Page 11 of Revisit the Past (Society of Swans #3)

“H ow they manage to find the most fascinating sculptures, from old and new masters alike, to display every year here, I cannot imagine,” said Aunt Matilda with a wistful sigh. She turned her head this way and that to take in one last look of the sculpture room.

Isabel paused at the doorway and swept her gaze over the towering marvels of marble, some older than she could fathom. No Season was complete without at least one visit to the Royal Academy. In fact, she would have come once a week if her schedule would have allowed—and if she could have successfully prevailed upon her friends and family to accompany her that often.

The corner of Isabel’s mouth twitched up, a pleasant contentment filling her chest. Now she had one person she knew who would gladly join her at Somerset House whenever she wished. Not only that, but he would derive just as much enjoyment out of absorbing every detail of a painting for hours and then spending several more hours ruminating aloud with each other about the skill of the artist as well as the work’s thematic elements.

In that way, Isabel and Caleb had always been of one mind. Now, after all these years, against all odds, they had become one heart. Soon, she prayed, they would be made one officially, before the eyes of the loved ones who remained on this earth and those who gave their blessings from above.

They would kiss again on that day. And every day after. How would Isabel survive it? Her lips still stung, in the most heavenly way, since their last kiss at Hyde Park.

“Has something caught your fancy, dearest?”

Isabel started at the dowager countess’s question. “Pardon?”

Giggling quietly at her niece’s recent tendency toward distraction—which she no doubt knew had something to do with a certain earl—Aunt Matilda tilted her head toward the sculpture room.

“You are wearing quite the pensive expression. Do you wish to have another look at any particular sculpture? We do have a little time, I am sure, before your papa comes searching for us. Or perhaps your mind was turned to something—someone—else entirely? By the name of—”

“Lord Murfield?”

That name, a menace to Isabel mere weeks ago, now set her alight at even a nearly inaudible mention. Unconsciously, she turned in the direction of the voice that had spoken it.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, there is just one thing I wish to view again. I shall return in a moment.”

Isabel wasted no time in waiting for a reply of permission from her aunt. Lifting her skirts ever so slightly to make way for the swiftness of her steps, Isabel crossed to a section of busts raised high on majestic pedestals. Her heart skipped when she spied a sliver of Lord Wrighthall between two sculptures.

If he was here, every possibility existed that Caleb would also be somewhere inside the grand building. What a miracle it would be to find him here! Now every meeting with him, whether planned and eagerly anticipated or by chance, felt like a miracle to Isabel.

“—a few friends have been increasing their visits to White’s in the hopes of catching Lord Murfield so we can finally have more information about this trip he is leading. But perhaps his closest friend is the next-best resource to the man himself, eh?”

She stopped mid-step. Her knees nearly gave way under her. Thinking as quickly as she was able, Isabel hid herself behind the nearest statue, a great Grecian thing, and put her back to the handful of gentlemen, ears burning and lungs frozen.

“Leading?” Lord Wrighthall repeated.

The lilt of confusion in his voice brought no comfort to Isabel. She squeezed her hands around each other in an effort to keep the rest of her from crumbling, at least until she could do so without fear for her dignity and reputation.

“It is true that Murfield’s travels have generated an astonishing amount of interest in his old circles, and the new ones eager to learn of him,” continued Lord Wrighthall.

“And with good reason, if I may say so without sounding too much like a biased old friend. I had the privilege of joining him a number of times, though never for very long, per his preference. The earl truly was a fount of knowledge on every area and the little-known treasures within.”

“Surely, he must be ready to share that knowledge with the rest of us!” cried another man, unfamiliar to Isabel. “Why else make his return now and tempt us with all his accounts?”

“Indeed, I daresay Lord Murfield could make himself quite the leading authority in the eyes of us gentlemen who desire to discover the secrets of our mother country for ourselves—”

“Without suffering any of the nuisances involved in delivering those secrets to you,” interrupted Lord Wrighthall with an edge of sharpness.

Somehow, despite the panic rising like a boiling ocean inside her, Isabel could appreciate the gentleman’s caution on behalf of his friend. But when they all spoke about all this with such certainty…

“So, tell us what you know, my lord, we beg you. We do not wish to miss out on what sounds to be an exhilarating opportunity,” said the first man to broach the subject. Isabel listened with bated breath.

The baron gave a chuckle that Isabel wanted to believe sounded like waning patience yet may just as well have been frustration with his own apparent ignorance.

“Forgive me, good sirs, but I am afraid I must confess that the only plan of which I am aware is his trip to study an old abbey in Derbyshire when the Season is finished. He should be somewhere here, though I have yet to locate him, if you would like to inquire directly. Although now that I think of it, there may be changes to those plans, though he has not told me of such…”

“But you do not think he has any inclination to bring companions this time?”

Isabel did not hear the answer to that question. She had heard quite enough. More than enough. It had been too much.

Besides, would the answer change anything?

Keeping her gaze to the floor, Isabel rushed back through the sculpture room toward the door where Aunt Matilda watched her hasty approach with growing alarm. The right answer from the right person could change everything. That much she knew. She also knew why the events of the past had come to pass as they had. If she could only find Caleb and ask—

“Isabel, wait.”

She froze just as she reached her hands out for her aunt. A strong though not cruel grip took her by the shoulder and turned her.

“But, Papa, if I could have just another moment to—”

“No,” he snipped. “It is time we returned home. Now.”

Isabel stared at her father, eyes wide. He almost never spoke to her with such command, especially not since she had begun assuming duties as mistress of the house. Even prior, he and Mama both had always been of the opinion that a gentle word did far more in service of disciplining a child or admonishing a friend to truly remedy unsuitable behavior.

As it turned out, her energy had been spent. Isabel did not resist as Papa took her arm and navigated her through the enormous building with great urgency, leaving poor Aunt Matilda huffing behind them to keep up until they emerged onto the front steps.

“I suppose this is where I shall leave you,” the dowager countess said, cooling herself with a fan from her reticule, looking pointedly from the man to the girl and back again. “But, if you would prefer I come with you…”

Papa shook his head, his full cheeks quivering.

“That is kind of you, sister, but we should not impose upon your day any longer than we already have, what with you accompanying Isabel to a luncheon and then to Somerset House. I can manage from here, as is the plan.”

“What can you mean? It is never an imposition, you know that,” Aunt Matilda replied, eyes narrowing. They darted to her niece, silently inquiring.

Isabel did not raise her head. In fact, she did not know how long it had hung limply between her shoulders, bobbing about as Papa dragged her up and down more halls and stairs than she cared to count even.

“We have some matters to discuss at home,” said Papa with that same sternness as before, his gaze resolute.

The lady stared at her relatives for a long moment before slowly nodding. “Very well, then. Should either of you change your minds, you know how to reach me.”

She gave Papa a smile that did not hide her unease, squeezed Isabel’s lifeless hand, and turned in the other direction to her approaching carriage. Taking charge of Isabel once more, perhaps sensing her disoriented state, Papa guided her toward their own coach, which had already been brought round, and helped her in.

Neither of them spoke as the carriage carried them to the main street. They both stared out their respective windows, father brooding with furrowed brows and daughter reeling from the numbness that she knew would break the moment she reached her quarters.

Eventually, a thought occurred to Isabel, so inconsequential compared to all the others racing through her mind and piercing her heart. She latched on to it, perhaps desperate for a moment of normalcy, and finally looked at her father.

“What became of Mr. Hawkins, Papa? I thought we were to bring your friend from Somerset House to dine with us tonight.”

In truth, Isabel knew she should have been a little ashamed that she had not thought to ask after the kindly gentleman sooner, especially when she imagined him wandering around that huge place in a confused search for his companion.

Papa turned away from the window, his expression softening into the benevolence that was far more familiar to Isabel as he gave her a soft smile.

“You have always been such a sweet, thoughtful thing,” he said quietly. Were his eyes…misting? “You inherited all the best parts of your mama, dear Isabel. Her boundless heart and her insatiable curiosity. I am always glad to see both so alive and well in you.”

“Papa…”

“Do not worry about Hawkins. I explained, and he was extremely understanding. He shall send for his own carriage to convey him home and dine with us another night.”

“Explained what?”

Even as she asked, Isabel dreaded the answer. What could have put her lovely, jolly Papa in such a strange mood? Her fingers, curled tightly around each other in her lap, ached from the anxious twisting she tried to hide.

The shadow of a passing row of tall townhouses threw the older man’s gaze into darkness once more. He glanced away from Isabel.

“I, too, overheard what Lord Wrighthall and those others had to say about the earl’s intentions.”

Papa paused and swallowed, as if carefully deliberating his next step. Isabel’s eyes widened, her trepidation increasing.

“I am afraid,” he continued with a heavy sigh, “that I have been hearing increasing whispers amongst Society’s gentlemen, but no one ever seemed certain of anything. So, despite my existing misgivings, I was hesitant to cast judgment upon the fellow—at least on that score. We are all well acquainted with these whimsical notions that sweep through the ton , more often than not with no basis in reality or practicality.”

“And now?” Isabel somehow forced the question out in a painful, shallow breath.

“Now, well…”

Papa’s eyes met Isabel’s once more. She wished they hadn’t. All she could see in them was the unbearable truth that would shatter the heart and hope that she had so carefully rebuilt.

“It is obvious that Lord Murfield is leaving again. I am so sorry, my darling daughter.”

Isabel exhaled sharply, unable to close her shocked mouth, as if someone had landed a blow to her stomach. She had known what her father would say, yet it still hurt so much worse than she could have imagined.

“How can this be?” she mumbled to no one in particular, knowing there would be no satisfactory answer.

How could Caleb kiss her and tell her he’d never stopped loving her mere days ago all while still planning to quit Society again at the end of the Season for who knew how long—seemingly with the entire world but Isabel?

Could there be any chance that someone or something had been mixed up along the way to create such an impression?

“I wish I could make sense of it myself, but we both heard Lord Wrighthall. He is the earl’s oldest and closest companion. He was the only one to know where Lord Murfield had gone and why.”

Squeezing her eyes shut, Isabel held up a hand and nodded quickly. It was as if Papa had read her thoughts, though she did not need the remainder explained. Of course, if anyone was privy to the latest developments of Caleb’s maneuvers—whether relating to travel or matrimony—it would be his best friend. He had certainly made no mention of it to Isabel despite claiming to renew their friendship.

Papa fell silent and reached out, taking Isabel’s upraised hand and cradling it in his, always warm and always comforting. She shuddered, the cracks in her heart deepening and widening, on the verge of breaking apart entirely.

For the remainder of the ride back to their townhouse, Isabel’s mind imprisoned her in an endless loop between searching for some minuscule chance that the situation was not as it seemed and wondering how it could possibly be anything else. She could hardly breathe for the tears choking her.

This felt all too familiar. In an instant, those old memories that Isabel had been making a concerted effort to leave behind had come hurtling forward with full force. Only this time, they came paired with newer memories from this Season, forcing Isabel to inspect every recent interaction for signs of impending tragedy she had happily ignored, just like last time.

As Isabel’s sense of having fallen into the trap of repeating history solidified, Papa held her hand in commiserating silence. He did not loosen his grip as he helped her down from the coach, waving away the footman who approached to do the job. Nor did he loosen it as he guided her up the front steps and into the foyer.

The front door closed behind them, shutting out the noise of the city. Isabel paused and looked up at her father with beseeching eyes.

“What am I to do, Papa?”

For a flash of a moment, his face crumpled in paternal pain before smoothing again into sympathy and reassurance. Papa grasped Isabel’s upper arms and turned her to face him.

“Perhaps it is best if we took our leave of London…and its influences…early this year. The peace and quiet of the country may be just the thing for you now. Take some time to rest and think of what it is you truly want.”

Isabel threw a glance over her shoulder at the closed door. Could it be that simple, that easy, to walk away without a word and never see Caleb again?

It had seemed that way for him four years ago…but now Isabel knew the truth of the immense pain that had driven him to do so.

Would she be making the exact same mistake for the very same reason? It did not feel necessarily like a mistake at present, not with the agony seizing her chest.

“But…perhaps I should at least speak to him first…”

Isabel could not stop those pitiful words from slipping out in one last feeble attempt to fight for the dream she’d only just begun to believe in again.

“My poor, poor girl.” Papa sighed as he pulled his daughter into a crushing embrace.

Instinctively, Isabel’s arms came up to wrap around him, her head burrowing into the comfortable crook of his neck.

“I do not know that that is wise. I saw how terribly he hurt you before, and how unwanted his reappearance was to you. And now this. How can I allow him the opportunity to bring you pain after knowing what he is capable of? Even we fathers have things we cannot bear.”

Only then did Isabel’s tears begin to flow. She squeezed her father tighter. “Thank you, Papa. I do think I wish to return home.”

Home. To Bainbridge.

It would always be a permanent fixture in her life. Unlike Caleb. She flinched against the stabbing pain of that reality.

Papa untangled himself from Isabel’s grasp and cupped her cheeks, round like his own.

“Why don’t I help you up to your room? You rest, and I shall ready the household for our departure by midday tomorrow.”

Isabel only had enough life left in her body to nod. Without another word, Papa wrapped an arm around her shoulders and steered her up two flights of stairs to the family wing. Outside her bedroom, he took her face in his hands once more and planted a soft kiss atop her head.

“Rest, my dear. I love you and will always protect you,” he whispered into her hair.

She knew before the door clicked shut behind her that she would not rest. It would have been impossible, even if the leather portfolio of Caleb’s maps and artwork spread open across her writing desk had not been the first thing her eyes had landed on. A watercolor of an old palace sat at the top.

Just last night, cozy in bed with the deepest and most wonderful sense of completeness, Isabel’s fingers had traced over its rough and earnest brushstrokes. She’d fallen asleep imagining herself there with him, experiencing corners of the country she had only read about in books or letters. When she had awoken, she’d found everything carefully transferred to her desk, most likely by her lady’s maid.

Feeling as if her bones had been turned to brick, Isabel dragged herself across the room. Tears blurred her vision and streamed down her face as she collected the folder and its contents and unceremoniously dropped them onto her bed to be dealt with later.

Isabel slumped down into the chair without a care for proper posture, buried her face in her handkerchief for a moment, and pulled out a neat stack of blank sheets. She would not be the one to disappear without a word…but even she did not possess the courage to deliver those words herself.