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Chapter Ten
I solde contemplated claiming a stomach upset and staying home from the assembly. This was only a fib insofar as literally every single part of her was upset in some way, not just her stomach.
In the end, pride, nerve, and God help her, the fact that she looked wonderful in her pink dress, won out. If Jacob attended, at least she would look pretty while he stood there, hating her.
And Isaiah would see that she wore the pink rose pinned at her waist.
She was without her celandine for the first time since Jacob gave it to her. She’d left it in the drawer of her writing desk.
The Sylvaines arrived at half past seven to find the town hall already brimming with people.
Isolde dazedly beheld the flowers, bunting, and the charming little lanterns in which candles glowed that were scattered about, wondering how different her life would be at this moment if she hadn’t giggled too much with Maria in the planning meetings.
Perhaps if her life went wrong from today forward, she could always blame Mrs. Sneath.
Maria and George, who had come home from London in time for the festivities, bolted at once to one of the refreshment tables. Her parents were swept into a conversation with Lady Fennimore and her husband.
So Isolde ducked into the little retiring room set aside for ladies to pin more securely the pink rose Isaiah had given her a few days ago, and, after the longest, most eventful day of her life, to gather her nerve for the absolutely fraught unknown of the night ahead.
She did not see Jacob when she finally emerged to scan the teeming crowd of beaming neighbors wearing their finest. Or any other Eversea, for that matter.
But she saw Isaiah at once. Mainly because he was standing next to Miss Fanchette Tarbell’s vast powdered hair.
At the picnic earlier today, Isolde had learned Miss Tarbell employed two maids specifically to tend to it.
Miss Tarbell’s smile had been small and remote when she’d been introduced to Maria and Isolde, but then her flawlessly lovely features probably frequently made strangers stare impolitely.
Perhaps she was hoping to forestall such an eventuality.
Regardless, she’d expended no superfluous charm on the Sylvaines.
Twice during the picnic, a guest had needed to say “Miss Sylvain. Miss Sylvaine? Miss Sylvaine !” to Isolde, because she hadn’t heard a word they’d said.
Her head had been clamoring with drama and her senses had remained kiss-stunned.
As it was, she’d needed to ask a footman whether she could hang her apron up in the house, as she’d arrived wearing it.
She’d surreptitiously transferred her celandine from the apron pocket into her bodice.
When she arrived home again, she’d found the shape of it indented faintly against her breast.
It had taken a good deal of effort to avoid Diana Redmond’s eyes through the entire event.
But Isolde fancied she could still feel two icy spots left on her soul by the Redmond patriarch’s penetrating green gaze. It was if he’d known exactly what she’d just done with his son.
Whereas the elder Mr. Redmond was as warm and familiar to Miss Tarbell as if she was his own daughter.
Isaiah did not appear at the picnic.
“He likely felt he shouldn’t intrude when it’s just us ladies,” Miss Diana Redmond explained to Miss Tarbell, nervously.
A ting of foreboding had penetrated Isolde’s distraction. Why would Miss Tarbell in particular be concerned about Isaiah’s whereabouts?
The nebulous suspicion hovering on the periphery of her awareness all week was finally solidifying and Isolde’s head began to feel perilously light.
“Miss Sylvaine. May I have a private word?”
Isolde whirled about to see Diana Redmond, lovely in stylish green, a rope of pearls gleaming at her throat.
Just like that, Isolde’s foreboding amplified from a low hum to a screech.
“Of course, Miss Redmond.”
Diana drew her aside to the wall opposite the entrance, took a breath, and spoke in a trembling rush.
“Miss Sylvaine, I wasn't certain whether it would be kind or unkind to tell you. Or whether it was even my place. And then I thought—if I were you, I should like to know.” She paused for another breath. “Isaiah intends to propose to Miss Fanchette Tarbell. He has been courting her for months. I know he once intended to announce their engagement tonight. I do not think he has yet proposed, as she has only just arrived. But I don’t know for certain.”
All feeling flashed away from Isolde’s limbs. Her entire being jolted as though the floor had just dropped from beneath her feet.
Diana added hurriedly, “I will deny it if you ever say that I told you. I love my brother and I am loyal to him and I will be loyal to his wife. I don’t know why he has behaved as he has.
It’s so unlike him. But I don't believe you deserve such treatment. I will never know if I did the right thing by telling you. And I likely will not be able to forgive myself for betraying him.”
Diana’s eyes were beseeching.
How odd that she seemed to be seeking absolution from someone she’d just devastated.
Oddly, for the first time in a long time, Isolde felt almost brutally sober, which is how she realized she’d been in a lovely, dangerous haze for days now.
“You did the right thing, Miss Redmond. Thank you.”
Diana nodded shortly and took herself hurriedly away.
Fanchette had blushingly taken Isaiah at his word when he’d replied, “splendid, especially now that you’re here,” when she’d asked after his health.
Fanchette was stunning even when travel-weary, delighted to see him, and full of talk of her new dresses and the events of their journey.
Their parents circulated about the two of them in fond, hushed, conspiratorial glee, for they considered the conclusion of the next few days foregone.
Isaiah was gently attentive to all, and somehow he said the right things and wore the right expressions and Fanchette gave no sign of noticing that turmoil churned beneath his every word.
He’d walked almost blindly through the woods during the picnic, reverberating from kissing Isolde, excruciatingly aware that a personal Armageddon was fast approaching. His acts of cowardice—kissing her only to run away, then staying away until well after the picnic was over—haunted him.
A swift movement snagged at the corner of his eye: his sister was moving rapidly away from someone.
And that someone was Isolde.
His heart gave a sharp leap. Oh, she was lovely in pink silk. His breath caught when he saw that she wore the rose at her waist.
But her face was stark white.
She froze when her gaze collided with his.
Her eyes were hunted. Questioning.
He wasn’t even aware that he’d been moving toward her through the crowd until he stood right before her. He could not seem to help himself.
She remained still as she waited for him to arrive.
He put his back between Isolde and the ballroom, so that she would at least be partially hidden.
“Is it true you’re going to propose to Miss Tarbell?” she said without preamble.
He nearly reared back. Bloody fucking hell.
Instantly he was breathing like a trapped animal. As tongue-tied as he’d ever been when he was a boy.
If his silence didn’t incriminate him, his expression surely did.
“Oh, God, you are ,” Isolde breathed, recoiling, horrified. “Isaiah, are you—are you engaged ? Have you been en?—”
“No! Dear God, no. I swear to you on my life that I am not!”
“But…” Her confusion was a torment to witness. “You love me .”
Her hands flew to cover her mouth. Her eyes were stricken, as if she was appalled the words had escaped.
But she slowly lowered them when she saw his expression.
She understood she had the right of it.
He loved her.
Oh God. The stupid miracle of this love momentarily transfixed him. It was as though they’d gone and planted a flower on a battlefield. It didn’t have a prayer of surviving its circumstances.
“We love each other .” She said more gently. Still urgently.
His voice shook when he said, “What of it?”
Her eyes flared in shock.
“What possible bearing does that have on our futures, Isolde? Mine was written for me long ago.”
The blood drained from her face.
Hurting her was torture.
“But Isaiah...you won't be happy .”
Of all the things to say. It sounded like both a furious accusation and a terrified realization. As if she could see his future, a wasteland without her and without feeling, and the notion destroyed her.
She stepped closer. Her words were low and swift and pleading. “Don't do this. Don't do this to yourself. Don't do it to Miss Tarbell. If you can tell me that you love her…but I don’t think you do.”
It was yet another thing of which to be ashamed: he didn’t deny it, because it was true.
His voice was quiet and tense, his delivery staccato.
“I am not doing it to anyone. It's my duty and my honor—my privilege —to make the kind of marriage that brings pride and fortune and security to my entire family. I cannot stop what was already underway before I met you without bringing great shame to everyone. This is love, too, Isolde. My place in my family is not something within my control and—Oh God, I can never make you understand.”
Her chin jerked up and her eyes flashed with anger. “Perhaps my comparatively lowly birth has so thickened my wits such that I cannot possibly comprehend why you would consign yourself to a life with...a life without...”
She’d begun with admirable irony. But suddenly she dropped her face into her hands.
He took a frantic step closer her, his hands reaching out for her.
He stopped himself abruptly and forced his arms to his sides.
She lifted her head. “It's a whole lifetime , Isaiah.” Her voice was broken.
Her eyes were brimming now. “Do you know how long that will be? Do you have any idea how that will feel? What that will do to you? Do you comprehend? You cannot measure it out on your gold watch. Even one given to you by your inestimable father.”