Page 34 of The Lover’s Eye

Nothing could have prepared him for what lay there, spread out among the splintered mosaic of rocks glowing in shades of blue, slate, enamel, and rust. He had never seen a living thing reduced to such a state of decomposition, half-preserved by the icy waters of the North Sea and half-feasted upon by its inhabitants.

Still, Giles knew it was her.

Much of Aurelia had been lost to the sea, parts of her reduced to skeletal form, some of the delicate bones of her wrists and ankles missing altogether. Scraps of fabric still clung about her in a desperate plea for modesty, but swaths of exposed flesh hung grey-green toward the elements.

What was left of the garment matched the discolored, unnatural tone of her skin, as if it and she had merged with the seafloor, no longer belonging to the air-rich parts of earth.

Giles forced himself closer to her prostrate form.

He would be expected to analyze her position and condition for the inquest. If he could only gather the barest information, he could leave.

The boys had been right. A gold chain still hung around her fish-nibbled neck, the oval pendant lined with half-seed pearls, only one of which was missing. The necklace had been done in the style purportedly popularized by the Prince Regent: a lover’s eye. But only memory told Giles this.

A piece linen fabric was still secured behind the glass pane of the pendant, but the watercolor depiction of the eye had been wiped clean with the invasion of seawater.

It had been a seductive and daring piece, a means of displaying her affections while still maintaining a morsel of mystery.

Aurelia had adored it, and the memory of it around her neck, the pendant sometimes tucked beneath the neckline of her gown, twisted something in Giles’s stomach.

His gaze drifted sickly up her neck to her face. The lover’s eye was not the only one of its kind to be missing. He felt his stomach roil with nausea and stumbled away. Surely he had seen enough to play his role in the inquest, to swear the body’s identity was Aurelia’s.

He would have recognized the necklace anywhere, and the only part of her that had not been marred and disfigured by the sea was the patches of hair that still clung to her skull—still golden, cleansed by the waves that had delivered her to this private, hellish beach.

Giles returned to the ground and crawled out, attempting to tame his face into a mask of inscrutability. Pemberton’s eyes narrowed on him, however, and he knew he must not be fooling anyone. There was too much horror swirling beneath the surface for him to conceal it entirely.

Pemberton, Bellows, and Heppel took their turns in the sinkhole. No one spoke as they maneuvered to and from the scene, all aware of the tide inching ever nearer. Pemberton was the last to go in, and the coroner followed him. Together, the men returned with Aurelia’s body.

Giles looked away, the acid in his throat returning at the sight of her hair dripping and slinging from Pemberton’s arms.

“We must take her to the chapel,” the coroner said decisively, once the party had returned to their assortment of vehicles. “Are you all able to meet me at the Three Hens tomorrow morning?”

A collective nod stole around the group.

“Very well. I shall see each of you then, say ten o’clock. I daresay we’ll conclude this business before lunchtime.”

Giles did not feel he could breathe again until Mr. Heppel’s gig returned to the main road, where they travelled alone. Everyone else had headed in the direction of the village.

“Poor Reverend,” Mr. Heppel said with a sorrowful clucking noise. “Good man will be devastated.”

Giles did not reply. He, too, felt deeply sorry for the man, but was dealing with too great a shock of his own to have found his voice yet.

“I think he’s done so well all these months because he believed ’er to still be alive,” Heppel continued. “This will give him a shock. A downright shock.”

The gig continued into the night. Giles reached up to loosen his cravat and drew in a deep breath. He could feel the damp on his knees and coat sleeves, still smell the sharp brine on himself.

“Say, you said you got married today, Trevelyan?”

“Yes, sir, I did,” Giles replied, his voice sounding faraway. Even the thought of Isobel made him ache all over, as though he was running and running, but drawing no nearer his destination.

“Might I ask who the lucky lady is?”

The gates of Cambo House emerged out of the darkness and Mr. Heppel’s horse slowed to accommodate the turn. Giles felt a sliver of relief. “Miss Isobel Ridgeway, daughter of the Viscount Ridgeway of Kittwick.”

“How fine! I am pleased for you, good fellow. Do give her my apologies for stealin’ you away tonight. Perhaps me and my old lady can call on you soon and make introductions.”

“Yes, perhaps once she is settled.”

The gig stopped and Giles forced a pleasant farewell before striding up the stairs.

He wanted nothing more than to go to Isobel directly, to set their wedding night to rights—or, at the very least, assure himself of his good standing with her.

Most wives would consider it unforgivable for their husband to neglect them on their wedding night.

He desperately needed Isobel to understand he’d had no choice in the matter.

Before he could open the door, it was giving way before him. Finch stood behind it, his eyes black and questioning.

“Not now, Finch,” Giles said, fighting to remove his coat. “Is she waiting up for me?”

“I do not know, my lord,” Finch said evenly, taking the soiled garment.

Without another word, Giles strode off down the corridor and up the stairs. He didn’t see any light coming from beneath Isobel’s door and muttered an oath. Going into his own chambers, he found Smooch curled on the bed and his fire sputtering out of existence.

He cursed again. All his staff were no doubt occupied belowstairs, gossiping and speculating and flapping their jowls with mindless fodder. He almost wanted to ring for one of them, just to unleash a bit of his temper, but he did not. His focus lay with his wife.

He looked at the closed door that connected him to her, but forced himself to undress and wash with what water was in the basin.

It had long since grown cold, raising gooseflesh to his skin as he sponged himself clean.

He did not bother with the stubble increasing at his chin, but dressed in a clean shirt and drawers, throwing a warm wool banyan over his shoulders.

He tended to the fire, lingering on the hearth a moment to watch the flames lick high once more. He placed his hands on the warm mantelpiece, staring at the fastened door. Smooch raised her head and tilted it to one side.

“I know,” he whispered, moving to give the spaniel’s chocolate ears a caressing tousle. “I’m not sure what I’m waiting for, either.”

When he entered the dressing room, pale orange light rimmed Isobel’s door, just enough to indicate the low burn of a fire. Giles rapped gently, not wishing to frighten her. When there was no response, he repeated the action.

He must see her. Even if she was cross with him or already sleeping, he needed to lay eyes on her.

To assure himself that she was safe and attempt to tamp down the horrifying images that had thus far occupied their wedding night.

He wanted it to be Isobel’s sweet face populating his mind.

He wanted dreams of the future, not the past.

He opened the door softly. There was enough light for him to make out her form nestled in the fourposter bed. Giles approached cautiously, the silhouette of her body becoming clearer as he went.

“Isobel?” he whispered, gingerly placing the back of his hand on her shoulder. Her face was turned away from him, angled into the pillow. She did not respond.

He took a seat on the edge of the bed, adding his weight slowly, and traced his fingertips up the length of her arm, her neck, her earlobe, and along the ill-proportioned plait streaming across her pillow. When he drew his thumb to her cheek, he found it was hot and damp.

Did she cry herself to sleep?

Guilt gripped him with the force of an iron fist. His breath came thin as ribbon, his eyes stinging furiously.

On the table beside her bed lay the book he had given her and a handkerchief. He pressed his hand against it—cold and tear-soaked.

Giles, too, could have wept then. It would have taken little effort; unspent tears burned the inner corners of his eyes. He recalled the brightness in her eyes earlier that evening, the notes of timid, excited sensuality her voice had taken on. The blissful moments they had stolen in this very bed.

She had expected him tonight. Wanted him, even. No doubt she thought he’d failed her miserably. And even though he could not have prevented the night’s events, he was consumed by guilt.

He rose, bending to brush a featherlight kiss to her temple. He built up the fire on the grate, trying to make as little noise as possible as he added enough firewood to keep her warm until morning.

And then he left.

?

Isobel did not open her eyes when the door closed behind him. She waited minutes still, until she heard the settling of his body in his own bed. A pinch of regret stole her then, and she wondered if perhaps she should have pretended to awake to his soft touches.

But no. It was better if he thought she was capable of sleep. Besides, she was not ready to see him. What words could she utter that weren’t questions about Aurelia, the very topic she’d promised not to broach?

She was thoroughly incapable of pretending this was an ordinary wedding night. Her husband had received word that his original intended was well and truly dead. Washed up in Ceto’s Hole, that’s what Betsey had said.

Finch had come a short time later. “His lordship tasked me with informing you that he will not be up tonight.” His expression always erred on the side of unreadable, but something like smug satisfaction played at his lips as they formed the words.

After that, Isobel had not expected Giles to come to her at all. She could only assume he was comparing her to his first bride, choosing to mourn the love he’d lost rather than nurture something new.

Isobel thought of the heaps of praise that swam around Aurelia Gouldsmith’s name like mystical dust, lauding her beauty and charm. And that had been when society only assumed she was deceased. Now that she had been found …?

Isobel felt squeamish and burrowed more deeply beneath the counterpane.

She was grateful for the refreshed fire, at least, but Giles’s visit and acts of gentleness only confused her further.

Was he going to attempt to have it all? A marriage of substance with her, and yet never releasing the memory of his first love?

An ugly seed of jealously sprouted in Isobel. The first skirmish was over, and she had plainly lost to Aurelia.