Page 10 of Revisit the Past (Society of Swans #3)

T he corner of Caleb’s mouth tugged down as he flicked open his pocket watch. He glanced at the door and sank further back into his chair, newspaper spread over his knee.

Wrighthall was nearly half an hour late for their meeting at White’s—most likely through no fault of his own. No doubt, his mother was employing every technique at her disposal to keep her son engaged—and get her son engaged—at the luncheon she’d scheduled for the first half of the young baron’s afternoon.

When Caleb peered over the top of his newspaper at the other end of the dimly lit room, he prayed the Dowager Lady Wrighthall would soon relinquish his dear friend from her grasp. Unease made Caleb’s muscles tense at the curious looks he had been receiving from the handful of gentlemen who had arrived several minutes ago. As it was, Wrighthall was already in danger of making them late for their visit to the Royal Academy at Somerset House with a few other acquaintances Caleb had lately been renewing.

Attempting to sink lower in his chair, Caleb realized too late the mistake he had made in acknowledging the other men’s presence with his glance. The small group lowered their heads together in a swift discussion. Caleb did not like the look of it. As inconspicuously as possible, he signaled to the nearest footman and whispered for his carriage to be brought round in preparation of the hasty exit he anticipated.

A moment later, two gentlemen emerged, either chosen or volunteered. They crossed the comfortable room, weaving around plush chairs of dark leather and luxurious velvet arrayed in such a way as to give the appearance of casualness and camaraderie.

“Lord Murfield, I thought I’d heard you were a member at White’s. What a delight to finally have you back among us,” said the first gentleman, the shorter of the two.

“Lord Blackmore, Mr. Perry, a pleasure,” said Caleb as they settled into the chairs opposite him, grateful that he had managed to recognize their faces and match them to names, though only just.

“I am afraid we have made you a little uneasy with our staring,” began Mr. Perry. “Several of us have heard so much about the famed Earl of Murfield since your return that we have been quite eager to cross paths with you here, where we might converse at greater length and detail.” He attempted a smile but could not manage to hold the expression while swiping at the brown fringe that swooped into his eyes.

Caleb attempted a smile of his own. “You flatter me, sirs. In fact, I could not be more gratified by the ton ’s attentions to me this Season. I am sure no one could hope to receive a better welcome home.”

Viscount Blackmore and Mr. Perry, a future baronet, exchanged a look of approval, despite Caleb’s care to avoid further mention of whatever conversation they sought. He had an inkling he already knew the topic on their minds.

“We hear you will soon be leaving London again. At the start of next month, is it?” asked Lord Blackmore, scratching at a scruffy, blond sideburn.

A request to know where such strange information had come from sprang to Caleb’s lips just as the memory struck him.

How could he have been such a blockhead? Or perhaps he had not been a blockhead so much as a happy fool in love, blind to all other considerations. And, apparently, to the plans he himself had made after Isabel’s initially disdainful reaction to his presence.

“That was my plan, yes,” Caleb replied.

How could he have forgotten that he had already mentioned his arrangements to Wrighthall and a handful of other men to stay at an unoccupied converted abbey in Derbyshire? How could he have forgotten that he was scheduled to depart in two weeks’ time?

It had seemed like a sensible plan before…before his heart had hopelessly entangled itself with Isabel’s once more. Only this time, the bonds that bound them together felt tighter and stronger than before. They must have been, after all they had weathered.

Mr. Perry leaned forward and planted his elbows atop his knees. “And what of this expedition?”

“‘Expedition’?”

The other two gentlemen shared another look and Caleb got the distinct impression that they thought him coy for some strange reason. The impression only deepened when Lord Blackmore copied his friend’s pose. Caleb leaned back ever so slightly, feeling as though he were being brought into a regrettable confidence.

“We understand your reticence perfectly well, of course. If word spread to too many of such a glorious adventure with you at the helm, you could never hope to accommodate all who seek to take advantage of your extensive knowledge of all the most unique sights to see right here in our very own home. No doubt you would find your own enjoyment of your travels much decreased if such were the case.” The viscount paused and looked quickly over his shoulder. “But, should you have any inclination to take on a few more fine fellows, I am sure any or all of us would make agreeable additions to your party.”

Caleb bit the inside of his cheek to keep from shaking his head in disbelief. Never would he have expected his travel tales to create such a stir of interest, not only in the stories themselves, but in his supposed expertise. He had certainly not positioned himself as an authority or guide with any sort of intention.

“Alas, at present, I have no schemes for any expeditions,” Caleb replied after taking a breath to compose himself.

Lord Blackmore blinked and Mr. Perry pursed his lips.

“Will you make a scheme now?” the latter inquired with a touch more force. “Even those among us who often visit the distant estates of friends cannot claim such extensive knowledge on these locations, particularly the rare ones. We should like to know all there is to know about them before everyone else.”

“Again, you flatter me, but as it appears these plans have developed without my knowledge, I am afraid they must unfortunately proceed without my involvement.”

“But you have been showing maps to others, have you not?” rebutted Lord Blackmore. “I heard someone say that Mr. Lewis Abbott said you brought maps from your journeys to their townhouse. We were under the impression that the purpose was to include his domestic grand tour in your next voyage.”

“Heavens, is that the time?” Caleb rose quickly to his feet, the legs of his chair scraping against the wood floor. “If you will excuse me, I must be on my way to Somerset House. When Lord Wrighthall arrives, would you be so kind as to inform him that I’ve gone ahead to wait with the others?”

He did not give Lord Blackmore, Mr. Perry, their friends, or anyone else in the room an opportunity to respond. Caleb quit the club with such haste that he nearly cleared the pavement between White’s and his phaeton in one long stride. Gently flicking the reins, Caleb silently congratulated himself on his quick thinking to prepare his vehicle of escape just prior to their ambush.

Upon arriving at his destination, Caleb found a bustling Somerset House—a palatial and resplendent home for exquisite paintings and sculptures numbering above a thousand, with what looked to be as many glimmering eyes admiring them. He took his time wandering about the Great Room as he awaited his friend and searched for the others they were to meet, craning his neck to view the less-valuable oil paintings that had been skied.

Caleb had his head tilted almost all the way back for a better look at what he considered to be a very fine pastoral landscape when something familiar in his peripheral vision drew his attention. Isabel’s father, walking alongside another older gentleman, had just gone through to the adjoining gallery of watercolors.

A quick sweep of the rest of the room, great indeed and brimming with members of the ton , yielded no result of the lady herself. Caleb’s pulse quickened. When else would he have the opportunity to ask for Isabel’s hand without her nearby or making up some obvious contrivance for a private audience with her father?

Isabel had already received enough terrible surprises from Caleb. This surprise would be welcome, joyous, and answered with a resounding positive. His heart leapt at the thought of it, as if it could reach through time to the future and bring that long-awaited moment to him now.

After working his way through the Great Room’s crowd, Caleb was relieved to find that Mr. Abbott and his companion had not gone much further. They lingered at one of the tall columns interspersed throughout the room to display smaller works, their backs to the door.

Nerves made mince of Caleb’s stomach as he approached from around another column, palms uncomfortably slick.

“But that Lord Murfield…”

He froze, mouth already open in greeting. The tone of Mr. Abbott’s voice did not inspire confidence.

“You mean the one who courted your daughter some years ago? Not his elder brother?” asked Mr. Abbott’s friend.

“Yes, the new Lord Murfield.”

“I am not as convinced, Abbott. As far as I have seen and heard, he is a perfectly pleasant young man. And by your own admission, he seems to have renewed favor with Miss Abbott. Is it not possible that she’s forgiven him and they have made amends?”

Caleb had never uttered prayers quicker in his life—one in thanks of whoever that other man was, the other in the hopes that Mr. Abbott would at least see enough in his friend’s suggestions to give some consideration. His hasty prayers died on his lips with Mr. Abbott’s next words.

“You do not understand, Hawkins,” he continued in a low whisper, weariness softening the anger in his voice. “You did not see the damage he left in his wake. You did not hear night after night of uncertain weeping, which became night after night of devastated weeping when she realized he would not return.

“He broke my girl’s heart. What kind of father would I be if I were not at least a little wary of having him in such close proximity again? If I am not mistaken, I am beginning to suspect—fear—that it is happening again. Or will happen again if he does manage to win her heart this time. I know it is possible that his intentions may be strong and true at present, but so I thought once before. How can I be sure now?”

Caleb stumbled back, reeling, his skin stinging as if he had been slapped. But it was well-deserved—on that, he and Mr. Abbott could agree.

“I suppose, when you phrase it like that, I would feel the same if it were my child. That odd thing of his disappearance was such a shame. Will you oppose them if they wish to marry?”

Another step and Caleb’s back bumped against the corner of the column behind him.

“That is a difficult question… I fear I will make her miserable if I do, and I fear she will be made miserable if I do not.”

Steadying himself, Caleb spun on his heel and rushed through the thankfully smaller and less popular watercolor room with head lowered. His heartbeat hammered in his ears with every swift footfall and drowned out the thoughtful murmurs of the other Royal Academy visitors as he mindlessly wove through them and out into the mostly empty hall.

As soon as he was assured of being alone, Caleb went completely still. The scorch of mortification and self-loathing that had propelled him through the galleries went out in an instant, doused in the coldly realistic view of someone who clearly loved Isabel and wanted the best for her as much as Caleb did.

A single line from Lady Swan’s letter, recited word for word from Isabel’s memory, rushed to the front of his mind.

“ Past pains may lead to a lifetime of joy when two broken hearts heal as one. ”

It clashed with Mr. Abbott’s criticism, stealing the air from his lungs. Caleb’s back thudded softly against the wall behind him. He shook his head slowly. It was impossible to reconcile.

How could Lady Swan imply that someone who had hurt Isabel so deeply could be the very same one to heal her? The longer Caleb leaned against the wall, unable to care who happened to stumble upon him in this state, the more Mr. Abbott’s position made perfect sense.

If Caleb were truly the right man for Isabel, the one worthy of her beautiful smiles and sparkling conversation and warmhearted care, he would not have acted so thoughtlessly back then. He would have been worthy of her from the beginning.

What had Caleb done with the intervening years but find every way possible to repress his feelings? He certainly had not made much progress toward his own healing, as any rational, mature creature must have done. Not nearly enough, at any rate, to spare Isabel the burden of witnessing his heart’s slow recovery if they did join their lives together.

Even if he tried to convince her that it was his duty to finally meditate on the pain of losing his brother and mire through the many complex emotions such introspection would naturally produce, Caleb knew Isabel. He knew her compassionate nature would drive her to give as much of herself as possible to indulging Caleb’s gloomy moods and piteous moping.

He exhaled sharply and let his head hang between his shoulders. Mr. Abbott had seen that fact clear as day. It was Caleb who had allowed himself to be blinded to one profound flaw by yet another: selfishness.

And, he must admit, the sheer happiness and love overflowing from him these past few weeks in particular had certainly done wonders to maintain the illusion. He’d had no right to interfere in Isabel’s life after leaving her to rebuild it alone simply because the comfort of her presence naturally soothed away the walls around his heart.

“S-Sir? May I assist you? Are you unwell?”

Listlessly, Caleb half-raised his head to find a disconcerted servant, under the employ of Somerset House, watching him from a few yards down the hall bearing a stack of informational pamphlets. Lingering here would not do him much good, Caleb concluded, pushing himself off the wall.

“Thank you, but no. I shall manage.”

Though he did not look entirely convinced, the man nodded and continued on his mission, leaving Caleb to the solitude of the hallway once more, but only for a moment. The door to the Great Room swung open.

“Lord Murfield, is that you? What a treat it is to see you here.”

Hastily tugging his vest and lapels smooth, Caleb turned to greet Isabel’s father.

“The treat is all mine, Mr. Abbott,” he said in a rush, fighting his own grimace.

The older gentleman raised a brow of wiry, graying hair but spared Caleb any remarks on his nonsensical wording. He gestured to the lanky man standing nearly a head taller to his right and made the necessary introductions with Mr. Hawkins.

“Have you met with Isabel downstairs in the sculpture room? I am sure she will be happy to see you, as always. If you will excuse us.”

Did Caleb only imagine the hint of disapproval he’d sensed in Mr. Abbott’s voice and gaze because of what he’d overheard? Real or perceived, it did not change what both men now knew to be true.

What right did Caleb—who’d been so eager to revisit a joyful, uncomplicated past—have to allow his troubles to pollute the happiness Isabel deserved for the remainder of her days?