Simon Taggart looked thoughtful, and Kit again dangled the purse as bait.
“I should think two weeks would be long enough to find another suitable caretaker for my daughters and smooth the transition. If you agree, Taggart, the purse is yours now and I’ll also pay for a complete trousseau and a fine coach to return Isobel in time for her wedding. Just think how impressed the Plummers will be.”
Taggart’s eyes gleamed at that, and Kit realized he’d finally discovered the man’s price after all.
“Well now, that’s a bit more reasonable,” the toad said as he accepted the purse and tucked it quickly out of sight beneath his threadbare cloak. “I do admire a clever man. Very well, then, sirrah, you have a fortnight. But lest you plan to deceive me, I want a signed and witnessed document that the wench will be standing at the altar on or before the end of the month.”
“You’ll have it tonight,” Kit promised.
“See that I do, sirrah, or the constable will be at your doorstep come dawn.”
~*~
Within the hour, Kit summoned Isobel to Ambergate’s parlor. She arrived looking even paler and more worried than she had earlier, and he regretted he couldn’t set her mind to ease.
“I’ve managed a bit of a delay,” he said. When her grey-blue eyes lit with hope, Kit shook his head. “A very little bit, I’m afraid. A fortnight, that’s all. And your uncle’s also demanded a writ. I’ve given my word to send it to him tonight, and then he’s agreed to go home and wait for your arrival.”
Two weeks! It was such a miserably short reprieve. Isobel’s hopes were dashed as Kit unrolled a parchment on the mahogany desk in the corner and offered her the ink and blotter.
“Just “X” it here, below my signature,” he instructed her, lightly guiding her hand to the right area. The warmth of his flesh on hers distracted Isobel, and her own hand trembled as she took the pen from its ornate stand.
“I can cipher my name,” she murmured, laboriously shaping the letters while Kit looked on. She sat in on many of the girls’ lessons and consequently had learned to cipher, and even read a bit. Fortunately, he did not appear upset that she had taken advantage of such learning. On the contrary, he seemed pleased.
“You write with a lovely hand, Isobel,” Kit complimented her absently. “You’ll make Tom Plummer a fine helpmeet.”
Through sheer will she managed not to cringe at the sound of that name. It was not Kit’s fault she was being forced to wed that dreadful Plummer boy, though she could not help wondering if he had tried as hard as he claimed to keep her here.
Kit picked up the parchment, sprinkled it with sand to set the ink, and rolled it up again. Then, picking up a candle on the desk, he dribbled a bit of red wax on the flap and pressed the signet ring he wore on his right hand to create a seal.
“There! This should satisfy Taggart the Toad, for the present. I was planning to return to court tomorrow, but I think I’ll seek permission to stay on a day or two.”
When his nickname for her uncle slipped out, so did a sheepish grin. For all her upset, Isobel could not help but smile back.
Some fleeting, foolish notion leapt into her head then that Kit might be staying another day on her account; but the wish was destroyed when he added offhandedly, “I’ll want to be here to personally supervise the hiring of a suitable nursemaid for the girls.”
“Naturally.” Isobel attempted another smile then, but failed. There was nothing left to say.
“’Tis growing late. I fear I’ve kept you up overlong, little Isobel. Although you are not quite so little after all, are you?” Kit offered her an easy grin. Naturally he expected her gratitude for buying her a few extra hours with the girls. Why could she not manage a simple thank you?
“Good night,” she said instead as she gathered up her brown skirts to leave.
“Good night,” he responded, somewhat distractedly. Then, “Ahh, Isobel?”
His deep voice halted her on the threshold. She glanced back and found Kit regarding her ankles with open amusement. She dropped her hem and primly smoothed her skirts in place again.
“I also promised Taggart you’d bring along a fine trousseau. We’ll go for your first fitting tomorrow.”
“‘We?’” She bit her lip.
“Of course. You don’t suppose I’d send an innocent alone into town? Madame Louise could come here, of course, but then we’d miss out on an amusing outing. I fear your London education has been sadly neglected. Besides, I am accounted quite the expert on fashion, and that alone will assure us of Madame’s undivided attention.”
“As you wish.” Isobel refused to be drawn into jovial banter, not when her whole life was crumbling about her. What use would she have for such finery at Land’s End? A miner’s drudge was all she would become, that and doubtless the mother of a dozen children in due time.
Chapter Five
“Gracie’s telling stories again.” Anne accused her sister the moment Isobel stepped into the nursery the next evening. “Make her stop!”
“Am not!” Grace’s eyes flashed as she clutched her mop-headed, much-loved doll to her heart. “Judith was just where the man told me, under a bush in the garden.”
“What man?” Anne scoffed. “You said Saint Anthony was going to come down from heaven to help you find her.”
“I guess he couldn’t come,” Grace shot back. “An’ anyway, Judith’s found. ’Twas the other man who showed me — an angel-man,” she added in a mysterious whisper, her green eyes sparkling from what Isobel suspected was far more deviltry than angelic revelation.
“Girls, how many times have I told you not to tease one another so?” Isobel’s voice was as weary as she herself felt. She’d spent all day at Madame Louise’s looking at bolts of beautiful material and useless, exotic accessories merely to please Kit. Why couldn’t he see it was pure torture for her merely to touch such rarefied cloth? Silk and satin, velvet and damask, the colors and textures had dazzled her senses, and struck her nearly dumb.
Every gown was a masterpiece; like precious jewels they would soon line her wardrobe — ruby, sapphire, emerald, pearl; amethyst-colored velvet, topaz damask. Then there was Isobel’s secret favorite, the lavender-blue silk night rail, christened “hyacinth” after the vain Greek youth of the ancient myth. She understood why when she ran her fingers over the watered silk; it rippled against her skin like a moth’s delicate wings and even caused her to give a faint, envious gasp. It was far more like something “Madame Mysterie” would wear than a plain, brown wren like Isobel Weeks.
“That’s the one,” Kit had said, and grinned when he saw Isobel’s mixed reluctance and delight. “Oh, and make it the most beautiful of the lot, Madame. No expense must be spared on this bride-to-be.”
“Of course, monsieur,” the French modiste murmured deferentially, though not without a curious glance at Isobel, as if wondering why a gentleman like Sir Christopher wasted perfectly good coin on such a drab.
It had taken all the courage and dignity Isobel could muster to stay still during the interminable fitting. Surely the Continentals did things differently, she thought, for none of the fluttering French butterflies at the shop seemed to find anything amiss in Kit’s presence, not even when she was relegated to her old yellowed petticoats before him and stood shivering with patent embarrassment.
“A complete trousseau, oui?” the modiste tactfully suggested.
“Aye, Madame. Toes to top. Red, I think, rather than white. The better to favor her golden skin.”
So Isobel found herself the recipient of red petticoats, which seemed more shocking somehow than all the low-cut gowns combined. And along with such fine attire came other necessities, like farthingales, which supported the enormous, widespread skirts. The French version was more popular at court now, Madame informed them, due to its sleeker style.
But what possible use would Isobel have for such nonsense in Cornwall? She’d merely nodded, trying to look as bored and sophisticated as the ladies at Summerle
igh. She feared Madame Louise wasn’t fooled a bit, but the woman was too well bred to remark on her customer’s threadbare gown or missing stockings.
Isobel held her silence until the end, but murmured a protest when Kit insisted on seven of everything (for good luck, he said): elegant fan-shaped ruffs and finely embroidered collars; dainty lace caps and stylish riding hats, even small fur muffs and fringed silk scarves. Then there were delicate silk slippers and heeled walking shoes and hose of sheerest silk gartered embroidered sashes in every color to match her gowns.
When they finally left the dressmaking shop, it was already late in the afternoon. Kit remarked cheerily, “Now that’s done, all that remains is your wedding gown. I fear I didn’t anything I particularly fancied in there, Isobel. Did you?”
She shook her head, hoping he didn’t suspect the real reason for her quiet misery. “Thank you for everything. But please, you’ve done far too much already.”
“Nothing is too good for one of the family. Surely you did not expect me to send you to the altar in that dismal brown sack?”
Kit’s playful tone revealed he was teasing her again; yet Isobel felt far from laughter. “This dress has served me very well over the years,” she said stiffly.
“Seven years, at least, from the looks of it. Is’t one of Elspeth’s cast offs?”
She nodded, surprised at his knowledge. But she was still cautious. Mayhap he was merely testing her, as Elspeth often had, to ascertain she was not some sort of greedy baggage.
“Great Zeus! I knew I could not forget something so hideously ugly. But I prayed she’d cast it into the rag bin years ago,” he added wryly.
Isobel almost smiled, remembering Anne’s pert comments to similar effect. How like their sire those impertinent darlings were. “’Tis a perfectly good gown,” she said, striving to look both serious and frugal, as her cousin always had.
“Aye, if one favors mud, I suppose. Are you as ravenous as I am?” Kit asked, changing the subject at a dizzying pace and clearly not expecting an answer. “There’s a charming inn just down the lane apace called The Cock and Garter. They’ve little lamby pies baked brown as you please, and tarts that melt in your mouth like butter.”
“I usually sup with the girls,” Isobel murmured, not wanting to admit how delicious such fare sounded.
“What, whey porridge and mashed vegetables and all that?” Kit shook his head, determined to show her a good time. “Nay, not today, Isobel. I want you to remember this outing for a long time to come.”
Oh, she would. But not for the reason Kit assumed. Rather, like his kiss, she would clutch these few precious moments to her heart forever, knowing they were all she’d ever have.
~*~
The impromptu meal with Kit, despite its underlying purpose, served to restore Isobel’s spirits somewhat. He’d always had that effect on her; however glum or distressed she felt, it was impossible to remain so in his exuberant presence. Her obvious delight in the simple, good fare at The Cock and Garter pleased him; and when she suggested they take a few extra tarts home for the girls, he readily agreed.
“Strawberry, I think, to match your lips,” he mused, planting his chin in his hand as he considered Isobel across the wooden plank table. “Or, mayhap cherry to complement the bride-to-be’s cheeks.”
At his whimsical comments, she blushed and murmured, “I imagine you should choose, Cousin Kit. After all, they’re very like you in manner and taste.”
He seemed pleased by her remark, though he added somewhat sternly, “Methinks you’ve called me ‘cousin’ for too many years, Isobel. Ours is a relationship based on friendship rather than blood. Please call me Kit.”
“Kit.” For some reason, those three simple letters were as difficult, and forbidden, as her misbegotten affection for him. Isobel steeled herself against further emotion, hoping he mistook the catch in her voice for a choking crumb of tart instead.
“Charming chit. You’ve a bit of jam by your lips,” Kit said, reaching out to whisk it away with an index finger before Isobel could react. That fleeting, velvety contact was almost more she could bear.
“’Tis late,” she said, rising so swiftly the bench she occupied nearly tumbled on its side. “I must see the girls abed. I fear Grace doesn’t sleep well without me near.”
“T’would appear childish fears rule the day — and night, too,” Kit said, frowning with obvious disappointment. But his grin was as winsome as ever when he rose to join her a second later. He jauntily plopped his feathered hat back on his head and took her arm to escort her from the inn.
At Ambergate, Kit retired to the parlor to enjoy his nightly port while Isobel went upstairs to say good night to the girls. She’d not, however, counted on the chaos that had ensued during her short absence. Apparently Grace had tried to her older sister into believing some fairy tale about an angel whose specialty was finding little girls’ lost dolls.
“I’ll speak with Grace alone, please,” Isobel told the complaining Anne, who finally removed herself from the nursery after a wounded sniff and a final glare at her younger sister.
“Now, Grace,” she began, addressing the six-year-old as sternly as she could manage, which wasn’t very stern at all, “you know it isn’t proper to tell falsehoods, even when it seems so tempting and fun.”
The huge green eyes at Isobel’s waist-level widened further. “But I didn’t make it up! Honest, Isobel. A nice man glided right through the roses, thorns an’ all. He glowed like the sun. An’ he told me he was sent instead ’cause he’s ’specially good at finding lost things.”
Isobel decided to play along for a moment. “I see. And what sorts of ‘lost things’ does he specialize in? Just dolls?”
Grace looked thoughtful — or, rather, inventive. She added excitedly, “Dolls and — and I ’member now. He said he looks for other things, too, like lost hearts.”
“Hearts.”
“’An faith.”
“Faith? Are you certain? Don’t you mean flowers?” Isobel teased the child, amused now despite her initial irritation.
Suddenly serious, Grace shook her head. “No, he said faith. The same thing Papa’s lost.”
Such oddly mature words coming from a young child gave Isobel pause. “Did he say why your father’s lost faith?” she inquired, trying to sound light and unconcerned.
“’Cause he’s been so unhappy for so long. He smiles all the time, but he doesn’t really mean it.”
This simple yet startling observation sent a flaring stab of pain through Isobel’s chest. “I see,” was all she could murmur.
“You still don’t believe me. Well, I don’t care! The lord found Judith for me, and that’s all that matters.” For such a young child, Grace sounded surprisingly dignified.
“Lord?”
Grace looked reluctant to expound on her story. “That’s what he said his name was. The lord.”
The Lord. Oh, dear. It was worse than Isobel had thought. The downstairs maid had obviously been influencing the girls with her catechism, and now Grace was seeing “glowing angels” in the garden! Though she’d planned to give Kit a wide berth until her wedding, there was no hope for it now but to go to him and pray he wouldn’t be too harsh on poor Susan.
~*~
To Isobel’s consternation, Kit simply threw back his auburn head and laughed, far more amused than alarmed by his daughter’s fantasy
“Is that the worst of it?” he asked her, still chuckling as he mulled over Isobel’s words. At her nod, he shrugged. “In that case, you needn’t fret. Children have been inventing such playmates for centuries. Didn’t you have an imaginary friend growing up?”
“No.” Isobel felt both foolish and somehow lacking, as if she’d missed out on a special experience, though she wasn’t sure why she should be envious at not having created an invisible friend. Mayhap because she wasn’t clever enough to have even dreamed of it, unlike Grace.
“I simply thought … well, that you’d be concerned. Cousin Elspet
h always said — ”
“I know, I know.” Kit interrupted her, sounding impatient on the subject of his late wife. “She always claimed there was a papist plot lurking around every corner. No doubt ’tis true in higher circles, but here at Ambergate I suffer no such fears. Our little Susan hasn’t such mighty ambitions, I vow.”
She was relieved he didn’t seem inclined to chastise the maid, though she was certain it must have been Susan’s constant chatter about saints and angels that had influenced Grace. Elspeth, of course, had tried to dismiss the maid several times over the years, but Kit had always intervened. He was quite protective of his family, and he regarded the servants as part of his extended family.
“You still seem troubled,” Kit remarked, observing her from where he sat on the divan, one leg casually slung over the other. “Does the notion of invisible angels wandering about the garden distress you so?”
Despite his teasing tone, Isobel didn’t smile. “Nay. I just remembered I’d forgotten to tell you about Nimmie. The girls’ mare died almost a month ago.”
“Aye, Jem mentioned it. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to ease the news to them. I imagine they were inconsolable for a while.”
“They still are.”
Kit looked surprised. “Did they take it so hard, then? That old cobb’s days were numbered, but I never expected such patent devotion from my girls. Well, on second thought I can’t say I blame them. River Nymph was a magnificent dam in her early days. She was the last filly Father foaled at Ambergate before his death, y’know. I sat my first saddle on her.”
“I know,” Isobel echoed softly. She’d heard the story so many times from the girls, she could easily imagine young Kit clinging to Nimmie’s mane, wide-eyed with wonder as his own lifelong passion for horses slowly and surely blossomed.
“I’ll find them another horse,” he said. “There’s nothing so rarefied nowadays that it can’t be replaced.”
On Gentle Wings Page 5