sister sat in, running both hands along the carved wood patterns. "Lord Roffey again. Is he your choice then?"
"My choice?" Cecilia shot her a bewildered glance through the mirror.
"Of your suitors. For a husband, I mean."
Cecilia laughed. "It is a night at the opera, Izzy. Don't be dramatic, for heaven's sake."
Isabel forced a smile. Could Cecilia really be so cavalier about all the gentlemen in her life? Or was there more going on below the surface? The way Cecilia spoke, sometimes it was easy to doubt whether there was a heart behind her caprice.
But Isabel knew better. And that was why she found her sister’s affectation all the more aggravating.
"I spoke to Lord Brockway today." She watched Cecilia's face in the mirror, hoping for any hint of a reaction. But there was nothing to signify that she had even heard. It didn't bode well for Lord Brockway.
"I don't know whether your feelings are engaged there, Cecy," she took in a deep breath, "but I think you would do well to reconsider your approach with him."
"My approach?" Cecilia stopped. "Whatever do you mean?"
Isabel pursed her lips. The conversation was shaping up to be every bit as difficult as she had anticipated. Tiptoeing around the matter didn't seem to be helping. Cecilia was determined to be difficult these days.
Isabel: A Regency Romance Page 11