by Emily Larkin
The yellow had seemed hopeful, joyful.
Isabella glanced at the clock. She was trembling with a mix of apprehension and anticipation. It lacked ten minutes to two. This gown would do—it would have to do—there was no more time.
But I want to look perfect for him.
“Perhaps I should try the blue again.”
“Miss Isabella,” Partridge said, with something approaching frustration in her voice. “The yellow suits you perfectly.”
Isabella swallowed and looked at the clock again. Nine minutes. And she still had to speak to her cousin and Harriet.
“Very well,” she said. “Yellow it is.”
She took a deep breath. She’d never imagined this moment would come: waiting for a man, wanting to marry him. It was exhilarating. Terrifying.
She smoothed her gown with damp palms and turned towards the door.
“Are you all right, Miss Isabella?” Partridge asked, with the acuity of one who had known her from her girlhood.
Or perhaps it’s not acuity. Perhaps I look as nervous as I feel.
“Perfectly,” Isabella replied. She blew out another shaky breath. First Elinor and Harriet, and then Major Reynolds. She squared her shoulders, crossed the bedchamber, and opened the door. Rufus scrambled up from a sunny square of carpet and followed her, his tail wagging.
Isabella’s steps were firm and purposeful as she walked along the corridor and down one flight of stairs. Her knock on the door of Mrs. Westin’s parlor was firm and purposeful, too.
Mrs. Westin looked up from her knitting. “Yes, my dear?”
“Major Reynolds will be here shortly. I’m going to tell him about Harriet.”
For a moment there was silence. Harriet stared at her, frozen, over the handkerchief she was embroidering.
Mrs. Westin nodded and laid down her knitting. “Very wise, my dear. Honesty is always the best course. As the good Lord said, Thou shalt not lie.”
“Tell him?” said Harriet, shrinking back in her chair. “But he’ll find me!”
“He’s not an ogre,” Isabella said. “However much you imagine him to be.”
Harriet shook her head. The blood had drained from her face.
Exasperation rose in Isabella’s breast. How could the girl be so foolish? “You have nothing to fear from Major Reynolds.”
Harriet shook her head again. Tears brimmed in her eyes, trembled on her lashes, spilled over.
Mrs. Westin tutted.
Isabella considered trying to convince Harriet of the major’s good qualities. A few seconds’ thought made her give up the notion as hopeless. The picture Harriet had painted of Major Reynolds was as inaccurate as it was ridiculous, but it would take more than a few words to persuade the girl she was wrong.
She gave her cousin a look of apology and left her to deal with the weeping Harriet. In the corridor she smoothed her gown again and took a steadying breath. A glance at her watch told her it lacked five minutes to the hour. Would Nicholas be on time?
Rufus took a step forward. His ears pricked.
Isabella walked to the head of the stairs. She heard the sound of men’s voices in the foyer below: her butler, Hoban, saying something in welcome, Major Reynolds replying.
Isabella received Major Reynolds in the library. The morning room was sunnier and more pleasant, but the kittens were in residence. She left Rufus in the morning room, too. She wanted no distractions, no witnesses. Just him and me.
The apprehension, the anticipation, were a hard knot beneath her breastbone as she stood beside the fireplace. She concentrated on breathing, on not fidgeting, but even so, her heart began to beat much faster as the door opened and the butler ushered Major Reynolds into the library.
She was conscious of him—the green of his eyes, the weight of his presence in the room. And she was conscious of herself in a way she’d never been before, of her appearance, of her nervousness.
Isabella swallowed. “Nicholas.”
“Isabella.” His voice gave nothing away, nor did his face. No smile, no softening of his expression. Was he as nervous as she? As awkward?
“Please be seated.”
He didn’t sit. He walked past her to the window. He stood looking out for a moment, his figure silhouetted against the daylight, and then turned to face her. His features were in shadow.
Now.
Isabella took hold of her courage. She clasped her hands together and inhaled a deep breath. “Nicholas,” she said. “There’s something I must tell you. About Harriet Durham.”
“I know,” he said.
“You do?” Isabella began to walk towards him. Relief swelled inside her.
“Yes.” Major Reynolds laughed. It was a harsh sound. He stepped away from the window.
Isabella halted. She saw his face, saw the hard glitter in his eyes, the tight line of his mouth, the anger. “Nicholas . . .”
His mouth tightened still further. “I trusted you.”
The apprehension and anticipation were gone. In their place was something close to panic. “Nicholas—”
“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” His voice made her flinch. “Congratulations, Lady Isabella. You succeeded admirably.”
“No,” she said. “It wasn’t like that at all!”
His mouth twisted. “Wasn’t it?” There was a derisive edge to his words, a bitter, mocking note.
“No!” Isabella cried. “Of course not! I was trying to make it better, to stop people laughing at you!”
The major’s mouth tightened. His hand lifted to touch his left cheek. “I’d forgotten to thank you for my new name.” He bowed, a sardonic movement. “Thank you for reminding me.”
Shame flushed her cheeks. “It was a mistake, Nicholas. I never meant for any of that to happen!” She clutched her hands more tightly together. “I only said it once. Once! But Sarah Faraday heard me, and you know what her tongue is like. She—” Isabella bit her lip. Stop. It sounds like excuses.
Major Reynolds said nothing, he merely shook his head. Anger was etched on his face. He turned away from her to look out the window again.
Isabella took a hesitant step towards him. She moistened her lips and spoke quietly. “I never intended to harm you, Nicholas. And once it had happened I did my very best to undo it.”
He didn’t look at her. “You lied to me.” His voice was as quiet as hers had been.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to! But you were so angry. I was afraid to tell you—”
He turned to face her. His expression made her flinch. “You lied to me.”
Isabella gripped her hands more tightly together, swallowed, and said, “Yes, I did. I’m very sorry, Nicholas.”
He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes cold and hard and unforgiving, then bowed stiffly and stepped past her. “Good day, madam.”
“Wait! Nicholas!”
“I have nothing more to say to you.” He opened the door and closed it quietly behind him.
Isabella was left standing in the empty library. The silence seemed to echo with Major Reynolds’ parting words: I have nothing more to say to you.
She smoothed her gown with trembling hands. The gown she had chosen so carefully, with such hope. Yellow.
The Sèvres figurines on the mantelpiece blurred. I am not going to cry, Isabella told herself fiercely.
It was too late. She already was.
Nicholas had never been so furious in his life. Furious with Lady Isabella for lying, furious with himself for being duped, for thinking her perfect when she clearly wasn’t, for imagining himself in love with her. The afternoon passed in a blur: striding back to the hired house on Albemarle Street, ordering his horse brought around, riding as hard as he could out of London. Vaguely he noticed that paved streets had given way to winding dirt lanes, that tall buildings had been replaced by trees and hedgerows and paddocks where sheep grazed.
He chose an inn at random and shouldered his way into the busy taproom. A tankard of ale quenched hi
s thirst; a second and third began to quench his anger. It came surging back, tiredly, when he remembered his defense of Lady Isabella to Mr. Shepherd. Such a damned fool. But he couldn’t whip himself up into fury again. He stared at the empty tankard and rubbed his face wearily.
The shroud of rage that had cloaked him had kept the other patrons away from his corner of the taproom. They clustered at the counter, leaning against the scarred wood, their voices loud. Farmers in patched smocks, a blacksmith, a couple of coal-haulers with soot-stained clothes. Where am I?
It didn’t matter. Nor did it matter, when he asked the publican if a bedroom was available, that the chamber he was escorted to was small and smelled of stale sweat. The mattress was lumpy, the pillow thin, and he had no idea whether the linen was clean or not, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.
Chapter Twenty
On Thursday morning, while they were still in the breakfast parlor, the postman in his scarlet coat and cockaded hat delivered a letter for Harriet. It was postmarked from Penrith, in the Lake District.
Finally, thought Isabella. But there was no relief, just numbness. How long would the numbness last? Would she be trapped forever in this empty, echoing place?
I hope so. Because under the numbness was pain. She was aware of it, aware that it would hurt more than she could bear if only she wasn’t numb.
She watched without interest as Harriet broke open the seal and almost ripped the letter in her haste to open it. Another letter fell out from the folded paper, falling to lie on the tablecloth. Harriet’s original letter. The one she’d sent to her aunt more than two weeks ago. Unopened.
Isabella’s numbness faltered slightly. That doesn’t look good.
“It’s from . . . it’s from a Mrs. Jayne. She says—” Tears suspended Harriet’s voice entirely. She thrust the letter at Mrs. Westin and ran from the room.
Mrs. Westin read the letter calmly. “Oh, dear,” she said, and then held it out to Isabella.
I don’t think I want to read it.
She put down her cutlery and took the proffered letter.
Mrs. Jayne wrote briefly. Lavinia Mortlock had remarried two years ago and emigrated with her new husband to America. Mrs. Jayne had an address for her in Baltimore, which she enclosed. She apologized for the delay in replying; she had been laid up with the influenza.
Isabella refolded the letter and placed it neatly on the tablecloth. She closed her eyes. What am I going to do with Harriet?
She opened her eyes, picked up the knife and fork, and began to eat her eggs again.
“What shall we do?” Mrs. Westin asked.
“I don’t know.” I don’t care.
But the numbness was beginning to fracture. Dear God, what was she going to do with the girl?
And beneath the worry, pushing determinedly through the cracks, was pain. Pain so intense that her throat closed.
Isabella reached for her tea. She took a sip. A second sip.
“You never said yesterday . . . how did Major Reynolds take the news?”
Her throat tightened. She drank another mouthful of tea. “Not as well as I had hoped.”
“Ah,” Mrs. Westin said. “A shame.”
Isabella put down the teacup and looked at her plate. She had no appetite. She placed her knife and fork neatly alongside one another and folded her napkin.
“And how are you, my dear? Has your headache gone?”
“Gone?” Isabella said, staring at the congealing egg yolk on her plate. What am I going to do about Nicholas? About Harriet?
“You still look rather pale.”
Isabella looked up at her cousin. She forced a smile. “A slight headache still. I believe I’ll stay at home today.” And tomorrow. And the next day. I shall hide forever.
She pushed back her chair and stood. The door was slightly open from Harriet’s flight.
Harriet.
Dear God, what am I going to do about her?
Lieutenant Mayhew came to fetch the kittens just before noon. His sunny good humor was painful, as was his cheerful enquiry about Major Reynolds.
“I haven’t seen him since yesterday afternoon,” Isabella said. The smile felt stiff on her lips, but it fooled the lieutenant.
For a few minutes they were busy, capturing the two kittens, installing them in a wicker basket that Lieutenant Mayhew had brought with him.
“Wonderful!” the lieutenant said. “Thank you so much, ma’am. I’m indebted to you.” He bowed over her hand, his eyes laughing at her.
“I hope they don’t give you any trouble on your journey.”
Lieutenant Mayhew had no such fears. He laughed and left, running lightly down the stairs, carrying the kittens. Their mews came indignantly from the basket.
Isabella stood at the top of the staircase, Rufus beside her, long after the lieutenant was gone. The conversation with her cousin looped in her head.
How did Major Reynolds take it?
Not as well as I had hoped.
Rufus sat down with a thump. He began to scratch himself vigorously.
“I should have told Nicholas earlier,” she said to him. “He wouldn’t have been so angry.”
Rufus continued scratching, a strained grimace on his face.
Isabella sighed. “I should have never lied.”
So many “should haves.” But she had done what she had done—and the result was only what she deserved.
So what do I do about it?
Isabella came to an abrupt decision. She turned and headed upstairs. Rufus scrambled to his feet and bounded after her. “Partridge?” she said, opening the door to her bedroom. “I’m going out. I’d like you to accompany me.”
They walked to Albemarle Street rather than take the carriage. Isabella told herself that it was because she needed the fresh air, but, truthfully, it was because she needed to muster her courage. Partridge walked silently beside her and Rufus trotted ahead, his ears pricked and his plumy tail wagging.
Isabella halted outside Major Reynolds’ house. It seemed very tall, very stern. She took a deep breath and trod up the steps.
A butler with thinning gray hair and rather startlingly bushy eyebrows answered the door.
“My name is Lady Isabella Knox,” she said. “I would like to see Major Reynolds.”
“I regret that Major Reynolds isn’t in town, ma’am.”
“Not—?” Her momentum and her courage faltered. “Do you know when he’ll return?”
The butler shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
Had he left London permanently? Gone to Devonshire? No, the house would be closed then, the knocker off the door, the servants gone. Unless the servants are packing up the house now. Panic tightened her chest. “Do you expect him back?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Isabella expelled a shaky breath. “Where is he? Do you know?”
“No, ma’am. He didn’t inform us of his destination.”
Is he gone because of me?
“When did Major Reynolds leave?”
“Yesterday afternoon, ma’am,” the butler said. “In something of a hurry.”
Yes, he left because of me.
“Thank you,” Isabella said. She turned away from the door and went back to Clarges Street, where she wandered from room to room—parlor, library, book room—unable to settle. She ended up in the morning room. Mrs. Early found her there half an hour later. “Lady Isabella?”
Isabella looked up from her listless observation of the last two kittens, sprawled on the floor with Rufus. “Yes, Mrs. Early?”
“I know who the thief is.” The housekeeper’s mouth was pinched, her expression grim.
Not now. “Who?”
“Mrs. Tracey.”
Isabella straightened on the sofa. “The cook?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But . . .” Mrs. Tracey had been in her employ for three years. “There must be some mistake.”
Mrs. Early shook her head firmly. “No mistake, ma’am. I counte
d the wax candles this afternoon, and not five minutes later I saw Mrs. Tracey go down to the stillroom and come back with something in her apron pocket. I checked again and two candles were gone—the best beeswax!”
Isabella bit her lower lip. “You’re certain? You didn’t miscount?”
“I checked twice, ma’am.”
Isabella sighed.
“Mrs. Tracey went to her bedchamber not long after that—to tidy her hair, she said—and when she returned, her pocket was quite clearly empty.”
“But . . .” Isabella said again. But why? The woman earned a generous wage. She closed her mouth and struggled to think clearly. “Please ask her to attend me in my book room. I wish for you to be present, too, Mrs. Early.”
The housekeeper nodded and withdrew.
Mrs. Tracey?
Isabella made her way purposefully downstairs. She sat behind the desk and folded her hands together on its smooth maplewood surface. She didn’t have to wait long. A tap sounded on the door. “Come in.”
Mrs. Tracey entered, followed by the housekeeper.
“Please be seated,” Isabella said.
She watched as Mrs. Tracey sat. The woman was raw-boned, with a gaunt, ruddy face. Her hands were large, their backs knotted with veins. Such clumsy-looking hands to create such dainty delicacies, Isabella thought, not for the first time.
The cook looked at her. Her expression was politely enquiring, not defensive, not afraid.
“Mrs. Tracey,” Isabella said. “We have a problem.” She unfolded her hands and reached for the current ledger. “For several months now someone in this household has been stealing.”
Mrs. Tracey’s polite smile froze on her face.
“Beeswax candles,” Isabella said, turning to the latest month’s columns of figures. She glanced up at the woman. “And perhaps other things as well.”
Mrs. Tracey said nothing. She sat stiffly in the wooden chair. A plain woman, hard-working. And honest, I had thought.
Isabella sat with her hands resting on the open page. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me, Mrs. Tracey?”