Page 8 of Darkest at Dusk (Revenant Roses)

The following afternoon, Isabella answered the door to find Mr. Christopher standing on the stoop holding a large basket covered in a checkered cloth. She was expecting him as he had sent a note earlier to apprise her of his visit.

After they exchanged greetings, he held out the basket toward her. The end of a loaf of bread protruded from beneath the cloth.

“Thank you,” she said, a wash of heat touching her cheeks. That he knew her larder was empty filled her with quiet humiliation. It felt like judgement, even if kindly delivered.

“Oh, do not thank me. I found it on the stoop when I arrived,” he said.

“On the—” She leaned out and looked right then left but saw no one in the street.

Mr. Christopher cleared his throat and looked at her sadly. “I trust that this is not an inconvenient time. Perhaps we should wait until?—”

Isabella set the basket on the narrow, claw-footed hall table.

“Waiting will not change my circumstances,” she said, not wanting his pity.

She had no illusions as to the state of her affairs, a situation he was here to clarify.

Once she knew the whole of it, she would formulate a plan.

“Please do come inside. We have unpleasant business to discuss. I see no reason to make it even more unpleasant by discussing it where all and sundry can hear.”

And she saw no reason to delay the conversation. Waiting would not bring coins raining down from the sky.

With a sigh, he stepped inside.

She did not ring for a servant, for there were none about.

She had dismissed the three women with excellent recommendations and an extra pittance she could ill afford.

They had been grateful and kind, murmuring words of praise for her father and words of encouragement for her.

She took his coat herself and draped it over the banister, then accepted his hat and placed it carefully atop the folded wool.

“This way.” She led him down the hall. At the door to Papa’s study, she paused, her heart constricting as she stared at her father’s chair, empty now. Empty forever. Beside the chair, the hearth was cold.

Papa’s worktable was piled high with projects: a fifteenth century leather-bound tome with blind tooling on the cover.

Another from 1728 with a lovely Cambridge panel design on both front and back covers, the edges sprinkled in red, the spine decorated with gilt.

Several works by Shakespeare, their covers ragged and worn.

On the floor were more piles, the tops of which were level with the table. Sorrow wrapped her like a choking vine.

The wraith had done her a kindness and kept away.

She entered the room and turned away to pour a thimble of her father’s whisky for herself and second more generous portion for Mr. Christopher.

“To my father,” she said, then drank down the entire portion, ignoring Mr. Christopher’s raised eyebrows. There were so many more words she could have spoken, words of love and loss, but those words were hers alone. They lived in her heart and in her memories. So, she let those three suffice.

Besides, the fit of coughing that took her after she downed her tiny glass of whisky precluded any attempt at further speech. She had never developed a taste for spirits.

When her eyes stopped watering and her throat opened enough to let air pass once more, Mr. Christopher said, “To Malcolm Barrett,” and drank down his glass as she had hers. He, however, was not taken by a fit of coughing.

Once they were seated, she on the horsehair settee, he in an overstuffed armchair, he said, “You were your father’s secretary…”

“I was.”

“You are so young and a…woman…”

“I am twenty-three.” Not so young. Not a child. But to him, she was still a fragile thing, barely a shadow of competence.

She made no comment on his second observation as there was really no comment to be made.

She knew where his thoughts wandered. She was a woman, alone in the world, and her sole training was as secretary to an antiquarian, a situation that would not stand her in good stead in a search for employment.

She met Mr. Christopher’s gaze. “Tell me the whole of it,” she said. “There is no point in putting it off.”

“You have thirty a year,” he said bluntly.

The number rang in her ears.

She did a mental calculation. The yearly rental for the house alone was twenty-five pounds. A year’s coal was close to fifty.

“It will not be enough.” Even if she lived frugally, hired no help, cleaned and cooked for herself, she could not continue to rent the house, not if she intended to eat.

She should not have been surprised, but a tiny flicker of hope had clung to her, a traitorous ember now snuffed beneath the weight of truth.

Mr. Christopher did not pretend to be oblivious. “It is something,” he said, “but not enough to continue to rent this house, pay servants, sustain yourself.” He paused. “What will you do? Have you had an offer…”

“An offer?” She wrinkled her brow. He knew that Mr. Caradoc had offered her employment. It was Mr. Christopher who had sent her the introductory note. She was about to point out exactly that when his meaning dawned. She could not hold back an incredulous laugh. “You mean an offer of marriage ?”

“Well, you are a lady of… That is to say, you are attractive… I mean…” He cleared his throat and looked at the ceiling, then the floor, and finally at his fingertips as he pressed them together.

Isabella resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

She knew what he meant. Her hair was dark and thick, her skin clear, her brown eyes framed by long, dark lashes.

She was of medium height with a pleasant figure, and her voice was neither too quiet nor too shrill.

She had thirty a year, and while that was no great fortune—not even a small fortune—it might be enough, coupled with her appearance, to capture a man.

But therein lay the rub. Even if there had been someone who showed interest, she did not want to marry. She wanted her books and her father and the lively conversations they had had, the visits with his contemporaries, the intellectual stimulation…she wanted her life back. A thing not on offer.

For an instant, she considered telling the solicitor exactly that, but the hopeful expression that wreathed his features made her hold her tongue. He would not understand. In his estimation, women had their place.

She had learned that very lesson when, at the age of fourteen she had been sent to Mrs. Trevisham’s School for Young Ladies.

Papa had been concerned that there was no feminine influence in her life, and that as she came of age, the lack would do her a disservice.

But she had quickly come to understand that she was not the sort of young lady Mrs. Trevisham’s School preferred.

She had lasted five weeks.

Her return home had been accompanied by a lengthy letter from Mrs. Trevisham which had included observations such as: Her needlework is appalling.

She cannot play the pianoforte at all. She has no knowledge of watercolors.

She does not interact well with the other young ladies.

Too outspoken…not feminine…was caught reading a book of human anatomy… disruptive…cannot be tolerated…

Papa had burned the letter and continued to educate her himself, encouraging her not only to finish that book on human anatomy, but read another should her interest lead her in such a direction.

She had been glad to be home, even if she had missed some of the girls she had met at the school and had wished she had the chance to pursue those friendships.

She had written and, in the beginning, they had written back.

But the foundation of her association with them had been too brief and the passage of time had seen the letters grow infrequent and then stop altogether.

Which left a simple but unyielding truth: with Papa dead, she had nowhere to go, no one to rely upon. She was completely and utterly alone.

“I have had no offer of that sort,” Isabella said.

“I see.” Mr. Christopher continued to frown down at his fingertips. “Will you accept employment with Mr. Caradoc?”

She ought to say no and end the matter. She ought to remove that option completely.

Instead, she murmured, “It would mean leaving London,” effectively ending that line of inquiry while avoiding a direct reply.

She looked around the room at the shelves upon shelves of her father’s treasured books. How many times had Papa run his gloved fingers over these leather-bound spines, whispering their titles like prayers? How often had he told her that these books were his life’s work, and hers by inheritance.

A hollow ache bloomed beneath her ribs. Each title felt like a farewell.

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I will sell my father’s collection.”

The wind rattled the windowpane as though in protest, a long, hollow sigh threading through the cracks.

Isabella ignored it, steeling herself as she met Mr. Christopher’s gaze.

Somewhere deep in her chest, an ache formed, a premonition, perhaps, that this decision would lead her down a road from which there would be no return.

Mr. Christopher’s eyes widened. For an instant, she thought he was merely surprised that she would part with these treasures. But then his frown deepened, and he said, “I’m afraid your father sold the collection in its entirety several months ago.”

Shock and hurt rendered her speechless. She felt wounded that Papa would have done such a thing, sold the collection and said not a word. He had made no mention that their straits were so dire…

But as she thought back, she realized that while he might not have said anything, there had been indications she had chosen to ignore.