by Emily Larkin
“Me, ma’am?” But there was a flat, false note to Mrs. Tracey’s outrage. “Surely you don’t think that I would steal anything!”
Isabella looked at her gravely. “You were observed taking two wax candles this afternoon.”
“Wax candles? Me?” The cook’s voice was affronted, but her expression was scared. Her cheeks, instead of flushing with indignation, had paled.
“I would like to check your room, please.”
Mrs. Tracey swallowed convulsively. Her hands were tightly clenched in her lap.
Isabella stood. “Shall we do it now?”
“But my pastries! I need to get them out of the oven. I’m too busy for this now! Surely it can wait . . .” The woman’s voice died out as Isabella shook her head.
Mrs. Tracey’s room was downstairs, near the kitchen. The woman’s manner became more flustered when they halted outside the door. “Lady Isabella,” she said. “I can explain!”
Almost a confession. Isabella looked at her sadly. “Open the door, please, Mrs. Tracey.”
The cook began to sob as she unlocked the door to her bedchamber. It was a large room, as befitted her status, with a half-canopy bedstead, a fireplace, and an armchair.
They stepped inside. Isabella glanced around the chamber, taking in the chest of drawers, the washstand, the sturdy pinewood trunk. “Can you open your trunk, please, Mrs. Tracey?”
The cook began to cry in earnest. She made no move to open the trunk.
Isabella turned to Mrs. Early. The housekeeper’s plump face was somber. She’s enjoying this no more than I am. “Mrs. Early? If you wouldn’t mind?”
The housekeeper stepped forward and lifted the lid of the trunk. Blankets lay neatly folded inside. Mrs. Early rummaged with her hand, her mouth tight, as if she found the task distasteful. After a moment she stilled and looked up. “Ma’am?”
Isabella made herself step forward, made herself look. The beeswax candles were tucked down one side of the trunk. She turned to face the cook, but found herself unable to look at the woman. I trusted you.
She turned away. “Mrs. Tracey, you are dismissed. Please gather your belongings and depart this house within the hour.”
“But ma’am, please . . .”
Isabella turned back to her. “You stole from me,” she said quietly.
Mrs. Tracey’s face was tear-stained. “But ma’am . . .”
Isabella stared at her. Was this how Major Reynolds had felt? This sense of disbelief, of betrayal, of disappointment so intense that it felt as if someone had kicked her in the stomach.
No, he had been angry, too. She wasn’t angry. She was just sad. “Why, Mrs. Tracey?”
Mrs. Tracey gulped and sniffed back her tears. “My daughter’s getting married soon. I wanted to give her a good start.”
Isabella sighed. She turned away again. “One hour, Mrs. Tracey.”
“You won’t press charges?”
Isabella turned back to face her. She met the woman’s eyes, saw the fear in them. No, not fear—terror.
She understood the terror: people had been sent to the penal colonies for stealing less. “No, Mrs. Tracey.”
The cook subsided weakly on her bed. She began to sob again, noisily.
Isabella met the housekeeper’s eyes. She made a slight beckoning gesture. The woman followed her outside into the corridor. “Stay with her, Mrs. Early, and see that she does as I’ve asked.”
The housekeeper nodded.
“Would you like me to send for one of the footmen, just in case . . . ?”
“I don’t think it will be necessary, ma’am.”
No, Isabella didn’t think the cook would create trouble, either. But then she hadn’t thought the woman would steal. “After Mrs. Tracey has gone, can you please go to the registry office and see about engaging a new cook.”
Mrs. Early nodded again. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ll speak with the kitchen maids, explain what has happened.” Isabella rubbed her brow. “We’ll dine plainly until there’s a new cook. I think they’ll cope for a few days. They’re competent girls.”
The housekeeper nodded her agreement.
“Thank you, Mrs. Early.”
The housekeeper nodded again, then stepped back into the bedchamber and shut the door.
Isabella sighed. She needed to thank the housekeeper with more than words. A bonus, perhaps? A week’s leave? She turned away. I hate this. To have one’s faith in someone destroyed suddenly and utterly, to know that one’s trust had been misplaced. It made her feel slightly ill.
She had done this to Major Reynolds.
Would he ever forgive her? Could he?
Isabella sighed and rubbed her face with both hands and headed for the kitchen.
Chapter Twenty-One
Isabella spent the rest of Thursday afternoon at the pianoforte, laboring over Beethoven’s Sonata no. 14. There was no beauty in the music. The soft lamenting first movement, the stormy third, sounded equally flat and lifeless, the notes sliding from beneath her fingertips with one dull clunk after another, the hammers and strings making noise, not music.
Finally she gave up. She bowed her head, resting her forehead on the pianoforte, and closed her eyes. What am I to do?
A knock on the door jerked her upright. Rufus woke abruptly, scrambling to his feet, shedding the two kittens who’d been dozing on his flank.
“Yes?”
“The Duke of Middlebury,” her butler said.
“Julian?” She stood as abruptly as Rufus. “Here?”
“I took the liberty of showing him to the library, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Hoban,” She hurried to the door. The butler stood back to let her pass. “Fetch up a bottle of the best claret, please.”
Julian was standing by the window in the library, just as Nicholas had done. He turned at her entrance and came towards her, blond and tall, thickening slightly now that he’d reached forty, and engulfed her in a hug.
Isabella clung to him. I am not going to cry.
Julian released her. He looked down at her, smiling. “I’d thought you’d be in Hyde Park, showing off that phaeton of yours.”
“Not today.” Nor yesterday either, not after that shattering interview with Major Reynolds.
She pushed thought of Major Reynolds away. “Come,” she said, taking her brother’s hand and drawing him to the sofa. “Tell me how Marianne and the children are.”
Julian sat down beside her, sinking back into the cushions, stretching his legs out with a sigh. “They’re well.” He looked towards the door as it opened. At the sight of the butler bearing a tray with a bottle and two glasses, he straightened slightly. “Claret?”
“Of course.”
Julian examined the bottle and poured with careful reverence.
“I didn’t know you were coming to town,” Isabella said, as her brother took a first, savoring sip. His eyebrows rose in silent appreciation of the claret. “How long will you be here?”
“Just tonight,” Julian said, lowering his glass. “I’ve put up at Grillon’s.”
“Grillon’s? But you can stay here—” Abruptly she remembered that she had no cook. And that she had a secret guest upstairs.
“You’ll be out anyway, if I know you. What is it tonight?” His voice held a teasing note. “A masked ball? The opera?”
“Nothing,” Isabella said, looking down at the glass in her hand. “I’m rather tired. I shall be staying in tonight.”
Julian said nothing. She glanced up to find his eyes on her face.
Isabella forced a smile. “Are you here on business?”
“No,” he said. “I came to town because of you.”
“Me,” she said blankly. “Oh, the letter I sent you!” Hope rose sharply in her breast. Here was a solution for Harriet. “You have a vacant living?”
Her brother shook his head.
“Oh.” Isabella tried not to show her disappointment. She bit her lip and looked at the wineglass again.
/> Julian laid his arm along the back of the sofa. His hand almost touched her shoulder. “I came because a number of people have mentioned your name in connection with a Major Reynolds.”
Isabella’s head jerked up. The wine slopped in her glass, almost spilling.
“In more than ten years I’ve not known you to show interest in any man, let alone make one your beau.” Julian’s expression was serious, but his eyes were smiling. “I would like to meet this Major Reynolds for myself.”
“He has left town.” Because of me.
“Ah.” The smile faded from her brother’s eyes. “A shame. I’d hoped to make his acquaintance.”
Isabella bit her lip again. She looked down at the dark wine.
“Tell me about him.”
Her gaze jerked to his. “About Nicholas?”
Julian’s eyebrows rose. Too late, Isabella realized what that slip of the tongue told her brother. Yes, I call him by his Christian name. Faint heat flushed her face.
On the heels of that realization, came a second. If I speak of Nicholas, I will cry. She prevaricated: “What do you know of him?”
“Major Reynolds?” Julian swirled the claret in his glass. He looked at her a moment and then seemed to come to a decision. He put the wineglass down. “You’re not in the habit of indulging in flirtations, so when I heard about this man I was curious. Very curious.” He shrugged slightly. “So I asked a few people about him.”
Isabella moistened her lips. “You did?”
Her brother nodded.
“What did they say?” she asked, clutching the stem of her glass more tightly.
“Everyone I spoke to thought highly of him. He was respected by the men he commanded, and by the men who commanded him. Respected and liked.”
Isabella relaxed her grip on the glass. “Yes,” she said. “He is a . . . a good man.”
“I also heard that he would be a colonel, if he hadn’t chosen to sell his commission.”
“I didn’t know that,” she said, surprised.
Her brother’s fingers tapped on the back of the sofa. He was frowning now. “He turned down a colonelcy—which isn’t something most men would do.” The frown deepened. “War can do things to a man, can unbalance—”
“Nicholas is not unbalanced,” Isabella said firmly. “He left the military because he has had enough of death. He wants children. He wants a family.”
Her brother’s fingers stilled their tapping. He observed her face for a long moment and then asked quietly, “And are those things that you want?”
Isabella flushed. “I . . .” Yes. But she couldn’t utter the word. Her throat had closed. Tears threatened. She swallowed and held tightly to her composure. I am not Harriet. I am not going to cry.
Julian waited for her to answer. When she didn’t, he continued. “He has a reputation for fairness, your major, and a reputation for getting things done. A very competent man, by all accounts.”
Isabella nodded. Very competent. She’d witnessed that. And then she frowned slightly. How had Major Reynolds discovered that she was sheltering Harriet?
“So, what I want to know is: is he worthy of you?”
Isabella swallowed again. “He is . . . the best of men.” Her voice was only slightly unsteady.
Julian surveyed her thoughtfully. One of his fingers moved—tap-tap—on the back of the sofa. “May I ask what your intentions are with this major? Your name has been . . . rather closely linked with his.” There was no censure in his voice or his expression. Instead she saw his concern, heard how much he cared for her. He loves me. He’s worried about me.
“My intentions—” Her voice broke. Hastily she averted her face. She put down her wineglass with a shaking hand. Don’t let me cry in front of him.
“Izzie,” Julian said softly. His hand was on her shoulder, warm and comforting. “Is everything all right?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. No. No, it’s not.
Julian shifted on the sofa. His arm came around her. “Izzie,” he said again.
The composure she’d held onto so tightly fractured into tiny pieces. She began to cry, and as she’d feared, she couldn’t stop.
“Hush,” Julian said, holding her, one hand smoothing her hair as the sobs tore endlessly in her chest. “Hush.”
The storm of grief passed finally, leaving her limp. Julian didn’t release her. She leaned against him, her face pressed against his waistcoat. Tears seeped from beneath her eyelids. “I love him,” she whispered. “And he . . . and he . . .” He hates me.
Julian’s hand, stroking comforting circles on her back, stilled. She felt him stiffen. “Has he done anything to you? Has he—”
“It was me,” she said, into his waistcoat. “I was the one who did something wrong. I lied to him.”
“You? Lied to him?” But Julian didn’t push her away; instead his arm tightened around her shoulders. His hand resumed its slow, stroking circles. “I’ve never known you to lie, Iz. You must have had good reason.”
Isabella sighed. The sound was ragged, almost hiccupping. “I didn’t mean to, but everything . . . it just . . .” She paused and inhaled a shaky breath. “It started in Stony Stratford, when I was on my way back from visiting you.”
She told him the whole story: finding Harriet, her slip of the tongue in front of Sarah Faraday, the attempt she’d made to stop the ridicule, her growing friendship with Major Reynolds. She left out only the kisses. Everything else—the lies, the little deceits—she recounted in a halting voice. Julian listened silently.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said, at the end of her recitation. “Nicholas has left town. I don’t know if he’ll come back. He was so angry.” Tears threatened again. She bit her lip, holding them back.
“If he loves you, he’ll come back.”
Isabella gulped a breath. “You think so?”
“Yes.” Julian stopped rubbing her back. He groped in his pocket and handed her a linen handkerchief.
Isabella blew her nose. “I’m sorry,” she said, to his waistcoat. “I didn’t mean to cry.”
Julian tightened his arm around her. “I haven’t seen you cry since you were a child. Not like that.”
“No.”
They were silent for a long moment, and then Julian said, “He means a lot to you, this Major Reynolds.”
“Yes.” He means everything. Isabella straightened and sat up. She wiped her face. “Would you like to meet Harriet?”
Julian reached for his wineglass again. “Yes.” He didn’t drink, though. “You did the right thing, helping her. If Felicity were ever in such straits . . .” His mouth tightened.
But his daughter never would be in such straits. She had parents who loved her. Whereas Harriet did not.
Isabella sighed. “Yes, it was the right thing. But I did everything wrong after that.”
Julian didn’t deny it. His mouth twisted in a wry grimace. He tilted the glass and swallowed a mouthful of claret.
Isabella reached for her own glass.
“Should I take her home with me? A companion for Felicity? They’re the same age, you said.”
Isabella paused, glass in hand. For a moment she felt lighter, as if a weight had lifted from her shoulders, then the weight settled again. She shook her head. “Thank you, but it’s best that Harriet remains here. The fewer people who know, the easier it will be to keep this a secret.”
If the ton found out . . .
Isabella sipped her wine slowly. The major’s accusation echoed clearly in her head: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
The ton would think she’d done that, too. She could see it in her mind’s eye: the sly amusement, the laughing whispers, the ridicule.
Her hand tightened on the glass. I won’t let that happen again. Not to Nicholas.
Julian stayed to eat dinner with them, chicken fricassee and a raised giblet pie. With a seventeen-year-old daughter of his own, he managed—with no apparent effort—to put Harriet at ease. After they�
�d drunk tea together in the drawing room and discussed in detail the appetite and sleeping habits of his youngest son, three-month-old William, he took his leave, bowing to Harriet and Mrs. Westin. “I shan’t see you again, Izzie,” he said cheerfully. “I’m off early tomorrow morning.”
Isabella accompanied her brother to the door. “I don’t like this responsibility you’ve taken upon yourself,” Julian said. The cheerfulness was gone. His face was serious.
“You don’t like Harriet?”
“No, not that. What I meant was . . .” He frowned. “You’ve taken trouble upon your shoulders, and I can’t see how it will turn out.”
Neither can I.
“If you need help, you must tell me. Promise?”
“I promise.”
Julian continued to frown. “If this major of yours is still angry when he gets back to town, if he’s . . . difficult, I’ll come at once.”
If he wants revenge, you mean. If he tries to punish me. She remembered the moment in Hyde Park when Major Reynolds had asked after Harriet’s benefactress, the expression on his face—implacable, hard, cold—and repressed a shiver. “Don’t worry.”
“Promise me,” Julian said again.
Isabella bit her lip, looking at him. He was as tall as the major, as broad, but older, too. Nicholas is more dangerous than Julian. If it came to a duel—
“Promise me,” Julian repeated, and his expression was as implacable as the major’s had been.
Isabella sighed. “All right, I promise. But he won’t be difficult. He’s not that kind of man.” I think. I hope.
Julian wished aloud that he had a vacant living to bestow on Mr. Fernyhough, kissed her cheek, and departed.
On Friday morning Harriet presented Isabella with a sheet of paper.
“What’s this?” Isabella read the first item on the list—Invalid’s Companion—and glanced at the girl.
“I need to earn my living.” Harriet swallowed a sob. “I can’t remain here forever.”
Isabella read the next item on the list: “Seamstress?”
“I’m good at needlework,” Harriet said, with a trembling smile.
That was undeniably true. Harriet was neat and quick with a needle. Isabella had lost count of the number of sheets and handkerchiefs the girl had hemmed in the past three weeks—tasks that would have bored her to tears but that Harriet apparently enjoyed.