Page 18 of The Lover’s Eye

Elias swore to Isobel he knew nothing of his mother’s failed scheme. It didn’t matter. The whole ordeal only served to sink them further in her regard.

She had more time to marshal her thoughts during the half a day’s coach ride to Northumberland the following morning.

When Isobel considered what might have happened if she had allowed Elias to take her to the gardens, a chill travelled from her scalp to her toes.

Her last chance to change the course of her life felt richer and more poignant than ever.

Isobel lay her head back, letting it rock uncontrolled with the motion of the coach.

She stared out the window, ruminating on the renewing signs of life which had begun to populate the land.

Daffodils, resilient little beings, lined the well-travelled road, their yellow trumpet blooms standing crisp against white petals.

Ground covering clumps of marsh marigolds sprang up from the still cold soil, their color like unfiltered sunlight.

Isobel almost did not recognize the lodge gates of Cambo House until the coach was upon them, already passing them.

Their imposing iron breadth did not look welcoming in the least, and the wall enclosing the estate was nearly made invisible by the encroaching wildness of rhododendrons.

The fuchsia flora snaked up the sandstone block, the large and vibrant blooms arresting in contrast to the tender golden things she had been observing.

She felt a pang in her chest. Something like longing, or unmet desire. An ache rising unbidden from her breast, and then it was gone.

Lord Trevelyan’s book had been carefully wrapped, packed between soft layers of gowns in her travelling trunk. She hoped she could return it personally. She wanted the opportunity to thank him again, and to say goodbye.

The next hour saw Isobel safely to Shoremoss Hall, where Marriane met her at the door and dragged her inside, not offering so much as a hug for welcome.

“Let us not pretend your visit has anything to do with me,” Marriane said, her brown eyes narrowing on her sister’s face.

It was not the response Isobel expected after inquiring about her health.

The women were in the same drawing room of clotted air, a too large fire burning in the grate and singeing Isobel’s nostrils with the scent of smoke. It cracked loudly, each pop like a prick to her nerves. She was a little wounded by her sister’s cold reception, but could she really be surprised?

Isobel had all but invited herself, and littered every correspondence since with veiled hints about her scheme. It was no wonder Marriane sat across from her now, molded into the plush corner of a chintz settee, glowering.

“I confess, I have much to speak to you about, but that does not mean I don’t care for your health,” Isobel said.

“I am the same as you left me—perfectly well.”

The first part of that statement was true.

Marriane still had the gauntness about her cheeks and eyes, her figure willowy beneath a new dress of ruby velvet.

The frock cut of the garment displayed her full bosom to the best advantage, but Isobel could see it was the expertise of the dressmaker giving Marriane her curvaceous figure back, not an improvement in physical condition.

“I must confess, I am at a loss to understand why you wish for a Season,” Marriane said. “Particularly now, just as I understood your engagement to be a thing of certainty.”

“I do not wish for a Season. That bit was your idea. I suggested—”

Marriane flapped her hands wildly, squeezing her eyes closed with an anguished look. “Don’t even say the word! Do not utter it in my household! You are the daughter of a viscount , you cannot go about working as some—some—”

“Governess?” Isobel supplied helpfully, giggling when Marriane groaned in revulsion. “Trust me, I should rather do anything than marry Elias. I won’t do it.”

Of course she did not want to seek employment in a strange house, teaching children who would no doubt sense her shyness and exhaust themselves playing tricks on her.

But Isobel knew her father would not allow her to slip quietly into spinsterhood.

He would go to any lengths to see her married off, not just for the good of the estate, but for the sake of her now-tattered virtue.

Should he threaten to remove her from his house, well, seek employment it would be.

There was another thread of consciousness that Isobel chose not to give voice to.

The last weeks of isolation had shown her she did want to marry.

She wanted someone to share her heart with, who would give her room to breathe and wander, but also a soft place to come back to each night.

She craved a partnership built on trust and seasoned with laughter, a peaceful sort of unity that her sister did not seem to believe in.

The idea of a Season set Isobel’s teeth on edge. It would be pomp and whispers and vulgarity. She had never even thought it a possibility, until Marriane wrote to her. And yet … It seemed like an opportunity worth taking. One more chance at happiness.

“What in heaven’s name happened between January and now? I knew you weren’t keen on him, but really, you’ve gone mad.”

Isobel diverted her gaze. “I would have explained in my letters, were it not … Well, I simply could not chance anyone else learning of it.” She had not forgotten Pemberton’s earlier breach of privacy, and feared he might share her father’s asinine point of view that Elias had compromised her and she owed him marriage.

Isobel launched into a recounting of all that had happened since her last visit to Northumberland. She spoke slowly, struggling to put Elias’s unwelcome advances into words, and by the time she was relating Lady Sempill’s failed scheme from last night’s ball, her chest heaved and her fingers shook.

Marriane toyed with the fringe of a pillow she was hugging against her torso.

She laced the threads of royal purple between her fingers, allowing several seconds to pass before answering.

“I am almost certain you will disagree with me,” she said, her mahogany gaze lifting, “but there is nothing for it. You are owed the truth of life.”

Isobel’s heartbeat quickened. She had a distinct impulse to throw open the windows and pace around the room, but remained in her seat, rigid as a doll.

“I do not see any great trouble in your situation.”

Marriane’s words were like a blow to the face. Isobel had travelled all this way in anticipation of her sister’s counsel as her friend, her confidant, her ally. She was the one person in all the world Isobel had expected to understand.

“Pray, do not be cross with me,” Marriane said, a deep breath expanding her velvet breast. “I can assure you I am not pleased it is I who must disillusion you. The nasty truth is this world is not kind to women, and a Season will not alter that for you.”

“I am not asking for much,” Isobel said, the words tripping defensively out. “I only do not wish to not fear my husband’s touch.”

Marriane’s hands stilled on the pillow tassels.

Her expression was inscrutable beneath fine black lashes.

“Isobel. Most women loathe the touch of their husbands. Dread it, in fact. Most husbands take a mistress—or many—and still demand to take their wives. In turn, some wives take men of their own. At least, once they have provided a sufficient heir.”

The fine hairs on Isobel’s nape rose. “Why, do you fear him ?” she asked, dropping her voice to a whisper.

“I don’t fear his hand, if that’s what you mean to ask,” Marriane said flatly. “I fear he cares very little for me, while I … I love him terribly.”

“Marriane, I demand to know.” Isobel edged closer to her sister. “Do you suspect he’s taken another mistress?”

From this nearness, Isobel noticed how her sister had aged. Not in her impeccably powdered complexion, or thick, luscious hair, but in her eyes. They held a distinctive weariness, as though they had seen things—bad things, that would not let her go.

“I do not think so,” Marriane said, her voice scarce above a whisper.

“But he spends so much time away from home, out sailing or at that damned fishing cottage. I find myself in fits, plagued by fears, often stupid fears, like wanting to turn his whole study out so that I might learn what really goes on in his mind. He won’t open to me, Isobel, and I—I cannot trust him. ”

A charred log burned through and rolled off the grate with a sparking crash. Both women jumped.

Marriane rose to her feet, swiping at her eyes with the backs of her hands. “You ought to get some rest. I have already sent letters to two potential sponsors for your Season. We are beginning the whole business far too late, but we shall see what comes of it.”

Before Isobel could say a word, her sister was disappearing through the drawing room doors. From behind, she looked like royalty: impeccable posture, a gliding stride, miles of glossy hair held up by pearl-topped pins. But Isobel had just glimpsed the truth.

Her sister was a broken, suffering woman, and knowing it broke her heart, too.

?

Isobel did not have to face Lord Pemberton until the next morning, when they all sat down to breakfast. She half expected him to question her about the inconveniences she was causing, disrupting his household and sending Marriane into a fit of Season planning.

But the marquess only gave her a brief greeting, and feasted over his plate.

Heaping forkfuls disappeared into the large abyss of his mouth, noisily washed down with steaming tea. He did not speak another word to Isobel, and she found herself relieved by the same apathetic manner that usually offended her.

“I was thinking of going into the village this morning,” Marriane said, looking from her sister to her husband. “Would either of you like to come along?”

Pemberton did not lift his bent head. “I’m sailing.”