“How ramshackle it all is,” Miss Primm said, shading her eyes as she looked at the Parthenon perched overhead. “The Greeks really ought to take better care of their artifacts.”
“And the English ought to stop vandalizing them,” Lord Jasper said. “I support the view that Lord Elgin did irreparable damage when he removed so many of the friezes and sculptures from the building.”
“My father would agree,” Isabelle said. “During our travels abroad, we saw too many instances of harm done by foreign looters.”
“But Lord Elgin was not a looter, surely?” Miss Taylor turned her innocent gaze on Isabelle. “Think of how many more people are able to enjoy the beauty of Classical Greece thanks to the fact that he sold the marbles to the British Museum.”
“It’s too lovely a morning for argument,” Lord Weston said, stepping forward. “Regardless of how you feel about it, the Acropolis is here and ready for us to explore. Come.”
He gestured, and the rest of the party followed, taking their time on the tumbled blocks of the stairs leading up through the crumbled gateway.
“Look.” Miss Taylor pointed to one of the sculptures carved into the frieze—Athena reaching down to adjust her footwear, the drapery of her robes astonishingly fluid. “Even goddesses had to fix their sandals.”
At last they reached the flat, high plateau where the Parthenon stood. The city of Athens tumbled below, the white buildings interrupted here and there by islands of green and the bumps of other hills. The blue water of the Mediterranean glowed, just visible, in the harbor beyond.
“We should visit the sacred olive tree of Athena,” Isabelle said. “I believe it is located yonder, at Athena’s temple.” She gestured at the smaller building to the left of the Parthenon.
Miss Primm sniffed. “I don’t hold with such pagan beliefs.”
“Some people could use a visit from the goddess of wisdom,” Mrs. Hodges replied with a pointed look.
Isabelle ducked her head in order to muffle her laugh and caught Lord Jasper’s eye. He, too, was trying to hide his smile, and the moment of camaraderie warmed her. Perhaps it was not so terrible, after all, to be friends.
“My father,” Isabelle said, “being a botanist, gave me a list of important flora to visit on our travels. The olive tree here being foremost among them.”
“Then by all means, let us make a visit,” Lord Weston said. He’d clearly appointed himself their guide for the day despite having little knowledge of the place.
The old temple, despite being in a worse state of ruin than the Parthenon, nonetheless held a quiet grace and beauty that Isabelle appreciated. The olive tree growing at its side was gnarled, the silvery green leaves contrasted against the white marble blocks of the building.
Beside the tree, the entryway soared up, graceful columns supporting a broken ceiling.
After paying their respects to the olive tree, the party made their way to the Parthenon, and Isabelle found she preferred Athena’s temple. Or perhaps it was that there had been some foliage there, while the columns of the bigger building rose starkly into the hot blue air.
Miss Primm pulled a fan from her sleeve and began waving it vigorously. “This climate is a bit warm for my tastes, I must say. England is much more civilized. Thank heavens Athens is the farthest point on our tour. Travel is all very well, but I can scarcely wait to return home.”
Lord Jasper leaned closer to Isabelle.
“I hope she and Miss Taylor will not choose to go on our next outing. The ship docks next at the island of Kíthira, I believe?”
“Yes,” Isabelle said. “The Floramay anchors there tomorrow afternoon. It’s hard to believe that our trip is halfway over.”
“And are you also eager to return to England?” he asked, his tone serious.
“No.” She answered him honestly. “I’d be happy to float about in the Mediterranean for several centuries more.”
Once she set foot back on English soil, she’d have to face her future. Increasingly, it felt rather bleak.
He gently touched her arm. “I’d be more than glad to keep you company. I could teach you all the constellations.”
Stop it, she told her foolish, treacherous heart as it leaped into her throat.
She might have emerged from a chrysalis, as Mrs. Hodges wanted to believe; but if so, the wet, limp things on her back could hardly be trusted to carry her aloft. Far more likely that, like Icarus and his makeshift wings, she’d end up plunging into the sea and drown.
Chapter 5
Isabelle stood at the railing and watched the isle of Kíthira approach. Brown hills dusted with green rose above buildings white as a smile on the shore. Beneath the ship’s bow, the sea shaded from indigo—wine dark as Homer would say—to azure, to turquoise. The perfect crescent harbor ahead was pale aquamarine, but the Floramay was too large to anchor in those waters.
Instead, a fleet of colorful fishing boats was already underway to meet the steamer. The sailors’ laughter echoed over the water as they called to one another in Greek, each captain no doubt making boasting claims about being the first to reach the prize.
To Isabelle’s relief, the Misses Primm and Taylor would not be going ashore. They had contracted indigestion after eating the lobster bisque at dinner the night before—a fact Isabelle found rather ironic, as Miss Primm had forbidden her charge from eating any of the Athenian street food on offer earlier that day. They had watched, the governess with folded arms, Miss Taylor with an envious expression, while Isabelle, Mrs. Hodges, and the gentlemen had enjoyed skewers of spiced meat from the bustling marketplace. The skewers had been quite delicious, though Isabelle was careful not to inquire too closely as to the animal of origin.
With a rattle and clank, the ship’s anchor splashed into the bay. Mrs. Hodges, seated in a nearby deck chair, tucked her knitting away in preparation to disembark.
“Good afternoon,” Lord Jasper said, joining Isabelle at the railing.
It was—the October air still balmy, the sunshine warm and sparkling off the sea.
“Is Lord Weston not joining us?” she asked.
“Alas.” He gave her a look that showed no hint of regret. “Will insisted I go as a vanguard. He’ll join us later.”
She turned back to the view, trying to hide the flush of pleasure this information gave her. While she did not dislike Lord Weston, she had to admit she liked Lord Jasper far better.
“Which boat shall we take to shore?” Isabelle asked as the little fleet pulled up to the Floramay.
“That green one there, with blue trim.” Lord Jasper gestured to the boat in the lead. “It looks well kept up, and it’s the fastest.”
“As long as it’s not prone to tossing about too dreadfully on the waves.” Mrs. Hodges came to peer at the boat in question.
The purser rang the ship’s bell, then called for all interested passengers to gather near the stern. They would be lowered down by means of the ship’s chair or, in the case of the more agile gentlemen, use the ladder on the boat’s side to reach the smaller vessels.
Perhaps because of the lobster bisque, there were not many people gathered to go ashore. Isabelle and Lord Jasper judged their moment and managed to secure three places in the green boat. Soon they were skimming the waves, the white sail belled out above them.
The little boat pulled up deftly beside the pier, and Lord Jasper jumped out, offering his hand to the ladies. Isabelle assisted her companion with a discreet push from behind, then followed Mrs. Hodges out of the boat.
“The isle of Kíthira, birthplace of Aphrodite,” Lord Jasper said. “A goddess born of sea-foam and sunlight.”
“How very poetic.” Isabelle raised her brows. “I believe the Mediterranean climate is making you a bit soft in the head, sir.”
He smiled at her, and for a moment she wondered how she could have ever thought him dour and standoffish.
They explored the little town curving about the harbor. At the far end, Mrs. Hodges declared she was ready for
a rest and shooed Isabelle and Lord Jasper off to stroll along the beach.
“Just stay where I can see you,” she said, settling on a rough-hewn bench and unfurling her umbrella with a whap.
“Of course.” Isabelle set her hand on Lord Jasper’s arm. “Shall we?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
They strolled down the sandy crescent, the waves running up and down the beach, never quite high enough to threaten the tips of their boots. A rocky hillside jutted up to one side, rising high above the harbor. Wild grasses grew along the side of a trail leading to the summit, and the smell of wild marjoram drifted on the breeze.
Just when they’d gone far enough that Isabelle judged they should consider turning around, Lord Jasper paused. He turned to face her and cleared his throat.
“Miss Strathmore,” he said. “Isabelle.”
Her pulse jumped in alarm at his use of her given name.
“Lord Jasper,” she said. “I beg you, do not make a fool of yourself. Or of me.”
“I cannot keep silent any longer,” he said. “Surely you can see that I’ve formed an affection for you. More than an affection, if I may be clear.”
“You hardly know—”
“I know you well enough to appreciate your wit and intelligence and to recognize the spark of humor in your eyes. I’ve seen your intrepid spirit and how reticent you are in matters of the heart.”
“Then you should know better than to speak to me of this.”
The beauty of the day was gone, the sun suddenly too harsh upon the water, the waves glinting like knives, the air rasping the back of her throat with every breath.
“And yet, I must take this chance. I must speak.” He took her hands in his, so gently.
She looked up at him: that black hair, the guarded eyes that now gazed at her, full of such honesty she could not bear it.
“Wait,” she whispered.
“I cannot. Isabelle, I promise I will never hurt you. I will be your willing friend and companion as we walk through this world together. Would you do me the very great honor of consenting to be my wife?”
She squeezed her eyes shut against the horrible brightness of the sky.
“What of love?” she asked through the brambles edging her voice.
“That is simple enough. I love you. Please, Isabelle, open your eyes and tell me you feel the same.”
She lifted her lids and stared at him. The stark emotion in his gaze cut her to the heart.
A heart that trembled, and shuddered, and could not bear this moment any longer. It was too soon; she was still too broken.
“Do you . . . love me?" he asked, doubt finally filling his eyes, sunshine giving way to night—dark and cold and inevitable.
“I do not,” she said, the words leaving her lips like stones.
Ignoring his stricken expression, she tore her hands from his, whirled, and ran toward the path leading away from the beach.
“Isabelle,” he called.
“Leave me alone,” she called over her shoulder. “Please.”
To her relief, he did not follow as she ascended the hill. Finally, a stitch in her side forced her to stop for breath, and she glanced back down at the white curve of sand. He stood where she had left him, hands open at his sides.
Mrs. Hodges, umbrella folded closed, stalked down the beach toward him. Good. Her companion could be depended on to tell him to go away and never bother Isabelle again. She turned back to the path and kept climbing, driving herself to the very top of the rocky hill.
Away, her heartbeat thumped. Away, away.
Still breathless, she gained the summit. The little town and harbor looked surprisingly small below; the hill was higher than she’d thought. Two figures walked on the beach, almost out of sight from where she stood. She hoped that Mrs. Hodges was talking sense into Lord Jasper.
Now, if only Isabelle could find some peace for herself. She perched on a boulder and tried to quiet her pounding heart, which seemed to be shaking the very ground beneath her.
No. Dear heavens, the earth was moving, the stones about her rumbling. She stood in alarm, suddenly aware of the very steep drop down to the restless water. The hillside began to slide out from under her, and she scrabbled at the rocks, trying to catch herself.
“Isabelle!”
She scarcely heard the rough shout from below as, with horrible slowness, she lost her balance and tumbled down and down into the sea.
Chapter 6
Gavin had gambled everything—and lost. He could scarcely believe it as he watched Isabelle run away from him, her boot heels kicking up little sprays of sand until she reached the path winding up the hillside.
What a fool he’d been! Groaning, he put his head in his hands. The bridge of friendship they’d built between them was not, after all, strong enough to withstand weighty declarations of love.
“Here now,” a gruff voice called. “What have you done?”
He glanced behind him to see Mrs. Hodges approaching at a brisk pace.
“I was an idiot,” he said when she reached him. “I asked Miss Strathmore to marry me.”
“Confound it,” she said, her mouth twisting.
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t blame yourself, sir. Isabelle is the source of my aggravation.” Mrs. Hodges shaded her eyes with one hand, looking up to the flash of pale-blue skirts where Isabelle still climbed. “I had hoped . . . Well. There’s no undoing what has been done.”
Misery gnawed at him. Once again, he’d failed, though this time it was not because he wanted to escape matrimony but rather embrace it.
“Clearly I misjudged her emotions,” he said.
“And your own?” Mrs. Hodges raised a brow at him.
“Not at all,” he replied, stung. “I am firm in my affections for Miss Strathmore.”
The matron gave a satisfied nod. “It might still be salvaged, then.”
They both looked up to where Isabelle had nearly gained the crest of the hill, almost around the corner from their view.
“Should I go after her?” he asked.
“Not quite yet.” Mrs. Hodges squinted. “She needs time to sort out her own mind—and heart. Try to be patient, Lord Jasper.”
He nodded, his gaze never leaving the distant figure of Isabelle as she settled on a boulder, far too near the edge of the hillside for his comfort.
Without warning, Mrs. Hodges stumbled against him. Gavin caught her, at first fearing she’d suffered some kind of fit, but then the beach went to pudding beneath his feet, the waves frothing and turbulent.
“Earthquake,” Mrs. Hodges gasped out.
Chest constricting, Gavin looked up once more to where Isabelle perched high above the sea.
“Isabelle!” he cried, knowing it was far too late to reach her.
In horror, he watched as the stones about her shook and tumbled, and then—dear gods no—Isabelle Strathmore plummeted into the ocean.
Before his mind could grapple with the horrible image of her falling, his body was in action. His feet dug temporary divots into the sand as he raced back toward the harbor.
It was the opposite direction from where Isabelle had fallen, and yet, deep in his bones, he knew it was the fastest way to reach her.
A boat.
He must commandeer the first available vessel and head for Isabelle by water. She could swim, he hoped—but her petticoats would drag her down, and her corset would restrict her breath. He prayed to every deity he could think of, but especially to Aphrodite, whose island this was, that he could reach her in time.
With a smack, Isabelle hit the water—painful as a slap from some gigantic hand. She barely had time to gulp in half a breath before her head went under. The sound of the waves filled her ears, and the once-clear sea churned, disorienting her until she did not know up from down.
But she must have air.
Lungs burning, she kicked, hoping desperately that she was pointed toward the surface. Her full petticoats dragged at he
r, the cotton flounces turned to anchors, pulling her down.
She had to breathe.
She had to get free of her skirts.
Clamping her lips together to keep from gasping in saltwater, Isabelle tore at her undergarments. The sodden ties were knots beneath her fumbling fingers as the sea shoved her back and forth. She was probably dangerously near the rocks, but that did not matter if her clothing drowned her first.
After several thundering heartbeats, her body screaming for air, she managed to strip off her petticoats and kick upward again. The last bit of air escaped from her mouth, silvery bubbles swept away. She must remove her boots, too, but not now. She had to breathe.
A black spot formed in her vision, growing larger, larger, until suddenly the restless ceiling over her head broke.
Air.
She pulled in a great, gasping breath, then swallowed seawater and went under again, lungs convulsing.
Something bumped against her head and spun away, and she flailed out blindly. Eyes burning from salt, she forced herself to scan the murky blue landscape.
There. A black shape, bobbing overhead.
It took all her strength to kick, kick, kick, until she was close enough to grab the thing. Wild creature or bit of flotsam, she did not care. Only that it floated and would bear her up.
Her head emerged from the water again, and she wrapped her arms around the thing. It turned out to be the trunk of an olive tree torn from the ground, branches broken, gray-green leaves sodden.
It was hardly buoyant enough to bear her weight. When Isabelle tried hoisting herself further onto the trunk, it spun and dipped below the surface, and she lost her grip.
Panicked, she thrashed after it while the sea tried to slurp her down. Finally she caught the tree again and hooked one elbow over the rough wood. It abraded her skin, but she did not care.
The choppiness of the waves abated, and Isabelle looked up to see that the current had carried her some distance from the rocky hill where she’d fallen. The curve of the harbor was quite hidden from view. Nothing to be seen but the empty shore of Kíthira and the endless blue of the Mediterranean.
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