Isabella turned her attention toward the stout little man and noted his smile held genuine kindness. Out of the three men dancing attendance to her, he was most likely the safest to converse with; possibly the best choice for a husband, too, had she been at all interested in matrimony. She inclined her head in lieu of a curtsy.
“I did. Thank you so much. It is always such a pleasant thing to see blue and white bellflowers paired with hollyhocks, especially on a rainy day.”
The squire’s chest swelled with pride at her praise. “They grow in my gardens, and I’m so pleased they brightened your day. Perhaps one afternoon you’ll do me the honor of letting me show you my home.”
Isabella made a mental note not to encourage the man any further, for surely it wasn’t kind. She smiled pleasantly, but said nothing, and was grateful when she spotted Sir Henry leading Lady Kistel toward them before her silence had sufficient time to grow awkward. She stood and greeted the old lady with a kiss on her cheek. “Take my seat on the sofa, my lady. Sir Henry will bring me a chair.”
Henry’s eyes met hers in silent greeting as he led Lady Kistel to the seat on the sofa. “It will be my pleasure, Miss Chancellor.” But before he could go on his errand, Baron Tillister moved a chair into position for her so she would be seated between the good baron and the squire.
Henry took one look at the scene before him and decided to extricate her from her gaggle of suitors. He bent over her hand as she curtsied. “Would you like to take a turn about the room before the music starts, Miss Chancellor?”
Isabella, mindful of her need to say a private thank you for the costly present he had sent, agreed readily. “That would be just the thing, Sir Henry. Do you enjoy music?”
Henry offered his arm and led her away from the group. “I do indeed. I usually get asked to play a little Beethoven at these occasions. Do you play or sing?”
Isabella groaned, remembering her mother’s coercion earlier, then glanced over her shoulder to make sure the unseemly noise hadn’t carried back to the baroness. “I sing passably and play some. What gets me into trouble is doing both at the same time.”
Henry chuckled. “You sound as if such a fate were about to befall you.”
Rolling her eyes heavenwards, Isabella was confronted with the cherubs playing harps over their heads. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I do hope the music is better than that fresco.” She shuddered for good measure and turned her attention back to Henry. “My mother took it upon herself to announce to all and sundry I would perform tonight.”
Henry smiled at her wrinkled nose in honor of the mediocre fresco and wondered whether she would enjoy singing if she didn’t have to play the piano. “What are you thinking of offering? If I am familiar with it, I could accompany you.”
Her expression was so unabashedly hopeful, he almost laughed out loud.
“I like the old English folk songs. They sound better on the harpsichord, but that can’t be helped. Do you know ‘Through Bushes and Briars’?”
Henry nodded. It was a rather sad song, but very beautiful, and somehow it suited her. “It’s settled then; I shall accompany you. And I do think there is a harpsichord hidden in the corner behind the pianoforte.”
“Thank you, Sir Henry.” Isabella let out a relieved sigh and, recalling the other reason to be grateful to him, turned to beam up at him. “I must also thank you for my treasure chest. You truly shouldn’t have sent the satin, but it’s perfect, so I’m keeping it, even if it makes me a wicked person.”
Henry grinned. “It doesn’t make you wicked, just sensible. And since it’s cut and I can’t return it, you would insult me for nothing if you insisted on giving it back.”
“That’s what Sally said. She is vastly in favor of keeping it too.”
“She’s a smart woman, your maid. Listen to her.”
Isabella blushed and lowered her eyes, remembering what else Sally had suggested she should do. “I know, and I frequently do.”
Henry wondered what had triggered her discomfiture and deflected so she could regroup. “Let’s go see if we can find the sheet music to Beethoven’s ‘Piano Sonata No. 27 in E minor.’ I think it will go with your song, but I haven’t played it in a while, so I’d best have the music in front of me.”
Isabella was grateful to have a moment to gather herself while they leisurely walked over to the pianoforte. Until Sir Henry made the comment about listening to Sally, Isabella hadn’t realized her maid was quite literally the only person she could trust completely, and the only person she actually did listen to, her only true friend. Of course she had other friends, and enjoyed cordial relationships with her siblings, but no one else knew her as well as Sally did. She was also the only one who would be moving to her cottage with her when the time came. That thought at least was comforting.
It didn’t take long to locate the sheet music for the Beethoven sonata, but by the time Isabella handed it to Henry, she was back in control of her emotions.
Henry placed it on the piano next to the open lid, where it would be easy to find later. “Thank you, my dear. Shall we go in search of our hostess to tell her what we each will be performing? Or would you rather I take you back to your mother before I seek out Lady Landover?”
Isabella took his arm again. “I’ve no plans to return to my scheming mother’s side until I absolutely have to.” The dimple in her cheek made an appearance as she looked up at him with a naughty little grin. “I’m sorry to use you in such a way, but my mother is rather excited at the thought of me marrying all those piles of money you are rumored to have, and as long as you show interest and I reciprocate, she won’t get carried away with the idea of my marrying a title or me becoming the mother of a viscount—I hope.” Isabella shrugged.
Henry laid his gloved hand over hers, resting on his arm, and lost himself in her gorgeous blue-green eyes for a moment. Should he tell her he was serious about courting her? It would be the honest and decent thing to do, but he was almost certain she’d draw away from him. And if he couldn’t spend time with her, there was no chance of changing her mind, or at least finding out what troubled her. So he gave her hand a friendly pat. “I am glad to be of use, my dear. I do rather enjoy your company.”
That earned him a radiant smile, making him feel just a little guilty, but not enough to confess his intentions and risk their easy camaraderie again.
“Thank you, Sir Henry. I do so appreciate your friendship.”
Henry and Isabella found their hostess still greeting guests. She was bathed in refracted light under the chandelier in the foyer. It took but a moment for Henry to whisper their plans into Lady Landover’s attentive ear, and then he directed Isabella to the refreshment table in the smaller salon. There he instructed a footman to take drinks to the three ladies on the sofa in the music room and furnished Isabella with a glass of berry ratafia. He himself opted for claret and saluted Isabella. “You look lovely tonight, my dear. No need to spill any of this on any part of you.”
Isabella burst into a helpless fit of laughter. “Oh, you are wicked.”
BY THE TIME THEY HAD consumed their libations, the last expected guests had arrived, and Lady Landover made her way through the smaller salon into the music room, clapping her hands to attract everyone’s attention. “Come along, my dears. Let’s begin!”
She herded four young ladies to the piano, while Henry led Isabella to her chair between the squire and the baron and stood behind her, letting his hand rest on the chair’s back, not two inches from her shoulder. Lady Chancellor noticed, her eyes gleaming with excitement, prompting Henry to smile at his unlikely ally.
The young ladies opened the concert with their quartet, a four-handed piano accompaniment lending it weight. Then came a fine performance on the harp, followed by a string of young men and women singing and playing instruments with varying degrees of skill. When Lady Landover motioned for Isabella to come to the front, Henry followed her and settled at the harpsichord.
Her voice was stro
ng and clear, and perfectly suited to the simple yet powerful song, but by the time she concluded with the lines “If I show him my boldness / He’d ne’er love me again,” Henry was certain the song had meaning for her. He could feel her sadness over her self-imposed loneliness, and he took heart; surely he would be able to change her mind if she didn’t wish to be alone.
Taking their bow amidst steady applause, Henry brought Isabella’s gloved hand to his lips. “That was lovely, my dear. You’ll have to sing for me again soon.” He then took his place at the pianoforte, and a hush fell over the assembled guests while Isabella took her seat.
It was obvious a number of people in the audience had heard Sir Henry play on other occasions and were in expectation of a treat. It felt special to Isabella that he should smile at her at this moment, almost like he played for her alone.
The sonata began with a few strong chords and a brief introduction to the melody, building quickly in intricacy. Isabella recognized Sir Henry not only played with considerable skill but possessed the talent to imbue the music with emotion, to bring out the sheer lilting beauty of the piece. Lady Landover turned the pages for him, but he barely glanced at the sheet music. Once he progressed beyond the initial chords, the music his fingers created on the keys of the piano wound itself around him and took him to a place where only the music itself existed, and the audience willingly followed. It was indeed a treat, and after the last note floated through the room, applause thundered in its wake.
Everyone then agreed it was time to take a break and go in search of refreshments.
Henry made his way back to Isabella’s side, and she instinctively reached for both his hands. “That was simply marvelous. I could listen to you all day, but I’m decided you shall never hear me play that particular instrument.”
Henry laughed and gave her hands a little squeeze before he reluctantly let go of them. “I’m quite content to accompany you while you sing. However, I’m no virtuoso. I can play a few pieces well, but never did practice enough to be truly good. It’s my grandmother who is the musician in the family.”
Lady Kistel leaned over the squire to get Isabella’s attention. “I hear his daughter, Emily, is following in her footsteps.” She then grinned up at Henry. “Ruth tells me she is the best student she’s ever had, including you.”
Henry chuckled. “Ah, Emily’s twin obsessions: horses and music. The little dervish is about to overtake me on both counts.” He smiled down at Isabella and added, “You will meet both of them soon. My grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Avon, is bringing my daughter to Brighton for a visit.”
Smiling, Isabella took the champagne Henry had plucked off a passing waiter’s tray. “I’d love to meet your daughter.”
Taking a sip from his own glass, Henry contemplated his fair companion. There was not a single thing he disliked about this woman and quite a few he liked very much. Now he just had to find out the reason for her reluctance to wed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE NEXT DAY DAWNED BRIGHT AND CLEAR, SO Henry sent word he would pick Isabella up at ten o’clock and drive them to the footpath leading to the abbey. Sally was of course disappointed not to be visiting the modiste, but soon reconciled herself to the delay when her mistress pointed out she wouldn’t have to trudge to the abbey, since there would be no room for her in the curricle and a groom would be present for propriety’s sake.
Isabella answered that she would be delighted. It was no small thing to be spared the walk through town and beyond to get to the path, not to mention having the pleasure of Sir Henry’s company.
Promptly at ten o’clock Henry appeared at Mrs. Curtis’s door, bowed politely over the beaming baroness’s hand, and got permission to take Isabella on a picnic at the famous landmark. Once at the footpath, Henry swung Isabella off the high seat, pulled a picnic hamper and a blanket from the box, and instructed his groom, Roberts, to return for them in the late afternoon.
Isabella wondered for a moment if her mother would have agreed to the outing had she known Sir Henry wouldn’t bring his groom, but then dismissed the thought. Miraculously, she trusted this man. She had a day of freedom and painting ahead of her; why trouble herself with details?
Both thoroughly enjoyed their ramble through the Downs. The rain had added new vibrance to flowering meadows, and once they reached their destination, they spread the blanket in the shade of a gnarled old oak tree and ate their lunch amidst the lush green of an English summer.
Isabella declared the abbey a subject Gothic and gloomy enough to satisfy even the most romantic art patron. She made several sketches to work from on rainy days at home, then spent the afternoon painting a watercolor of the overgrown, doorless front portal of the ruined church. The pointed arch and ivy-covered masonry seemed to promise mysteries, even to a habitually rational young woman like herself.
Henry stayed close by as long as Isabella sketched in the ruins, remembering the unsettling sensations he had felt while wandering through the Gothic structure by himself. Today these sensations were compounded by the feeling they weren’t alone in the abbey. However, out in the open the impression dissipated, so when she settled under the oak tree to paint, he left her side. Henry was now positive the abbey held mysteries and set about searching the area within a half-mile radius of it as thoroughly as he knew how. Last time he had looked closely at the ruins and the immediate surroundings, but now he walked outward in a star-shaped pattern, coming back to check on Isabella every half hour or so.
Isabella liked painting by herself, but in these strange ruins, she was glad to see Henry every time he came wandering back. She’d had the oddest feeling of being watched while sketching in the abbey. The sensation wasn’t as prominent out under the oak tree, but still, it was good to know Henry never ventured far. To her mind, Gothic ruins were overrated, and the quicker she finished with her painting, the better.
Henry’s search of the area confirmed there was no secret tunnel into the abbey unless it originated from Warthon Castle. From the hill behind the Gothic ruins the castle was clearly visible. Surrounded by parkland, it stood about a mile to the north. The castle was moated by a man-made lake as square as the structure itself. That made a tunnel from the castle unlikely, but not impossible. There were other structures in and around the park from which a tunnel could originate, but it was also entirely possible there was no tunnel, and everyone taking part in a meeting of the Knights simply walked or rode to the abbey.
In Hampstead their meeting place had been underground and accessible by tunnels, but Astor’s dungeon had also been on common land in a fairly populated area. This was private land. Who would notice a few men heading out to the abbey late at night? Thanks to the rumors of the haunting, if the locals saw them, they would just assume them to be ghosts.
STILL CONTEMPLATING THE ISSUE, HENRY sauntered to where Isabella stood back from her easel, appraising her day’s work. He studied her painting for a few moments. “I think I like this ruin better in your picture than in real life.”
Isabella nodded thoughtfully. “I know what you mean. There seems to be something a little disturbing in the air around this place. I admit to being rather anxious to depart before the sun sets.”
Henry leaned a little closer, but refrained from draping a protective arm around her. “I’m quite satisfied with my day’s exploring, so if you are finished painting, we can pack up and leave right now.”
Isabella let her eyes travel between the scene in front of her and her painting one more time and sighed. “Yes, I am indeed finished. There is something not quite right about it, but I can’t work out what it is.”
Henry looked between her, the abbey, and the painting, and shook his head. “I can’t see anything wrong with it. In fact, I think it’s very good, even if the subject is a gloomy Gothic ruin.”
Isabella patted his arm and grinned. The compliments he paid her skill as a painter always made her a little giddy. “It’s the Gothic ruin that troubles me.”
“Ho
w so?”
She stroked her middle finger back and forth along her chin in a thoughtful gesture, her eyes on the painting. “There is something wrong with the proportions, but I can’t work out what.”
Taking the board with the painting pinned to it off the easel, she leaned it against the oak tree and folded up her easel. “Do you still have that little book about the abbey?”
Henry was curious himself now. If her trained painter’s eye detected an abnormality, perhaps there were stairs contained within the walls of the abbey after all.
“Yes, it’s back at the hotel.”
Isabella turned to him and smiled. “Can I borrow it for a day? It had a rather good drawing of the ruins in it. Perhaps it can shed light on the proportions mystery.”
Henry folded the picnic blanket and returned her smile. “By all means, I seem to recall the drawing of the portal had far less foliage obstructing the walls than there is now.”
“Precisely,” Isabella agreed.
THEY PACKED UP IN COMPANIONABLE silence and headed back the way they’d come. Isabella bore the now-empty hamper with the blanket folded inside, while Henry carried her much heavier painting bag over his shoulder and held her board under his arm like he had done the day they got caught in the rainstorm. They were starting to work as a team, developing routines, feeling comfortable in each other’s company. Henry loved the ease of their interactions and the lack of formality.
For her part, Isabella walked alongside Henry and wondered why it was so much easier to be with him than with any of her friends or siblings. She reasoned it to be their shared appreciation of nature and all things beautiful, but if she was honest with herself, she knew there was more to it. Walking next to Sir Henry, being at ease with him, enjoying his company, she asked herself for the first time in almost seven years why, precisely, there couldn’t be anything more.
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