Page 4 of Revisit the Past (Society of Swans #3)
“S he is here!” Clara cried as the butler showed Isabel into the Gardiner family’s drawing room. Without a second thought, she tossed her embroidery hoop aside, leaving it to clatter against the thin rug and dull floor beneath, and flew to Isabel’s side.
“My poor sister was beginning to think you actually had taken ill. She has become so impatient,” added Ellen, following behind the youngest Gardiner at a calmer pace. “Come now, dearest, let us allow our friend to seat herself.” She offered Isabel a sweet, apologetic smile as she grasped Clara’s narrow shoulders and began steering her back toward the sofa and chairs arranged in the center of the drawing room.
Observant Mercy patted the empty space beside her on the sofa with long, lace-covered fingers. Isabel obeyed, sinking into the upholstery with some measure of relief. It was not as though she had not kept herself in as much suspense as her companions these past few days. In fact, her reticule sat heavily on her lap, each letter within like a rectangle of brick rather than finely woven cotton.
“Forgive me, all of you,” Isabel started as Clara pressed in close on her other side and Ellen tucked herself into the protection of the late Mr. Gardiner’s favorite wingback chair.
“It was not my intention to torment you with waiting, but I did not think it sensible to tear apart our busy schedules numerous times when we could simply have one long discussion now that all the relevant information has arrived. Besides…”
Clara, affectionately clinging to Isabel’s arm, tilted her head to one side, pale-orange curls swaying. “Besides?”
Isabel tore her eyes away from her friend’s expectant gaze, full of romantic dreams. “Besides, I wished to reduce my chances of crossing paths with Lord Murfield at the larger dinners and dances.”
Mercy reached over to grasp the hand not already claimed by Clara and cleared her throat. “On the topic of Lord Murfield, perhaps we should refresh our memories with a reading of Lady Swan’s letter, which I presume you have brought with you?”
Nodding, Isabel rummaged in her silk reticule for the first letter, the one that had begun it all—the one that always began it all.
“Would you do us the honor of reading it aloud?” she asked, brandishing the neatly folded sheet before Clara’s doll-like face. Her friend eagerly snatched it and began reading the words Isabel had long since memorized and often shuddered to recall.
“I am afraid your assertion must be correct, Isabel,” said Mercy when Clara had finished, one finger tapping thoughtfully against her knee. “Who else can Lady Swan mean but the earl? Thus far, the first and obvious guess has proven to be the right one.”
“And Lydia and Felicity, what did they make of it?” Ellen asked, leaning forward slightly, brown ringlets perfectly framing her delicate features.
With a sigh, Isabel produced the remaining letters. “Naturally, I brought their responses with me as well.”
“How perfect!” Clara cheered, bouncing in her seat a few times. “It is almost as if our dear friends are here with us, after all.”
“Heavens, I had half a mind to request that Nicholas return us to Bainbridge so we might meet precious Mary. The first baby among us!” Ellen said with a meditative smile as she wrapped her arms around herself.
“You know our brother would never have granted your request,” Clara retorted with a pout. “He would think it a waste of his beloved money and time, both of which are clearly better spent here in London.”
“ Clara !” Isabel hissed in surprise, her head turning sharply toward the younger girl before looking to the eldest.
It was no secret that Mr. Nicholas Gardiner, their older brother, saw his status as head of their household as simply that—status, and access to the luxuries it afforded, nothing more. His responsibilities entered into his mind only when the poor girls forced them to.
Thanks to Ellen’s seemingly endless ability to see the good in others and Clara’s natural desire to impart her own carefree cheer on all she met, the sisters preferred to express their disapproval in brief, veiled comments. In fact, Isabel could not remember the last time she had heard either of them use such bold complaints against anyone.
Ellen sank deeper into their father’s chair. “Do not mind her,” she whispered, cheeks coloring. “Nicholas and Clara have argued again, and it has confined Mama to bed with nerves. He says we will not have our pin money this month because, well, he did not explain precisely, but…”
Isabel and Mercy exchanged a knowing glance and pursed their lips to keep from saying anything unladylike about a friend’s relative, even if said friend would no doubt heartily agree.
The other Bainbridge ladies had heard enough talk of Mr. Gardiner’s spending habits through their own families without the help of hints revealed by the sisters since their father’s passing. The Bainbridge mamas had also never seemed particularly keen to marry their daughters to him despite being a gentleman from the neighborhood, not if that gentleman was so careless with his purse strings.
“Shall we hear what our friends at home have to say about all this?” asked Mercy in her measured, tactful tone. The sunlight spilling in from the large windows cast her golden hair in an angelic glow. In the absence of their leader, Mercy had naturally assumed Lydia’s role as their sensible guide and reminder of decorum.
With a sulking scowl, Clara sat back against the sofa cushions, which were beginning to show the need for some maintenance. Nothing urgent yet, though certainly something the Gardiners’ more sharp-eyed guests would begin noticing while Mr. Gardiner brushed it aside as inconsequential compared to the winnings he could earn on the next boxing match.
Ellen gave what appeared to be a small smile of relief that the subject had been proposed to change, and that her younger sister did not seem intent on resurrecting it at present. “Will you not read again, dear Clara?”
Curiosity no doubt compelling her, as it always did, Clara reached one hand out and accepted the two letters Isabel placed in it, her glowering expression already reduced to a mere scrunched nose.
“I shall read Lydia’s first. I am terribly eager to learn more of her little one and what it was all like.”
“Temper your expectations now,” Isabel interjected. “She does not share much on that subject. I suspect it was too much to write in a letter, even with multiple pages crossed every which way. But she does describe her Mary in wonderful detail. You will be pleased,” she added quickly upon seeing the disappointed drop of Clara’s eyes.
Excitement renewed, Clara took a deep inhale and began reading.
“‘ …and she grows a little stronger and more alert by the day, with dark hair, dark as her papa’s, beginning to show. She is so small, yet I cannot comprehend how my body sustained her for so many months. How she could begin as a dream and become this real, breathing creature in my arms. How we can love this little stranger with hearts that have expanded to sizes we did not know possible. And to see Sebastian as the wonderful father I always knew he would be! It is the most sublime feeling, and I pray all of you will come to know it in your turn.’”
“Motherhood has turned our solemn Lydia into a poet,” Isabel said with a fond chuckle as Clara finished the first half of the letter.
Clara pressed the quarto sheets to her chest and sighed wistfully. “May it make poets of us all! She sounds so thrilled that I cannot help being thrilled as well.”
“I am now even more eager to return to Bainbridge and meet the little dear! But what does Lydia say of…?” Ellen paused, her round eyes darting nervously to Isabel.
Isabel softened and smiled at quiet, kindhearted Ellen. “You may say his name. It is not a grave sin. Only a minor one.”
The other girl, so truly sincere, demure, and unguarded, chuckled and relaxed, her shoulders rounding ever so slightly. “What does Lydia say of the Lord Murfield theory?”
“Ah, yes.” Clara cleared her throat and continued. “‘ I know you will not wish to read this, Isabel, but I believe your suspicions are correct. I cannot think who else Lady Swan might mean. But I hope my example, and Felicity’s, will bring you some measure of peace. I am too content with my life now to continue wondering how the woman manages to be right. I only know that she is, and I believe with the entirety of my being that she will not steer you wrongly. Might you find a sliver of possibility in your heart that Lady Swan’s reasoning is sound and trustworthy?’”
“Well, might you?” prodded Mercy as she leaned back slightly for a better view of her friend’s face.
Instinctively, Isabel turned away and feigned a sudden interest in the table, particularly in the green, floral pattern that wrapped around the rim of her teacup. Heat simmered under the surface of her cheeks, no doubt turning her face a color that was entirely too honest, though not for the reason she had expected.
She was not, exactly, embarrassed to talk about him —Lord Murfield, she reminded herself, just as she had reminded Ellen. Not like during her first Season, when she had revealed every detail of her courtship with Mr. Smythe to her dearest friends with bashful smiles and hopeful whispers of the future that had been just there on the horizon, secure with a comfortable allowance and property long ago promised to him by his brother, only to watch it sink behind that line forever.
Everything had been so fresh and exhilarating then, for Isabel and for the other Bainbridge girls. Though she ultimately had not been the first—or even the second—among their number to marry, Isabel had been the first to experience any sort of courtship or romance.
Isabel ignored the gentle jab in her side from Clara’s elbow. This was different. Isabel was different.
Despite the admittedly absurd, almost-fictional situation she had found herself in, Isabel could hardly deny the fact that she was no longer that innocent, impressionable girl of four years past. She had been so sure that she would never again allow her logical mind to be compromised by false promises made to her fallible heart. And yet…
She also could not deny that feeling deep in her chest, warm and familiar, a feeling she had long since thought lost to her.
It had shaken off its cold slumber as soon as she’d seen the regret in Lord Murfield’s eyes at the ball, even if her resentment had prevented her from recognizing it in the shock of the moment.
It had softened the walls around her heart, the ones she had erected because of the man Lady Swan—and all Isabel’s friends, apparently—wished to see her marry.
The evidence was clear. Whether Isabel liked it or not, the matchmaker’s abilities had been proven twice over now, in two very different situations. The others believed in the evidence. Only Isabel now struggled to do the same because the evidence posited a possibility she did not wish to accept. And with good reason, or so she had thought.
Worst of all, she missed Lord Murfield. No, not Lord Murfield. She missed her Caleb.
“What did my sister write?” Mercy finally asked after another long moment of silence and another unsuccessful nudge from Clara’s sharp elbow.
Happy to have something to occupy her once more, Clara took up the last letter and quickly read through the older twin’s report of her ever-changing condition.
“‘ Naturally, I agree with whatever Lydia thinks. No doubt she wrote it out far better than I ever could. We are all grateful I have been spared the task, I am sure. But truly, Isabel, you know that I, of all people, wanted absolutely nothing to do with Lady Swan and her schemes. And look at me now! Happily married to the kindest man with a little one on the way. I cannot tell you how she does it, but Lady Swan possesses a magic all her own. She knows what you need better than you do.’”
When Clara read the last line, Isabel’s fingers curled around the folds of her creamy-orange walking dress. She may not have been raised as rigidly as Lydia, or been born as blindly hardheaded as Felicity, but Isabel still did not take kindly to accepting that she might have been mistaken. Especially on such a crucial matter.
“There, that settles it!” Clara announced as she folded up Felicity’s letter and returned it to Isabel along with the others. “We all agree that Lord Murfield is the intended gentleman and that there must be at least some merit to our writer’s suggestion. Truly, Isabel, do not you think it at least worth it to discover why he did not return for you or write all this time?”
“ You all may agree,” Isabel interjected before Clara could lose herself in a cloud of fanciful dreams, “but I do not see why I must do anything simply because Lady Swan—and a bunch of silly girls—ordain it.”
“It is not silly to be optimistic for our friends’ futures!” Clara sat up straight, crossed her arms, and tossed her head at Isabel’s teasing.
With that, the conversation devolved into more jests and lighthearted speculations as to the unfolding of Isabel’s adventure, to which she listened with more amusement and interest than she cared to admit. Nor would she admit to any of them, not yet, that the sliver of possibility did exist in her heart.
Perhaps it had never truly been erased.
*
As soon as Isabel stepped foot into the foyer of her family’s townhouse, she paused, one glove hanging limply in her hand. Something felt different.
“Swinton?”
The butler, just beginning to gray from his years of service, sprang forth in anticipation of his young mistress’s question. “Two visitors await you in the drawing room, Miss Abbott, as well as your aunt.”
“And who are our unexpected visitors?”
Swinton’s professionally neutral expression wavered. Isabel narrowed her eyes.
“Lady Ainsworth requests that you come up straight away upon your return.”
“I am afraid I do not much care for the sound of that,” Isabel mumbled under her breath. Turning to Swinton, she added, “Thank you. That will be all for now.”
The butler offered a bow and left Isabel in the privacy of the foyer. Curiosity and apprehension battling for dominance in her thoughts, she stood tall, straightened her shoulders, and marched up the stairs.
“Ah, here she is now!” called Aunt Matilda’s sweet, feathery voice.
The two men had not yet turned to the new arrival when Isabel’s every muscle froze. She would never be unable to recognize Lord Murfield’s fiery hair and broad shoulders, it seemed. They had certainly haunted her memory often enough to leave a lasting impression.
The earl and Baron Wrighthall, his closest friend, gave some sort of greeting. Isabel could not hear it for the sudden rushing of blood in her ears. She forced herself into a curtsey and, without allowing her gaze to linger on the gentleman on the right, rushed to the dowager countess.
“Might I have a word, Aunt?”
The older woman fixed the younger with a firm look that Isabel could not quite decipher. Her green eyes—deeper and certainly wiser than Isabel’s—darted to their guests.
“Surely, it can wait a while longer, my dear Isabel,” Aunt Matilda countered with a lighthearted chuckle. “Do become reacquainted with Lord Murfield, darling. He has come all this way to call on you. Isn’t that lovely?
“Besides,” she added, raising her voice for the benefit of the others, “I just remembered hearing that Lord Wrighthall is an admirer of fine accessories. I thought he might like to admire your father’s handsome pocket watch display! Am I not mistaken, my lord?”
“Indeed you are not, my lady. I very much enjoy a painstakingly curated collection,” answered the baron with a smile that struck Isabel as a touch too eager to be entirely natural.
Her jaw tightened as Lord Wrighthall offered his arm to Aunt Matilda and allowed her to direct him toward the long, glass case that stretched across the opposite wall. The lady looked over her shoulder at Isabel with an apologetic smile.
Isabel bristled internally at the necessary politeness to which she typically did not mind adhering—except for when she must extend politeness to a man who had cruelly hurt her beyond anything she had thought possible. She also bristled against the familiar stare she felt upon her back that had once sent shivers of warm delight through her entire body.
It wanted something of her that she could not possibly be ready to give. Everyone wanted this of her—Lady Swan, her friends, perhaps even Aunt Matilda.
But none of them understood. Not really. How could she doom herself to a lifetime of wretchedness by walking with eyes wide open into a repetition of history?
This ambush had done nothing short of snuff out the meager stirrings of hope she had secretly begun to entertain at the Gardiners’ home, her friends’ confidence lifting her up. Or perhaps it was easier to think of reuniting with Lord Murfield when he was not so…close. So real. Such a reminder of the dreams she had not realized she’d desperately wanted until they had disappeared like smoke.
“Miss Abbott, I hope you have been well?”
Isabel swallowed around the lump of conflicting emotions in her throat. There was nothing for it now. She could not run forever.
Somehow, she had not been expecting the awkward, regretful, and unfortunately endearing expression on the gentleman’s unfairly handsome face as she turned. From several steps away, Lord Murfield watched her with wide eyes, his angular brows upturned at the corners.
Isabel did her best to ignore the stuttering of her heart. This cautious version of the earl was so different from the friendly and sharply intelligent young man she’d known, always prepared to debate his views or discuss recent readings with any like-minded individual. Yet there was something about this Lord Murfield that forced Isabel’s hardened heart to twist back into shapes she thought it had forgotten.
Yes, Isabel stood before her former suitor as a different person. But life had changed him, too.
“Come now, my lord. We need not revert all the way back to such basic conversation,” she finally said. “We do know each other, after all. Even if it has been some time.”
Lord Murfield’s tense, perfectly full lips gave way to a small smile and a light chuckle. He dropped his head in relief, thick hair shimmering in the sunlight that poured in from the window.
This time, Isabel did not ignore the fluttering spasms in her chest. Life had changed him, indeed. She found herself longing to know all that had come to pass—to understand how his presence could feel so familiar, as if they had never parted, yet so much heavier.
Could this truly be the same man with whom she had fallen in love and come to loathe all in the span of a few months?
“So, tell me…” she continued as she took a step forward, surprising both herself and Lord Murfield. Their eyes found each other at the exact same moment. “Why are you here?”
Her question contained no bite or accusation. It had taken less than half a moment for Isabel to feel the truth of her own earlier statement. No matter how long it had been, no matter how much she had tried to convince herself, their history could not be so easily forgotten.
Lord Murfield lowered his head again and cleared his throat. “I know I have no right to make such a request of you, and if you choose to decline, you shall have my full understanding, but…”
When he did not continue, Isabel felt her foot lifting of its own accord once more. She took one step, then another, until she came close enough to peer at his hidden face, head tilted to one side. Deep-brown eyes slowly lifted to meet hers.
“Continue,” Isabel said quietly, gently.
“I ardently hope, Miss Abbott, that we might resume…our friendship. You see, I have never stopped admiring you from afar, all these years. Throughout all my journeys, you remain the most fascinating and wonderful person I know, if I may be so bold.”
“I suppose you may,” Isabel whispered as the breath left her body in a surprised exhale.
She could feel her eyes widening and her cheeks reddening, and she was powerless to stop herself. He had always known precisely what to say—often without realizing it—to make Isabel’s knees weak.
“Perhaps it might also help to know that I do not expect I shall be returning to London again for quite some time, I should think, after the Season. Thus, you shall not have to endure me for long,” he continued with a sheepish smile.
Just like that, the generous feelings that had begun taking root were singed by disappointment. They retreated into the darkness, where they clearly should have remained. Isabel hummed thoughtfully in the hopes of securing enough time to dispel her instinct to decline his offer and excuse herself, just as she had done at the welcome ball.
It was not as difficult to manage this time thanks to that cursed spot of softness that had been worked into her heart via the urgings of Lady Swan and Isabel’s own beloved companions. Indeed, in taking a moment to allow her mind to turn over the positives and negatives, Isabel found that the definitive time limit of Lord Murfield’s presence in her life could prove beneficial.
If she could not bear to be in the same rooms as him and converse civilly before the attentive eyes of their friends and the rest of the ton , at least she would have the comfort of knowing that the earl would soon disappear from her life once more.
The nervous rustle of his coat called Isabel out of the labyrinth of her thoughts, a place in which she often lost herself. Lord Murfield had once loved losing himself there alongside her.
The gentleman shifted his weight from one foot to the other, tugging at the cuffs of his sleeves. “Forgive me,” he mumbled without looking at Isabel. “I knew it was a mistake to ask.”
“I suppose I can accept a temporary friendship,” Isabel blurted out just as Lord Wrighthall appeared in the corner of her eye, rushing toward them with long strides.
“Murfield, we have lost all track of time,” he announced, brandishing his own pocket watch. “I am afraid we must be making our way to White’s, or we shall keep our friends waiting.”
The earl’s Adam’s apple bobbed, his lips parting for just a moment before pressing into a tight line. As the gentlemen offered their thanks and farewells to the ladies, Isabel could not help another twinge of disappointment. After all, had she not been waiting for him, too?
With the drawing room door closed, Isabel shook the thought away, curls swinging. It was far, far too dangerous to entertain.
“Will you tell me what you and Lord Murfield discussed?”
Isabel turned to the sound of Aunt Matilda’s voice with what she hoped was a nonchalant shrug.
“We are friends again, it seems, at least until he resumes his escapades when the Season is finished. If he does not quit the Season early. That would not be entirely unheard of from him.”
The other woman smiled softly and wrapped an elegant arm around Isabel’s shoulders. The emerald green of her skirts and the light orange of Isabel’s clashed against one another as the women made their way to the pair of chairs under the window.
“That was very mature of you,” said Aunt Matilda in a reassuring tone.
Isabel only nodded. In a flash, the pride in her aunt’s eyes transformed into a curious glint.
“This is as close as Lord Murfield will ever be allowed to come near my heart again,” she announced quickly and firmly, perhaps as much for her own benefit as Aunt Matilda’s. “He made it abundantly clear. Soon we shall be strangers once more.”
Though her shapely brows inched up, evidently intrigued, the dowager countess always seemed to know when to leave certain lines with her niece uncrossed. “Fond strangers, I hope,” was Aunt Matilda’s only reply on the subject.
“I suggest that you do not allow your hope to grow unchecked,” Isabel grumbled, this time more to herself than to her aunt.
As she watched the leisurely walkers and carriages passing on the street below, Isabel vowed to repeat her own words to herself as often as she must until they became a permanent impression upon her heart. This meeting had ultimately served to reinforce her original position.
It did not matter what Lady Swan thought. Isabel and the Earl of Murfield were not meant to be. If they had been, he would not have been walking away from Isabel now, leaving her to wonder when, if, she would see him again.