Whispers of Light

by Monroe, Jennifer

  Something had changed in the woman beside him since Hugh’s party; more specifically when he had shared his feelings for her. Certainly, she had joined him for her lessons with a smile every day since; however, her behavior toward him was somehow different, a bit more reserved. Yet, he could not put his finger on what exactly had changed.

  He glanced at her canvas. She had been painting a landscape of a field with numerous trees, but now her brush rested in the cup of linseed oil, her pallet on the table beside her as she stared at her creation.

  “It is coming along quite nicely,” he said, hoping to encourage her. “Your first painting will soon be done, and we will display it in a place of pride.”

  “Thank you.” She spoke barely above a whisper, and when she picked up the glass of wine beside her, he bit his tongue in order to not make any comment. Her drinking had increased since their wedding, he noticed, and she was rarely seen without a glass, even in the early mornings.

  “I have thought about the party Hugh held,” he said in an attempt to launch a conversation. Where they had chatted as they practiced the various types of strokes he had taught her before the party, they now sat the majority of the time in near silence; the only words spoken were questions she asked of him concerning her learning or words of encouragement from him.

  He added a touch of brown to a tree and awaited her response, and when she made none, he continued. “It has been some time since I have had such a marvelous time.” Still, she made no comment, and he stopped and turned to her. “Perhaps it is time to host our own party. A celebration of our marriage and our new life together.”

  “That would be lovely,” she replied before taking another sip of her wine. Was her enthusiasm forced?

  “I am sure your sisters would enjoy attending. You will invite them, will you not?”

  A small smile found her lips, much to his relief, and she replied, “Yes, they would. I would like to see them again.” However, her ardor was short-lived. “I do not wish to continue with this painting. May I begin another?”

  Laurence wished to encourage her to continue with the one she had begun, but, instead, he nodded. “I have a few unfinished works myself,” he replied. He did not add that they were very few. “Do you know what you wish to paint? Perhaps an animal or an ocean setting might do.”

  Isabel sighed sadly. “I am unsure. Somehow, I feel…overwhelmed.” She looked up at him, and a dispiritedness rolled off her in waves. “You are a brilliant painter, but I am afraid I cannot do this anymore. I will never complete a painting.”

  “That is not true,” Laurence said as he reached out and took her hand in support. When he had done so before, her hand was always welcoming. Now, however, he could feel her reluctance, and his worry increased. “Paint from your heart. Whatever you desire, put it onto the canvas. Allow the brush to speak what your heart is not able to say, and you will be surprised at the results.”

  Although Isabel nodded, she removed her hand from his, and Laurence returned to his painting, a foreboding he could not explain coming over him. There was no doubt, something had happened in the last two weeks, and he knew in his heart it had begun during the party Hugh had given.

  He glanced over at her. Was it his confession of his feelings for her that had brought about this metamorphosis? He believed that was part of it, but he suspected there was more to it than that. He had seen her speaking to Conner Barnet, brother to her former husband. Had seeing the man resurrected memories of Arthur?

  What a fool he was. Of course, speaking to her former husband would bring back memories. It was clear she had loved the man; how could he expect her to not be reminded of him at every turn, and even more so when she is confronted by his brother? Yet, how does one compete with the memory of a ghost?

  Frustrated, Laurence dipped his brush into the green paint and pressed it to the canvas as he continued his recollection of that evening. Perhaps seeing the man had not only resurrected memories of Arthur, but also her love of the man. The fact that lack of love was not what had separated them but rather because the man had fallen in a tragic accident also played its part.

  As he continued to paint, a pastime that had once eased his mind, that lovely confidence that had returned began to slip. The woman who sat staring at the blank canvas before her had gone from a man she loved to one she did not, and the more he considered this, the truer his suspicions became. He could never have a place in her heart, for it belonged to her former husband, every bit of it, and as much as he hated to admit it, she was not willing to open it up once more.

  The pain in that thought forced him to realize that he truly loved his wife. It crushed him to know she did not return the sentiment. Perhaps Harriet had been right after all; he had been responsible for the death of their parents, and now he failed to win over the heart of his wife. The truth throbbed as much as the pain in his leg. He was undeserving of his title, and it appeared he never would be.

  But no. He was not willing to give up just yet.

  “I am sorry,” Isabel said, breaking him from his thoughts. “I do not feel well and wish to return to my room. Is that all right?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said with concern. “Would you like food sent up to you? Or perhaps I can call in Doctor Comerford.”

  “No, that will not be needed.”

  With a heavy heart, Laurence watched as Isabel walked away. He returned his tools to their places and then walked over to the portrait of his parents. Guilt plagued him, and he hung his head beneath their fixed gaze.

  “Father, I thought Isabel would bring me happiness, and although I have felt it at times, I am riddled with shame.” His hand moved to his leg. “It may have been too much to hope that Isabel would be my repentance for all my wrongdoing.” He waited for a response he knew would never come.

  Sighing, he turned his back on the portrait. His parents were long gone, and nothing would bring them back. He would receive no redemption. Not now. Not in the future. He was destined to live in contrition until he, too, joined his parents. If Heaven would have him.

  As he stared at his half-finished work, he no longer wished to resume painting. Instead, he went to his office, wondering what the future would hold and guessing he would more than likely not like it.

  ***

  As the week continued, Laurence believed Isabel grew unhappier with each passing moment. He made attempts to speak on subjects that would be of interest to her—their upcoming party, the redecorating of the ballroom, her love of the rolling hills beyond the garden gates—but whatever he proposed or brought up for consideration was met with a simple nod or short replies. It pained him to see her in such a state, but nothing seemed to bring her out of her melancholy.

  One particular morning as they sat in their regular places in the ballroom, Isabel heaved a heavy sigh and rose from her stool. “I cannot continue,” she complained. She had begun yet another painting, her fifth in as many days, and like the others, it was not completed. “I am sorry. Perhaps If I observe you over the next few mornings, I will gain a bit more understanding of the steps required.” She grabbed her customary glass of wine and clicked her tongue when a few drops splashed on her hand.

  Laurence had had enough. He stood and took the glass from her hand. “We must talk,” he demanded.

  “About?”

  “You are drinking more than is proper,” he scolded. “And you hardly speak to me anymore.”

  “I apologize,” she said as she cast her eyes to the floor. “I will make attempts to do better.”

  Laurence sighed. “I do not want you to make attempts.”

  She raised her head, and he took a step back from the coldness that came from her eyes. “Then what do you expect?” she demanded. “I have done everything I can to please you, and yet it appears I am still unable to do so.”

  “You speak as if it were a task assigned to you,” he said, taken aback by her words.

  Isabel shook her head. “It is not that,” she said as she walked over to
the window.

  “It is not a task?”

  She did not look at him when she replied, “No.”

  “Very well then, what is it?” He knew he sounded as if he were begging, but he had to know the truth. “Is it my leg?” She shook her head. “It is more than learning to paint. You have been this way since the party at Applewood Estate.” He walked up to stand behind her. How he wished he could wrap his arms around her and hold her, to comfort her, but he did not. “It is Arthur,” he said when she made no indication to respond. The drop of her head told him he had spoken the truth. “I suspected as much since you spoke to his brother. I assume the love for your former husband has returned.”

  “It is not that,” she whispered.

  “No. That is it. He was a better man, more complete than I. If that is the truth, then do not deny it. I would rather have my heart broken by the truth than to hold joy over false words.”

  When Isabel turned to face him, she looked at him with reddened eyes. “I am not happy here,” she said simply.

  “I see. Have you felt this way since our marriage?”

  “Yes,” came her whispered reply. “Do not doubt that I care for you, for I do. However, I cannot care for you in the way you desire. Or need.”

  Anger boiled inside Laurence. “I have done everything I could possibly do to win your heart. I have purchased new dresses and gowns for you, new jewelry, hats. Yet, nothing I do seems to have any effect on you.”

  “I want none of those things.”

  He barely heard her words as his ire built. “And Harriet! I removed my own sister from my home for you. And yet, even that does not make you happy! What I want…what I need is to understand why.”

  “Because I cannot make you happy!” she shouted, her hands clenched at her side. “Harriet needed to be removed for you, not for me or anyone else.”

  Laurence shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. “Then I shall never do so again.”

  She met his gaze without wavering. “Do what?” she demanded.

  “Remove my sister for your sake.”

  “I told you that it was your choice, and yet you laid the blame on me. That is not fair! The decision was yours, not mine.”

  He gave a derisive snort. “Apparently a bad one at that. However, that is of little consequence now. You are not happy, and like many things in life, I have failed to bring you even the smallest amount of joy. What do you wish, if I might ask?”

  “Nothing. You have done more than enough for me and my family.”

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His anger was great, but the sadness in his heart blew past it like a wind coming in from a storm over the ocean. “You do not wish to remain here. With me.” He said the words, and as they left his lips, it was as though he was condemning himself. And as he looked into Isabel’s eyes, he knew the answer before she spoke. It pained him more than anything, but having her remain where she was so terribly unhappy pained him more. A caged animal could not have pained him to this point.

  “Laurence,” Isabel whispered, “perhaps we can…”

  He raised his hand in defeat. “No. I will not listen any longer. I have houses in London and throughout the country. We will find a place you prefer, and you can live there. I can tell people I travel on business often, and that is the reason you prefer that home to Camellia Estates.”

  For the first time, a single tear rolled down her cheek. “I am sorry. I did not mean for this to happen.”

  He was tired of apologies, but he could see in her eyes she spoke the truth. “I believe you.” He turned back to the canvases and sighed. “Perhaps you should return to Scarlett Hall for a few days.”

  Isabel walked up to him and placed a hand on his arm. “Is there anything I can do?”

  How he wished to ask her to remain here, to give him one more chance to prove his love for her. Then, as his eyes scanned the unfinished work, an idea occurred to him. “I make but one request,” he said. “When you return, I want you to complete a painting. However, you will swear it will come from the heart. Whatever it may be, it must come from deep within you.”

  “You have my word,” Isabel replied. “I will do that.”

  He nodded and returned to his stool. Isabel stood behind him, watching for a moment, and then soon after left him alone in the ballroom. He tried to focus his attention on the canvas, but he found he was unable to. His heart had taken over his thoughts. Isabel was returning to her family home, and once she completed the painting she had promised him, she would leave him. His house would be empty once again, her laugh and promise gone. And even worse, the love he had for her would never be uttered, not now or ever in the future, for he could not endure such rejection once again.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Numbness. Isabel had felt nothing but numbness for some time now. In fact, it had been well over a year since she had experienced any true emotions. To the casual observer, one might believe she was simply another lady amongst many, for, at various moments, she could be seen smiling or finding joy in a particular activity. However, the majority of the time was spent in complete apathy, both in mind and soul. That was how she found herself now as she entered Scarlett Hall, hoping that happiness would come to her once again.

  “Forbes,” Isabel said, “it is good to see you again.”

  The old butler did not shy away from her embrace as some butlers would, for which she was glad. The man had been a part of the staff at Scarlett Hall for so long, he was close to being a member of the family, and Isabel was honored he was so kind to her.

  Forbes took her bag from her and said, “And it is good to see you again, Your Grace. I will see your bag taken upstairs to your old room.”

  “Thank you,” Isabel replied with a smile.

  When he was gone, she stood in the foyer staring around with appreciation. And yet, something was missing. She was glad to be home, to be certain, but the joy she had expected was lacking, and that did not sit well with her. Well, it was not as if she returned under the best of circumstances.

  An Image of Laurence came to mind. She had not meant to hurt the man, and although she had tried to speak about her feelings with care, her words had only increased his ire. Yet, it was more than that; it was all too clear that his heart had been broken by her words, and for that, she could only feel regret.

  “Isabel?”

  Isabel turned as her mother came down the staircase. “Hello, Mother.”

  “I was not expecting you.”

  Was there more gray scattered through her mother’s hair? It was difficult to tell with her light coloring and the swatch of fabric that covered it, but there did seem to be more at her temples than even the last time Isabel had seen her. Regardless, if her hair had changed, her strength had not.

  “Laurence will be occupied with business matters this week and suggested I return for a few days’ visit.”

  Her mother studied her for a moment as she stepped off the staircase. “Is that all?” she asked. “There is nothing more that brought you back here?”

  Isabel had no desire to tell her mother the truth, for she had been the cause of Isabel’s current predicament. “No. There is nothing more.”

  “Your sisters and your cousin Annabel are in the garden,” her mother said. “If you would like to join them.”

  For a brief moment, Isabel considered speaking with her mother about her troubles with Laurence. How she missed the closeness they had once shared! However, it would do no good, for the woman would never understand the pain Isabel endured. Yes, she was a widow just as Isabel was, but the pain Isabel carried went deeper than her grief over the loss of her husband. Furthermore, what could her mother do if Isabel did tell her? Not a thing.

  “I often wonder why Annabel never remained with us,” Isabel said in order to make an attempt at conversation with her mother. There was no denying that Isabel still loved the woman despite the fact she had been forced to clean up the mess her mother had made. “Scarlett Hall is
more a home to her than her own.”

  Annabel’s parents often left her at home with a chaperon, or a governess when she was younger, or allowed her to stay with Isabel and her sisters. Many nights, the poor girl wept, and Isabel did what she could to console her, assuring her that she was loved.

  “Annabel has known she is always welcome here,” her mother replied. “If the time comes, and she wishes to remain, she will do so.”

  Isabel pursed her lips. “Unlike me, you mean,” she said.

  Her mother went to speak, but Isabel jutted out her chin and strode past the woman without allowing her the opportunity to respond. Once she was outside, Isabel leaned against the railing to rein in her emotions.

  Her world was falling apart. Her new marriage, for all intents and purposes, was over, and now she had to decide where to live. Although she wanted to return to Scarlett Hall once more for good, she could not for two reasons. First, it was much too close to Camellia Estates, and thus too close to Laurence. The rumors of the ton would bring forth unnecessary embarrassment for the duke, and she could not do that to him. He was not the one at fault for her shortcomings.

  The second reason she could not return to Scarlett Hall was much more heartbreaking. Although she loved the place where she was born and raised, and she missed her sisters terribly, the truth of the matter was that she could not stand to look at her mother on a daily basis. Yes, thinking in such a way about the woman she had loved all her life was terrible, but the anger Isabel had for her mother was that great.

  “Isabel!” Hannah cried as she came running down the footpath. “It is you!”

  Isabel returned her sister’s smile and then hugged her and kissed her head. “My sweet Hannah,” she whispered. “I have missed you.”

  “And I have missed you,” Hannah replied. “I believe Juliet is ill, for she has been behaving herself as of late.”

  Isabel laughed as she and Hannah walked in the direction from which Hannah had just come. “That is wonderful to hear. And Annabel? I hear she is with us once again. How is she?”