Page 12 of The Lover’s Eye

Four weeks later

Two things had been her crutch these past weeks: Trevelyan’s book, which she had already read the tremendous breadth of from cover to cover, and a spot of mercy from her father.

He had agreed to let her visit Marriane again, as long as she waited until after the Everly Ball.

The sisters had already exchanged letters, settling the plans into finality: Isobel would leave Cumberland again, if only she could manage another month of incessant activity.

Elias called five to six days a week now, and he had an infuriating habit of bringing his mother along half of the time.

They sat in the drawing room, crunched onto the faded chintz settee that no one bothered to reupholster, perspiration beading their upper lips as the fire raged on in the grate.

The conversations were intolerable, always consisting of the basest, regurgitated gossip, and extending far beyond the acceptable calling time of a quarter hour.

When Elias came alone, Isobel was forced to withstand the sweat-dampened attentions of his hand holding hers, and avoid squirming when he repeatedly laid kisses to her knuckles.

So far, she had narrowly avoided having those thin lips near to her face, but she could read it in his gaze: Elias was growing impatient. Hungry.

Lady Sempill’s attendance might have been a welcome chaperonage, had she not preached endless lectures on the duties of an honorable wife.

She slighted Isobel’s penchant for reading, expressing fears that it would spoil the delicate feminine mind, and put it into Lord Ridgeway’s head that Betsey ought to be accompanying Isobel on her daily walks for ‘propriety’s sake’.

Not today, Isobel thought, yanking on her oldest walking dress of blue cotton, not bothering to call Betsey for assistance.

She was able to get the garment fitted around her well enough, save a few popping seams caused by her wild manipulation.

Today she would walk alone, just as she liked, and she wouldn’t tell a soul where she was going.

Isobel had taken her breakfast with her papa, and not missed the inuendo in his phrasing. I hope you are looking forward to the Everly Ball. A fine event it is. A good occasion for making announcements. How is your good Captain Sempill?

The recollection of each syllable heightened her ire as she slipped down the steps of Ridgeway House, the heavy stomp of her feet already loosening black strands from her untidily pinned chignon.

My Captain Sempill?

She had the terrible premonition that Elias was going to propose marriage to her any day, with the intention of announcing their betrothal to all and sundry at the ball.

The power of Isobel’s stride fueled her fury, building it higher as she staked down a wooded path toward a small duck pond. When Betsey walked with her, this was the only route the maid’s stamina would permit. But today was a glorious day for rebellion, for expansion.

The rolling allure of the Northern Pennines called to Isobel.

The bite of winter still lingered in the air, but the tawny, lifeless grasses were competing with patches of verdant green and the sky was cloudless, echoing the hue of bluebells soon to bloom.

With a tug of vindictive spirit, she struck out with no destination.

If her father discovered her gone from the house, so be it. Perhaps he deserved to worry.

Isobel was seldom malicious, but the last month had drawn it out of her. Anger felt safe. Powerful. She had so long been a pawn in the lives of people around her:

The plain girl to the beautiful sister. The shy, pitiable one who had difficulty making conversation. Elias Sempill’s bride-to-be. The game piece with which the Ridgeway Estate must be properly traded from man to man.

Isobel realized that the only man who had ever made her feel like a person in her own right was Giles Trevelyan.

God, she didn’t care what people had to say about him.

He wasn’t dangerous, or some heartless scoundrel.

Even a brief recollection of the time spent in his company was enough to absolve her heart of those rumors.

With him, Isobel had just been Isobel—worthy of respect and interest.

It would do her no good to think of him, though. It had been four weeks since she’d returned from Northumberland. If he had any interest in her, he would have called on her by now. He would have shown up in that phaeton, just as he’d teased.

Isobel walked the moors, climbing higher and higher until she could see everything that spilled between her and the horizon.

Here, she felt small. Not in the way she did at home, a brand associated with helplessness, but a designation of being just one person amidst a much greater world.

The vastness could almost convince her the problems awaiting her were not so large as they seemed.

Almost.

By the time Isobel returned to the Ridgeway estate, the sun had nearly set. The hem of her dress was soiled with mud and damp, her bonnet tied loosely around her throat and hair sticking to her neck. She ambled down the path of overgrown wood, pretending Ridgeway House was not merely yards ahead.

On her walk, Isobel had become so in tune with hopefulness and reason, she wondered if her father would not allow her to remain unmarried altogether.

To teach her to manage the estate, with the unavoidable counsel of hired men to assist in the legalities, such as the signing of business documents.

But now that she was drawing close to reality again, Isobel heard the implausibility of it.

She heard the gruff laugh her papa would give her if she asked.

“There you are!”

Isobel jumped in surprise, grasping a tree for support. Her legs felt like weak, trembly counterparts and not the steady tools she had set off with.

Elias stood in the narrow path, barring her way. His jaw clenched at the sight of her. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked, swinging his black top hat up and down her form.

She glanced at her dirtied dress and shrugged. “I’ve been walking the moors. It is an old dress; no harm has been done.”

Elias seemed to wake to the harshness of his demeanor. He sighed, his expression relaxing a measure. “I have been looking for you all over. You were beginning to worry me.”

Isobel forced a small smile. It was intended to be a kind sentiment; Elias was full of those now that he was courting her. What a shame that they were all plainly contrived, polite strings of words he’d trained himself to recite, and not reflective of any true feeling.

“I thank you for your concern, but you see that I am fine.”

He nodded and stretched his neck to look over her shoulder. “Will Betsey be far behind? Perhaps she can get you cleaned up quickly.”

Isobel’s throat tightened with foreboding. “I … will ring for her in my room. Are we having dinner together tonight? I must have forgotten.”

“No, you are correct we had no appointment, but Mother and I wish to speak with you,” Elias said hurriedly, as if that were beside the point. As if that duo did not have the power to steer the course of Isobel’s very life. “Do you mean to say you were out walking alone?”

Isobel’s smile was growing harder to maintain. “Yes, Elias. One does like some time to oneself.”

“It will not do,” he said, his tone reviving a little of its sharp edge, “for you to go traipsing off without a chaperone in future. But let us go.” He captured her wrist in his bony fingers.

Isobel yanked it free. “By God, if you don’t sound just like your mother.”

It wasn’t his disapproval that wounded her—that she could easily live with—but his authoritative speech. It seemed to say, I will not allow you to behave in such a way when you are my wife. It didn’t bruise her. It terrified her.

Elias looked askance, clenching and unclenching his jaw. She had surprised him. Regardless of how many slights Isobel levelled at the woman in the privacy of her mind, they rarely came to voice, and never to Elias.

When he lifted his eyes, his gaze had softened. He took one of Isobel’s hands, gently this time, and she decided there was no proper reason to object to the touch, however unwelcome it was. “I apologize if you mistook my words for harshness, but Mother is already waiting, as is your father.”

“And just what are they doing?” she asked, her tone sharpening beyond her control. “Naming our first five children, perhaps?”

Isobel did not know what strength was possessing her, but its roots lie in years of festering anger. She was a cord pulled tight and fit to snap. She felt the danger of this, and even counted herself lucky when the sarcasm was lost on Elias. A lopsided smile twitched his lips.

“Of course not, Isobel. That shall be a task for us, and while it is an enticing topic of conversation, I do not wish to remember this event with you being snappish and … filthy.”

Her stomach flipped. This event. Her darkest fears were manifesting before her eyes. “I’m not ready,” she spit out.

Elias ran a hand through his hair and squeezed his eyes shut. “Precisely, but it is not such a chore to have Betsey help you wash and change. Why must you insist on being difficult? It is most unlike you.”

Anything less than total compliance was unlike the Isobel he knew and wanted. “No, you’re not understanding. I-I’m not ready to be betrothed.”

Elias’s eyes grew wide, flashing with some inexplicable, dangerous depth of emotion. “Why ever not? Have I ever been indecent to you?” He moved closer, his voice rising. “Have I ever failed to compliment you? To call on you?”

“You have always been decent, Elias. And perfectly mannerly,” Isobel said, her voice shaky. Those were the qualities she had reminded herself of over the years, assuming she would one day reconcile herself into marrying him. She knew now that would never happen.

Elias threw his hands up, his tone pitching to a volume that hurt her ears. “Then what more can I offer you?”