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Chapter Seven

I saiah departed the churchyard feeling lighter in every imaginable way. Lighter, as if relieved of a burden. But also, as if he could either too easily be blown off some pre-determined course, like a feather, or soar, like a bird.

Lighter, as if his very heart glowed inside him.

He didn’t trust any of this. All of it was wildly new. None of it seemed within his control. All of it therefore felt dangerous, even traitorous to the person he was just yesterday morning, when he’d looked forward to seeing Fanchette Tarbell and her family and to the start of rest of his life.

He’d last seen Fanchette in London a mere fortnight ago. Compared to the vivid reality of Miss Sylvaine’s heart-shaped face, the notion of Fanchette seemed like a half-remembered dream.

His groin tightened at the thought of Isolde’s soft-looking mouth. He swiped his hands restlessly down his face and released a hot, shuddering breath.

Just after the Sylvaine girls departed, the vicar had casually mentioned to Isaiah and Mrs. Sneath that he’d be visiting with an elderly parishioner in her home at about two o’clock for the rest of the week.

So the best and most honorable thing for Isaiah to do would be to stay away from the churchyard tomorrow.

He resolved to send his apologies to Mrs. Sneath.

He realized he had reflexively walked the whole of the way up the hill to Tingle’s Bookshop, so he stopped inside to see whether Tingle had gotten in any recent foreign newspapers.

As he counted out pence for an Italian broadsheet, he was arrested by the sight of a book on the shelf behind Mr. Tingle.

He stared at it in silence for so long that Mr. Tingle was compelled to prod him with a gentle, “Mr. Redmond?”

Isaiah lost the battle with himself. “I’ll have that book as well, Mr. Tingle.” He pointed.

Mr. Tingle’s slight hesitation revealed his surprise. “Very good, sir. A bit of a change from your usual fare, isn’t it?” He pulled it from the shelf and slid it over to Isaiah.

“If you would be so kind as to put it on the Redmond account?” was all Isaiah said as he tucked it under his arm. He was out the door before he finished his sentence.

Isolde clapped the dirt and moss from her gloves, then stood and stretched.

She’d arrived a little after noon, and for the first hour in the churchyard she’d worked companionably yet separately with the vicar, who cheerfully chattered about the virtues of manual labor until he departed at just before two o’clock to visit an elderly home-bound parishioner.

She’d assured him she’d be safe enough walking the short distance home soon after; heaven forfend young ladies should remain unchaperoned for more than three seconds.

But she dawdled.

Even so, Mr. Redmond had not appeared at all today. She’d been so certain he would, after yesterday.

The answer to whether she was relieved or devastated by this—a question she’d been entertaining for the past few hours— was moot when she heard the creak of the churchyard gate. Because her heart shot skyward as if it had been smacked with a Pall-Mall mallet.

Her whole being just knew .

He’s calculating , George had said.

Something told her that Mr. Redmond, who had lingered in the churchyard with Mrs. Sneath and the vicar yesterday, had likely learned of Reverend Holroyd’s scheduled parishioner visit.

His footfall was muffled by soft earth and moss as he moved closer. Her heart thudded.

He paused abruptly at a distance when he saw her. For a moment it seemed as though he could not speak, only stare.

Finally, he bowed. “Good afternoon, Miss Sylvaine. I hope you’ll forgive my tardiness.”

She realized she loved his voice. Its depth and cadence were somehow both stirring and soothing, innately intimate.

“I forgive you, Mr. Redmond. I had every faith you would eventually arrive, as it would be ignoble of you to shirk your civic duty.”

For the next two or three heartbeats, they did nothing but smile at each other.

Thusly they once again said about million things without actually saying them.

“As you appear to be bucketless today, I’ll happily share mine,” she added. “I was about to start over here.”

She didn’t tell him she’d been about to leave for home.

“You’ve a generous spirit, Miss Sylvaine.”

They worked in silence for a time, too companionably, too comfortably. Very efficiently. Her cheeks were warm and she didn’t look up because she knew—she could sense—his eyes on her. Feast them , she thought mischievously.

In no time at all the name on the headstone was once again revealed:

Violet Marguerite Llewellyn

1630-1660

“‘Violet’ is such a pretty name. Her parents called her after a flower. Isn’t that lovely, Mr. Redmond?”

“Perhaps because babies are soft,” Isaiah mused.

This painfully charming observation made her heart squeeze. “Do you know of any Llewellyns in Pennyroyal Green?”

Isaiah shook his head.

“I wonder what Miss Llewellyn’s story was?”

He sat down and leaned back on his hands. “I think…Miss Llewellyn was from a wealthy family. Her father was someone important. Perhaps a titled gentleman of some sort. No! I have it—a wealthy, powerful magistrate.”

“A magistrate?” she was enchanted. Her knees were beginning to ache from crouching. “Intriguing. Was Violet beautiful?” she asked mischievously. Her own audacity sometimes amazed her.

“Oh, undoubtedly, she was wondrous fair,” he affirmed, holding her gaze a potent beat longer than necessary, reminding her that Mr. Redmond was older and capable of being bold in a subtle way that felt to her unnervingly sophisticated. She ought to be careful.

“This magistrate in fact had two daughters, I think,” he added, idly.

“Perhaps her sister’s name was Lily! Another flower!” she suggested.

“Perhaps her name was Lily. And I think their magistrate father was very strict.”

“Poor girls. He wouldn’t let them go anywhere unchaperoned, that sort of thing?”

“Even more strict than that. And while Lily was inclined to be obedient, her sister Violet—” he gestured at the stone “—was impetuous. Her father had arranged an excellent marriage with a man of wealth and stature, a powerful duke who was in love with her, but Violet fell in love with… Signor Massini, a gifted artist. And on the evening of her wedding to the duke she was kidnapped by Signor Massini and a band of his friends.”

“Kidnapped! Good heav…”

She caught on. Her jaw dropped for a good three seconds and stared at him with absolute delight.

“You…you…you rascal ! Mr. Redmond! That’s the plot of A Venetian Romance !”

He’d just changed all the names. She’d in fact read the entire book just last night, too. She’d found it impossible to put down.

Once again, the churchyard echoed with their laughter.

She sighed happily. “What made you read it?”

He absently rubbed a little dirt from the last digit on Violet’s headstone. He was still smiling. But he didn’t look at her.

“Did you like the story?” he finally asked.

All at once she understood this was both a question and his answer.

He’d bought a book—a romantic novel, no less—because he’d wanted to know her.

Her heartbeat sped. She knew very well how the seeds of fascination could sprout and, with little encouragement, run riot. That was how it had been with Jacob.

She felt tender toward Isaiah yet again.

She also felt shy and exposed, and as uneasy as if she were fumbling in the dark.

Because what on earth were they doing? He’d been in London for the season; it was entirely possible he was courting another woman.

Her enamel celandine throbbed reproachfully in her apron pocket.

She was all but promised to another man.

Wasn’t she? These weren’t questions they could easily ask each other.

Her parents would be deeply unhappy to see her cozily chatting— alone —with a young man they’d never formally met, regardless of his last name. If she’d explained “But it feels like I’ve always known him,” they would lock her in her bedroom until she was an old maid.

Still. Not one bit of reason or guilt seemed capable of infiltrating the wayward joy in her heart.

She cleared her throat. “Well, the slightly florid style of the author Anonymous notwithstanding… and even though I love my way of life here…it’s a way of experiencing another sort of world… and it’s exciting to empathize and feel all those emotions along with the hero and heroine.”

Her words emerged a little breathlessly.

Isaiah took this in, still absently rubbing at the number on the stone.

“It would definitely have been a less compelling story if she’d listened to his father,” he said dryly.

“Perhaps she wanted to please her father, but her heart gave her no say in the matter.”

He was quiet. When at last he slowly looked up at her, the vanishingly swift flicker of yearning in his eyes made her heart skip a beat.

“I suspect…her father just wanted to make certain she would be secure for the whole of her life, and making an alliance that would strengthen the family would be the best way to do that. My father always says that families are like castles. You’re only as strong as the weakest stone.

You can’t allow the facade to crumble or crack. ”

She was struck again by the complicated warmth and pride with which Isaiah said the word ‘father’.

But she had formed her own opinion about the Redmond patriarch.

She knew grievously wounded creatures could be dangerous, but it seemed to her that the Redmond patriarch had deliberately wielded the alleged saintliness of his poor lost son as a sort of cudgel against Isaiah, and it shook her.

And Isaiah surely faced all the pressures of being an heir.

Just like Jacob.

She was suddenly freshly grateful for her own lovable, uncomplicated father.

“What if someone in your family went astray, Mr. Redmond? Took it into their heads to fight a duel or rob a mail coach?”

“Oh, that’s an easy question. No Redmond has ever been a rogue, so I’ll never have to consider that.”

She laughed.