Page 37

CHAPTER 37

“ C ome, Mama. This is your home now,” Fiona said after her mother had alighted from the carriage in front of Craton Manor.

Prudence’s face was still pale from the morning’s events, but her chin still had a proud and regal lift. As they ascended the marble steps, the door opened, and Mr. Everett appeared, his features softening at the sight of them.

“Good day, Your Grace,” he said with a bow. “And Lady Holden.”

“Mr. Everett,” Fiona began, removing her gloves. “My mother will be staying with us. Kindly inform Mrs. Burton that a suite must be prepared for her at once.”

“Very good, Your Grace. I shall see to it immediately.” He offered a deeper bow to Prudence before disappearing down the hallway.

Fiona led her mother into the drawing room. “Fiona, dearest,” Prudence said as they took their seats, her fingers worrying at the folds of her shawl. “You need not fuss over me. I shall be quite well.”

Fiona reached over and took her hand. “You are staying here, Mama. That is not up for debate.”

Before her mother could protest further, voices filtered in from the hallway beyond, followed by the sound of booted footsteps.

Isaac entered the room, pausing at the sight of them.

“Lady Holden,” he said with a polite nod, stepping further into the drawing room. “What a surprise. I trust you are well?”

Prudence smiled, her face composed though slightly unsure. “Quite well, thank you, Your Grace.”

Isaac glanced briefly at Fiona, then back at her mother. “I had not expected to see you this morning. Is all well?”

“My visit was rather unannounced,” Prudence replied, clasping her hands. “Forgive the intrusion.”

“Not at all,” he said. “Craton Manor is a spacious place, one that benefits from warmth and company.”

There was a pause, almost imperceptible, before he added, “I trust your journey was comfortable?”

“As much as one can expect from a morning in a carriage,” Prudence answered.

Fiona watched the exchange quietly, noting how Isaac remained courteous, even pleasant, but his look told her he sensed more than he was being told.

“Well, I shan’t keep you,” he said at last. “Please, make yourself at home.”

He offered another nod, and with that, turned and walked back into the hallway. Fiona rose as soon as he was gone. “I shall be but a moment, Mama.”

She followed Isaac down the hallway, catching up to him just as he reached his study. “Isaac,” she said softly, drawing the door closed behind her once they had stepped inside.

He turned to her with a brow raised.

“I wished to ask if my mother might remain with us for a time,” she began. “Just until I can arrange a house for her.”

He studied her closely now. “Has something happened?”

Fiona nodded. “I went to visit her this morning. My father... there was a broken vase. He threw it, and it missed her by inches.”

Isaac’s jaw tightened. He stepped forward and gathered her into his arms without a word, holding her close.

“She shan’t return there,” Fiona whispered.

“She won’t,” he said against her hair. “I shall have my solicitor make arrangements for a house. Somewhere safe. Comfortable. Hers entirely.”

Fiona drew back slightly to look at him. “You will?”

“You are my wife, Fiona. Of course, I will.”

“Thank you, Isaac.”

He gave her a look that made her heart skip, and before she could think to resist, he leaned in and kissed her.

“Must you always look at me with such heroic gratitude?” he murmured when they parted.

“I cannot help it if you insist on being heroic,” she teased.

“I was heroic for agreeing to drink your dreadful tea,” he said, brushing a curl from her cheek.

“You call it dreadful and yet you continue to request it.”

“Only because I enjoy the way you pour it... with such self-importance.”

Fiona gave his chest a playful shove. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet,” he murmured, catching her hand, “you married me.”

She smiled up at him, then gently withdrew her fingers.

“I shall let you return to your work.”

Fiona stepped out and drew the door softly behind her. Smoothing a hand down her skirts, she proceeded to rejoin her mother.

Fiona stepped into the storage room, and as the door closed behind her, she let her fingers trail along a stack of framed canvases leaning against the far wall.

Perhaps Isaac won’t mind if more of Mary’s paintings were placed around the house, she mused. She belonged here, after all. Her presence needn’t remain hidden.

She moved through the room, the candlelight catching on gilt edges and muted hues, some bright, others faded. Several trunks were arranged in a corner, their brass fittings dulled with time. Fiona crouched before one, easing open the lid with care.

Inside lay odds and ends—brushes, folded linens, a scattering of keepsakes. At the bottom, nestled between a bundle of letters and an embroidered handkerchief, lay a silver locket. She drew it out gently and opened it.

Inside were two tiny portraits—one of a young Isaac, the other unmistakably Elaine. Fiona smiled, touched by the innocence in their painted features. She set the locket aside carefully atop a nearby chest. I’ll show it to Isaac later, she thought. He ought to have this.

Just then, something else caught her eye—a leather-bound volume tucked beneath a faded shawl. Her breath hitched.

It looked remarkably like the journal she had discovered before.

Fiona lifted it with cautious hands. The cover creaked softly as she opened it. And there, in the same elegant script, was the name she now recognized all too well. Mary.

She stared at the page a long moment, then pressed the journal to her chest. Tomorrow, she promised. I will go through everything else tomorrow. Tonight... I must read this.

Back in her chambers, she placed the locket on her nightstand and slid beneath the counterpane, tucking the candle close. She opened the journal.

July 1

Mr. F has asked me to marry him! I feel I might burst from happiness. And yet, he has not spoken to my family. I told him I must ask why before I answer. Surely he only needs time? He says he loves me—I believe it with all my heart.

Fiona traced the neat cursive with a finger. Her brow furrowed. Why would he ask for her hand without seeking her family’s approval? She turned the page.

July 10

He says he has no fortune, that my family would not welcome him. He fears rejection, says he has only his love to offer, and that it should be enough. I do not care for fortune. What is gold compared to affection?

Fiona’s lips pressed into a thin line. Clever words. Designed to draw sympathy. But love should not ask a woman to conceal him.

July 15

Elaine said she wants to introduce me to a friend of Samuel’s—a marquess in want of a wife. She thinks I should be flattered, that I shall live like a queen if I agree. But I do not want a marquess. I want no title, no grand estate. I want Mr. F. But if Elaine is suggesting this match... then surely she will not approve of Mr. F at all. He said she would turn me against him. What if he is right?

Fiona’s breath caught. He’s isolating her, she realized. Subtle. But it’s there.

July 22

Isaac is home for the summer. He is sweet, but still very much a boy. I cannot burden him with such matters. He might side with Elaine. He does not yet understand love... real love.

Fiona blinked at the page, her heart aching. You were so young, Mary. Too young to see you were being maneuvered.

August 1

He asked me to elope with him. To Gretna. He says if we are wed, my family cannot undo it. That they will come around. He promises me happiness, a future free of interference. I am frightened... but also terribly in love. What choice do I have?

Fiona closed her eyes a moment, exhaling slowly. You had every choice... but he made you believe you didn’t.

August 7

Elaine has arranged tea with the marquess. I am to meet him this week. But I cannot. I shan’t. I have made up my mind. I shall go with Mr. F. He is the only one who sees me. Who needs me. He says once we are wed, I shall never be made to feel small again. I believe him. I must.

Tears pricked at the corners of Fiona’s eyes.

He knew precisely what to say. Exactly where to press.

September 2

I have been a fool. This morning I heard all Mr. F said about me. Laughing. Laughing at me! He said vile things; called me simple, na?ve. And Isaac—sweet, brave Isaac—tried to defend my name. I cannot breathe for the guilt. Isaac is hurt. He may not survive. All because of me.

Fiona’s hand trembled as she turned the next page.

September 14

Isaac lives. But he is pale. Too pale. The wound was grave. He might have died. Because I believed a lie. Because I let myself be led by a man who never loved me. I am ashamed. I have disgraced my family. I cannot bear the pity in Elaine’s eyes. I cannot look at Isaac without tears. Perhaps... perhaps I should leave. Perhaps that is best for all.

Fiona lowered the journal. Her chest felt too tight to draw breath.

The graveness of Mary’s heartbreak, her guilt, tightened Fiona’s heart. She blinked, and only then did she realize she was crying.

She set the journal aside with trembling hands, threw off the bed covers, and reached for her robe. Slipping it on, she stepped into her slippers and padded from the room.

Isaac’s study was empty. So was the morning room. And the library.

She made her way to the cloak room, retrieved her cloak, and wrapped it tightly around her. Her hands were cold.

She stepped out into the night. The cool air whispered across her cheeks as she wandered down the path toward the tall hedges. Crickets sang in the darkness, the rhythm of their music oddly comforting. Fiona walked slowly, her thoughts spinning.

Poor Mary. What a different life she might have had, had she not been drawn in by that wretched Mr. F. A little patience, a little guidance—and she might still be here, painting, laughing, whole.

She moved further into the garden until she reached a secluded bench framed by lavender and shadowed by a flowering tree. Lowering herself onto the wooden seat, she wrapped the cloak more snugly about her. She wished she could have been there to help Mary.

From Mary, her mind drifted to her mother, whom she was in a position to help.

At least Mama is safe now. She’s no longer under his roof, no longer within his reach.

But that small comfort was followed by a heavier thought. The debt. Her confrontation with her father replayed in her mind in harsh, vivid fragments. As satisfying as it had been to speak her truth, the reality lingered like the smoke of a burnt candle.

How will I manage to pay Canterlack? she wondered. There is nothing of great value among my belongings. Perhaps my jewelry... my mother’s brooch... She sighed and let her head fall back against the bench. It will never be enough.

A breeze tugged gently at her hair, now fallen loose around her shoulders. She lifted a hand to brush it back. Then she heard it.

Slow booted steps crunching lightly along the cobbled path. Her heart quickened.

“Isaac?” she called.

No answer.

The footsteps continued, coming from the right. Fiona stood at once, her eyes scanning the dim shapes of hedge and statue.

Silence.

Then another set of steps came. As she looked through the moonlit gardens, she caught sight of dark boots.

They stood just barely visible around the edge of the hedge.

Her belly sank with cold dread, a shiver crawling up her spine and blooming across her skin.

The memory of similar boots she saw in the bookstore flooded her mind.