by Regina Scott
“Who fled?” she called after him.
He turned again, and she knew he’d heard her. Even in his silence she could guess. Colleagues. Women. So-called friends.
“George would have never,” she said.
“I know that.”
“Neither would I,” she said.
His expression softened. “Because of George.”
“No. Because of you.” Her heart beat inexplicably fast awaiting his response.
His mouth remained closed, his jaw clenched. His horse sidestepped, and Isaac corrected him using hushed tones, brushing his hand along the horse’s withers. “What other names have you for my horse?” He lifted his gaze.
She looked at him—trying to ignore the deflating sensation in her stomach his change of subject brought—then to the place where they’d played. She took a cool, deep breath and released it slowly. “River,” she said.
He studied her with that unreadable expression, then watched the steady, constant water moving through the winter landscape. At last he turned his attention to his horse, rubbing its ears, speaking in low murmurs. “River,” he said softly. After a moment he sat tall in his saddle. “Thank you, Miss Hyatt. River it is.”
Satisfaction bloomed in her center, tempered by his reserve. She drew Snowbird up alongside him. “I’m glad you like it. It suits him.”
“I believe it does.”
“He now has purpose.”
“A gift, indeed.”
She studied him for as long as he let her. “You’ve grown up, Mr. Linfield.”
His head dropped, and he half laughed. Then he lifted it as if it carried all the weight of the world. “As have you, Miss Hyatt.”
His gray eyes locked with hers. For how long, she knew not, but her pulse pounded again as her fingers entwined firmly in Snowbird’s mane.
“Isaac—” she whispered.
“Don’t, Miss Hyatt,” he said quietly. “There is nothing for it. I’m here to see you’re taken care of as George would have. Nothing more.”
She nodded because her words stuck painfully in her throat, and her eyes stung.
His expression softened with what was likely pity. “Shall we return to the house?” he asked.
She shook her head and found her tongue. “I want to run.”
With a nod from him, she turned Snowbird in the direction of the meadows, determined to run and run until these unwelcome emotions shook free. Then she would find Eleanor and spend all afternoon with her, stealing sweets from the kitchen and readying for Christmas Eve.
* * *
Isaac paced in front of George’s desk in the library, looking between the two letters in his hand, warring between how the two were connected and what he was supposed to do about it. Sighing heavily as he took the chair, he read the older letter for the hundredth time.
Dear Isaac,
I hope you are well. I know that is a severe generalization, but it’s the truth. I myself am not well. To be short (and forgive me for being so) I’ve been hit by the consumption and will likely be gone from this world even as you read this. I wish I could write that I’m at peace with this turn of my life, but three things prevent me from accepting my demise with grace. First, my dearest Jane is dying by my side. To bear this horrid disease on one’s own is awful, but I could bear it. To see my Jane so wracked in pain and fading undoes me. Which brings me to the second thing. We have a child, our daughter Eleanor, who is but a year. She is safe, as she was taken from us at the first sign of illness and is with my mother. I believe, though, that the separation of child from mother has weakened Jane’s will. Dear Isaac, the love for a child is something I never fathomed, could have never predicted. To know she is with Mama and Abby is a comfort. But our hearts break. To miss her Christmas is one thing; to miss her life—Third, Hybrigge is entailed to a cousin, one Mr. Hewitt Forbes. I’ve never met Mr. F, and have little idea of his intentions toward my family. I have written, asking him to break the entailment, but he refused with a note saying he’d visit the estate and make his decision then. Hybrigge is large enough to be profitable while small enough to avoid the heavier taxes, with loyal, fourth-generation tenants, so I see why he’d want to have a look. But I have no assurances of my family’s future. A is of age. Do not think I haven’t considered the possibilities there, as Mr. F is wealthy and unattached. E is but a baby and will be at this man’s mercy. I have hired a solicitor to learn what he can of the Forbes family and Mr. F’s character. I’ve given him your father’s name with his permission. Isaac, if there is any possibility, might you write to my mother? Words of comfort go a long way when from a trusted friend. I understand you are at war and can likely do little. But I beg you, think of my family as yours. There is nothing better I can do for them. I wish I had happier tidings for you. To be hopeful is a battle. A much quieter one than those you’ve experienced, I’m sure. My thoughts often drift to our adventures on the river with little A in our pockets. Be good to her, Isaac. Tell E tales of her wild father. Until I see you next, brother.
Your friend,
George Hyatt
Isaac pushed his hand through his hair. The other letter, short and to the point, stated that Mr. Hewitt Forbes had sold three of the family’s holdings in the last two years. No motive was given. Hybrigge House would be the fourth. It could be that this was a business strategy, that the profits could be going into other investments, or to help pay—or avoid—the ever-increasing taxes the war had brought on. But something tugged at Isaac’s gut. Something told him to keep digging, especially now that Mr. Forbes intended to make Abby his bride.
He shook his head. Today on their ride he’d come too close to revealing feelings he’d been denying for a week. Or perhaps longer than that.
Now Abby had named his horse, forever tying herself to the creature and Isaac to that moment. It had been a selfish thing of him to ask, perhaps some underlying desire to have that connection with her before he left. How quickly it had turned on him, already torturing him.
But the horse’s name was River, and it would have no other.
He picked up the quill and wrote a letter to the solicitor, then another to his father. And he tried to blot out his thoughts of the moment he’d nearly reached out to Abby—to touch her flushed cheek—with his hook of a hand.
Chapter Five
“Our luminary walk is a Christmas Eve tradition, Mr. Forbes. We missed it last year. You must come.” Arabelle smiled and tilted her head in a way she knew won her many arguments.
“How can I refuse, Miss Hyatt? Only it’s so cold for the infant. It’s for her sake I worry.”
Arabelle allowed herself to be touched by his concern for Eleanor, since it was the first he had shown. Perhaps he was warming to her niece. “I assure you, she is not bothered by the chill and will be bundled well. Her hand will be in mine the entire time.”
He smiled and leaned closer. “Oh, that I were that hand.”
Arabelle flushed at the nearness of him and the reference from Shakespeare’s tragic love story.
“A hand, a hand, my kingdom for a hand.”
Arabelle turned, her eyes wide.
Isaac joined them in the drawing room. “What? I thought we were playing a game. Famous Shakespearean hand quotes. An odd game, I must own.”
Arabelle shook her head at the man who had avoided her the last two days. “The quote is, ‘A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse.’”
“Ah,” Isaac said. “That’s it. What shall we play next? Famous Shakespearean leg quotes? Let’s see.” He pretended to think hard. “I know. ‘God hath given you one leg’”—he gave his good leg a pat—“‘and you make yourself another.’” He pushed his wooden leg forward.
Arabelle scoffed. “Sir, the correct word is face. God hath given you a face.”
“And a good job he did of the thing, so as to distract from the leg, don’t you think?”
She giggled, unable to help herself.
“This is quite silly,” she heard Mr. Forbes say
.
“Oh!” she said. “I have one. ‘A good leg will fall, a straight back will stoop. A black beard will turn white, a curled pate will grow bald—’”
“Ghastly,” Mr. Forbes murmured.
She continued, having captured Isaac’s full attention. “‘—a fair face will wither, a full eye will wax hollow. But a good heart is the sun and moon . . . for it shines bright and never changes, but keeps its course truly.’”
Isaac remained silent, his gaze fixed on her.
“I’ve made you speechless, Mr. Linfield.”
He blinked out of his stupor. “Indeed, Miss Hyatt. You didn’t misquote Shakespeare once.”
“I have it now,” Mr. Forbes said. He cleared his throat. “‘The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our legs, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.’” He looked between them both. “Is that how it works? That was Julius Caesar. I said legs instead of stars. Why are you both staring at me? Did I win?”
Arabelle glanced at Isaac, who turned to a servant just delivering a letter. He paid the post and slid the note into his waistcoat pocket.
“Here,” Mr. Forbes said. “It’s a bit rude to get a person caught up in a game, then leave him at the crux of the thing.”
Arabelle smiled. “Indeed. Forgive us, Mr. Forbes. Your use of Julius Caesar was quite clever.” She glanced again at Isaac. “Don’t you think, Mr. Linfield?”
“Brilliant,” he said. “I take it upon myself to declare him the winner. Ah, here is the loveliest lady now.”
Arabelle followed his gaze to find Edith ushering in Eleanor in a pink wool overcoat and bonnet with cream worsted mittens hanging by their tethers.
“My darling,” Arabelle said, walking to Eleanor. “Look how charming you are. Are you ready for our Christmas walk?” She crouched down and kissed the child’s fingers as Mama walked in.
“The luminaries are lit,” Mama exclaimed. “We walk just as dusk settles. Shall we? Mr. Linfield, will you lead us out? George always did after Mr. Hyatt passed.”
“I would be honored, ma’am.” He used a cane with his good hand, then Mama took the elbow of his opposite arm.
“You’ll let me know if you are uncomfortable,” Mama said quietly.
“Of course not, ma’am.”
“Oh.” Mama shook her head. “You were always such a tease.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Arabelle puzzled at herself as she pushed Eleanor’s mittens on and stood with their hands linked. Though she’d liked Isaac’s playful mood just now, she could not completely enjoy it. He’d not broached any conversation with her since their morning ride when she’d all but thrown herself at him like a heroine in a novel. He’d remained calm and detached. Yet she wouldn’t have entertained certain ideas if she hadn’t felt something on his part. Something.
“My arm, my dear Miss Hyatt?” Mr. Forbes said, his smile genuine and steady.
Indeed, Mr. Forbes was here, and all intentions were to be aimed at that gentleman. Isaac was her brother’s best friend, looking out for her family’s settled future. Nothing more.
She took his arm. “Thank you, Mr. Forbes.” She looked down at Eleanor. “Are you ready, little one?”
Eleanor nodded. “Eddy, little one.”
Arabelle grinned and looked up at Mr. Forbes.
He smiled. “Charming.” Then he nodded in the direction Mama and Isaac had gone, and they followed.
They soon caught up to their leads, and Eleanor ran ahead to take her grandmother’s hand. She happily pointed out the luminaries along the garden path, under trees, and leading out toward the river walk. Isaac walked tall even with his limp, his silhouette momentarily reminding Arabelle of following behind the two boys even when they’d made it clear she wasn’t to follow them.
Her brow furrowed at the idea.
Pulling Arabelle from her thoughts, Mr. Forbes tugged her to a standstill in front of the Grecian birdbath—a heavy marble bowl supported by a chubby cherub Eleanor called “Beebee Tuck,” which Arabelle suspected translated as “baby stuck.”
“Did you need something, Mr. Forbes?”
“I believe I do.” He knelt down, or nearly did, then thought better of it as he eyed the damp dirt of the garden path. He stood tall again, but lifted Eleanor’s hand and kissed her glove quite firmly. “My dear Arabelle—that’s an unusual name, is it not?”
Arabelle blinked, caught with a sense of foreboding. “Is it? My family has called me Abby on occasion.”
He cleared his throat. “My dear Arabelle, I do find myself in need. In need of you.”
“Oh.”
“I admit I had no notion of what might come of this visit, but I find myself twice blessed. One, with this quaint cottage—”
“Cottage?”
“—and a country cousin I am delighted to find far more refined and enlivening than I’d expected.”
She swallowed. “What was it you expected?”
“It doesn’t matter. My dear Arabelle”—he kissed her glove once more and then gripped her hand to his chest—“would you allow me to rescue you and your family by taking you as my wife?”
Arabelle blinked at him, her heartbeat thumping in her ears. Her mother’s words returned to her full strength. This is essential. The only way. Eleanor’s future.
She envisioned Isaac’s boyish grin, then his stormy gray eyes, and his words came. There is nothing for it.
“Yes,” she heard herself say. “Yes, Mr. Forbes, I will be your wife.”
She heard a small gasp. Mama had stopped ahead with Eleanor, who tugged on Mama’s hand to keep moving. Mama beamed and nodded before allowing Eleanor to pull her toward the river walk.
Then Arabelle saw Isaac beyond Mama, leaning on his cane, looking worn. He gave her a smile, then turned away.
“Arabelle.”
“Hm?” She returned her focus to their rescuer.
“You’ve made me happy indeed. I hope I have made you the same.”
Arabelle looked beyond him to the house, to the stone bridge, the woods, the sound of the river underlining it all. “Yes. Thank you, sir.”
He pulled her a fraction closer. “Hewitt,” he said. The scent of his cologne—smelling strongly of bay leaves—tickled her nose.
“Hewitt.” She tried to recall what Isaac smelled like. Cool and warm at the same time. Like saddle and river and linen. Like dance lessons and hearth, tea and—
She turned her head away just as Mr. Forbes—Hewitt—attempted a kiss on her mouth. He pressed cold lips to her cheek instead, then pulled away with a grin.
“You are demure. As you should be.” He pulled her hand through the crook of his arm. “I am both pleased and left wanting.”
Gratefully, he began to walk again, because Arabelle was too dazed to move of her own accord.
She had just agreed to marry a man she barely knew, whose temperament she could scarcely determine, who seemed barely more pleased with her accompanying assets than herself, and whose cologne made her want to sneeze.
And yet the look of relief on Mama’s face, the sight of Eleanor toddling along a path she knew well . . . Arabelle tightened her grip on Mr. Fo—Hewitt’s arm and threw a rather shaky prayer of gratitude heavenward.
Mrs. Hewitt Forbes.
It would take some getting used to.
* * *
The luminaries dotted the river walk to the sand bar where Arabelle always took Eleanor to “fro.” As Hewitt led her down the path to the crushed rock, she found that Isaac had stayed on the grassy bank above, watching Mama and Eleanor. Mama turned at her approach, joy in her countenance.
“Congratulations, my daughter. And to you, Mr. Forbes. Oh, what an auspicious beginning to our Christmas season. We shall add extra festivities and make sure to invite plenty of guests for a dinner, and perhaps a ball! We shall need more ivy for the hall and ballroom, and a kissing bough! Oh, what shall I serve? Goose or boar’s head? And Arabelle shall have a new gown, of course, Mr. Forbes.”
Hewitt s
miled. “Of course. I’ll leave the two of you to planning.” He left them, strolling farther down the small shore.
“Fro rock,” Eleanor said with one mittened hand clinging to Mama’s skirt and the other rooting around fruitlessly on the ground for a rock. “Kip rock.”
“Oh, Arabelle, he is so handsome. We are saved!”
“Shh, Mama,” Arabelle whispered. “Yes. I am happy for that. But do you think it right to make our Christmas so elaborate? We have not the savings, and I refuse to touch our allowances just in case—”
“In case what? Did you not hear him, my darling? He is marrying you and rescuing your family. What else could quiet your worries?”
“I . . . I’m not sure.” At that moment, Arabelle glanced around. “Where is Eleanor?”
“Eleanor!” Isaac cried from above. He pointed, and Arabelle followed his direction.
“Fro tick,” Eleanor was calling, toddling to the far end of the sand bar. “Atch. Atch tick.”
“Oh heavens,” Arabelle muttered. “The drop.” She rushed forward. “Eleanor, stop!”
The little girl giggled and darted ahead.
So did Arabelle. “Mr. Forbes!” He stood not far from the end of the bank and turned toward her. Alarmed, he took a step forward.
“Miss Hyatt. You’re running.”
“Yes,” she called, pointing. “Eleanor—stop her!” Eleanor was already splashing in water past her ankles, the cold not yet registering as a warning to the little girl.
“Atch tick foat.” She pushed her little legs through the water where calm met the rush of the drop.
“Oh please,” Arabelle murmured. “Stop her!” she cried. Eleanor stumbled forward, her clothes heavy now with wet.
Then Mr. Forbes, in all his handsome haberdashery, pointed to his tall leather boots with a shrug. “They’re Hessians,” he said and stood still.
In the shock caused by his statement, Arabelle halted, then heard the cry of a babe who finally realized what danger she was in. Arabelle launched herself forward to the water just as Eleanor’s eyes grew huge with fright and the rushing current pushed her stumbling toward the drop. One more step, and the babe would go under.