Page 19 of The Lover’s Eye

Marriane’s dark eyes lilted back to her plate, which was largely untouched. Isobel hastened to intervene. “I would be delighted to join you,” she said, her voice cheerier than she felt.

The proposition did not thrill her. After so many hours pent up in a coach the previous day, she would have much preferred a walk.

The morning sun was pitching in through the windows, casting brilliant gilt light over the polished table.

It was almost uncomfortable to stare at, but after a harsh winter, all three of them seemed unwilling to temper the brightness with curtains.

“Very well,” Marriane said, her smile tense. “Perhaps we can visit the dressmaker. You’ll be needing a good many gowns if you’re to have a Season.”

After breakfast, Betsey helped Isobel into a walking dress of celestial blue cambric and began drawing a sharp center part down the middle of her head.

“Oh, please do not,” Isobel said, wincing.

Betsey sighed. “But it is the fashion.”

“I do not care. It makes my nose look the size of Westminster Hall.”

The lady’s maid reluctantly offset the hair parting to one side, only to promptly cover it up with a bonnet.

Lord Pemberton’s carriage was pulling away a moment later. Isobel was glad to be alone with her sister, who seemed to be in better spirits.

“I apologize for Martin this morning,” Marriane said, coloring up faintly. “He’s a bit like Papa, you know. When he’s cross, he doesn’t bother to hide it. He thinks I am overtiring myself.”

Isobel couldn’t find words to say, and followed her sister’s gaze out the window.

The carriage was following the main road into the village, which now offered a glimpse of the coastline.

There were no cliffs here, but a soft, flat plain of mud and marsh, stretching out a good distance before meeting the gentle lap of blue sea.

“At least the sea looks calm today,” Marriane sighed. “Foolish man. He acts as if he has nothing to lose.” She mumbled the last words, almost as though she hadn’t intended to speak them aloud. Her hand had moved reflexively to her midsection.

Isobel’s eyes widened. “Are you—?”

Marriane smiled, a soft, carefully restrained tilt of the lips. “We are not certain yet. But I may be with child again.”

Isobel took up her sister’s free hand and gave it a squeeze. Congratulations seemed the proper thing to offer, but she felt the risk of another pregnancy as acutely as she hoped for the reward.

“Do you see that little knoll?” Marriane pointed out the window.

Isobel leaned forward and squinted, but saw little more than mud and water. After some pointing from Marriane, she did see an island far in the distance. It seldom had any elevation, but laid belly down against its briny bed, a mass of dune swept in tall grass.

“Why ever would you want me to see that?” Isobel asked, unimpressed.

“It is local lore. They say an old witch lady lives there. Almost like an oracle, but she doctors, too.”

“ What ?” Isobel laughed in disbelief. “That is the most preposterous thing you’ve ever said.”

Marriane’s expression remained stoic and neutral, her creamy skin several shades lighter than Isobel’s own. “I did not believe it at first, either, I can assure you. Not until Reverend Gouldsmith mentioned he used to go witness to her.”

The vicar. Isobel made the association with Aurelia at once, a wash of memories—and questions—from the ball coming back to her. “Used to?”

Marriane nodded. “He said he loathed the walk, but that is not why he stopped his visits. Apparently, the last time he went they had words, and she chased him off with gun and bade him never return.”

Isobel placed a hand to her mouth, desperately trying to coax down the corners. “Why would a witch doctor have a gun? And this vicar of yours walked ?” She stole a final glance at the island before it dipped from view, the North Sea encircling its shores like a spilled bolt of imperial blue velvet.

“It is high tide, dearest. At low tide, a sandbar allows passage all the way there, though it’s a treacherous walk. The water can rise astonishingly fast.”

A chill climbed Isobel’s spine. For all her love of walking, she had difficulty imagining herself daring that passage. “He must be a dedicated vicar,” she mused.

“Oh, and as for the gun,” Marriane said, ignoring her, “that bit is not far-fetched in the least. People still go to her to have their fates read, or to seek cures, or to resolve delicate matters —you know, unwed mothers, rashes from prostitutes—errands people are too proud to take up with the family doctor. But they still must trade with something, and I imagine money would be of no use to a hermit.”

Isobel was baffled by the whole tale, and more than a little disbelieving, but the carriage was rolling into the village.

The coachman deposited the ladies at the top of High Street per Marriane’s request. She wanted to show Isobel all the notable shops, finishing with a view of the broad beach at the street’s end.

They skirted past the smellier establishments, where male voices shouted and crates jostled. Isobel had no interest in paying the local butcher, wine merchant, or fishmonger a visit, but they hadn’t been able to avoid the sharp scent of a fish cart sitting out in the middle of the street.

“ Langoustine !” the man had called, taking a half-step nearer to them. “ Get your fresh langoustine here !”

They ducked inside a bookshop, where Marriane insisted on purchasing two novels she caught Isobel eyeing, and the haberdasher, where Marriane spent a quarter of an hour deciding which buttons she wanted for a new carriage dress.

“Now to the confectioner’s shop and the beach,” Marriane said as they spilled out onto the street.

They were leaning on each other and laughing, looking down at the tangle of their arms, reticules, and parcels, when they nearly ran into two men.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry—”

It was Lord Trevelyan. Isobel’s smile faded upon meeting his cold gaze. Two lines pleated the space between his eyebrows, and he towered over her from this closeness. He took two steps back, his gloved hands folded in front of him.

“That’s quite all right.” His full lips stretched into an attempt at a smile, but it was strained and not at all in harmony with the disapproving expressiveness around his eyes. He gave a terse bow. “How do you do, Lady Pemberton, Miss Ridgeway.”

“Very well,” Marriane said brightly. Her eyes flickered to the second man present, who stood at Trevelyan’s side.

He was of middle age and his height barely drew even with the sharp set of Trevelyan’s shoulder.

He wore spectacles that reminded Isobel of her father, and had a pleasant, humble expression.

It was evident his hair had once been red, but age had faded its pigment, leaving it wispy and …

the distinct peachy shade of langoustine.

“Miss Ridgeway, I don’t expect you’ve met our vicar,” Trevelyan said, visibly displeased that he was obligated to introduce the pair. “Reverend Gouldsmith, this is Lady Pemberton’s sister, Miss Ridgeway of Kittwick.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Reverend,” Isobel said with mechanical politeness.

She cultivated an outward look of calm, but her nerves stood fully heightened.

She had been hoping to see him again. Even now, with his icy gaze, she was glad to be near him.

Good heavens, he was handsome. He was also mid-conversation with his missing bride’s father.

Marriane engaged in a polite strain of conversation with the vicar, but Trevelyan and Isobel stood stiff as boards, the wind tickling the hair beneath their hats.

Isobel was trying to resist the urge to look at him, and it seemed he was doing the same.

When she could take it no longer and gazed up at his face, she found his light eyes trained in the direction of her gloved hands.

“Perhaps you will join us for dinner one evening,” Marriane was saying.

“I’m afraid my schedule is terribly full at present.” Trevelyan’s words might have been carved from a glacier. Isobel’s eyes flew up, and he held her gaze, unmoving for a moment, before dismissing himself.

He disappeared down the street, his grey-flecked hair and beaver hat visible above the crowd. Isobel could not help noticing the eyes upon him. He seemed to attract adoring looks from the younger women and curious gazes from the rest.

“Would it be all right if we put off the beach for another day?” Isobel asked, once she and Marriane were alone again.

“If you insist.”

Isobel had just climbed into the carriage and sat down, removing her gloves from her sweating palms, when she saw him again. Lord Trevelyan was untying his horse, preparing to mount. And he was alone.

“Just one moment.” Isobel spoke so quickly, the words came out as a burble. She was rapping on the carriage door, and clambered out unaided when it opened.

Her heart was pounding everywhere, making her limbs weak and the ground unlevel.

Trevelyan had just put the reins over his horse’s head when he caught sight of her.

For an instant—just a split, barely perceptible slice of time—she thought he looked relieved.

Like he could have smiled and embraced her, been as happy to see her as she was him.

The look slipped behind his mask when she stopped in front of him. “Lord Trevelyan. I am sorry to trouble you. I …” Blast. This was more difficult than she had anticipated. “I wanted to thank you, again, for the books. They have been my constant companion these past weeks.”

What a dreadful underestimation. They had been her buoy, her lifeboat. No one ever considered my thoughts important enough to write down—until you. That’s what she wanted to say.

“I am glad to hear it, Miss Ridgeway,” he said, squinting a little, despite the sun having ducked behind a cloud. He looked almost pained to be speaking with her.

“I, um, I brought your volume of Homer with me. To return it to you, of course. I don’t know whether you will be visiting Shoremoss Hall—”

“I think it unlikely I will have time. You needn’t return it. Unless, of course, your betrothed deems it necessary for propriety’s sake.”

Isobel’s mouth fell open. Her betrothed? What in God’s name had he heard?

His horse, an impossibly large, well-muscled creature, sidestepped impatiently. Trevelyan eyed the mounting block, and dipped his hat to her. “Good day to you, Miss Ridgeway.”

Isobel was too stunned to answer, and more than a little offended. With a quiet scoff, she closed her mouth and turned on her heel. As she stomped back toward her sister’s waiting carriage, something like reflex compelled her to angle one final glance over her shoulder.

Trevelyan was doing the same. His dark, handsome profile was bent, his gaze—once again—on her hands. This time, there were no gloves to impede his view, to show him plainly that he was wrong.

There was no ring on Isobel’s finger.