Page 43 of The Lover’s Eye

Isobel loved heat in all its forms. The comfort of a warm wrapper or quilt, the seeping bloom of sunlight through her clothes, the radiant welcome of a fire.

But as she inserted her toes into a copper tub of scalding water, she thought she might appreciate the cleansing zing of a hot bath more than all the rest.

Betsey had cautioned her it might be too hot when she’d helped her undress a few minutes earlier, but she did not heed the warning.

She had specifically requested it to be scorching, and it did not disappoint as her body slinked lower into the tub.

She wanted to feel the discomfort of gooseflesh on her skin and see the ruddy glisten of it when she emerged.

No sooner than she had settled into the base of the tub than Giles knocked on their adjoining door. Isobel stilled, looking down at her naked flesh through the meagerly obscuring water. Betsey had put up a screen, at least.

“Come in,” she called. She heard the door opening, and readjusted herself in the water to raise her knees to her chest.

“Oh, my apologies,” he said from somewhere behind the screen. “I did not realize you were having a bath. I came only to tell you I will be down in the library for a while. I’ve some catching up to do. To hear Finch speak of it, you’d think we’d been gone half a year.”

Isobel smiled, though she knew her husband could not see it. “All right. Do not work too late.”

She heard him move back to the door, the handle flexing under his grasp. He seemed to hesitate.

“Is there something more?” Isobel called.

“Well, yes, but I wished to say it to your face, and I’ve chosen the least appropriate time for that. We can talk later tonight.”

She was itching to know what it was. Her eyes drifted down to the expanse of her flesh.

Why was she being so prudish? He was her husband, after all, and he had gotten to know every inch of her over the last few nights.

Why should it be so different for him to behold her in the light, freed from the barrier of sheets and shadow?

“Giles?”

The door eased back open. “Yes?”

“You may speak it to my face.”

“Now?”

Isobel smiled shyly, rubbing her lips together. “Yes, now.”

Slow steps padded across the carpet until Giles reached her, peering around one edge of the screen. He smiled a little bashfully before coming around it, positioning himself to face her. With what appeared to be a concentrated effort, he trained his eyes on hers.

“I only wanted to say,” he began, but paused to clear his throat. He looked as if he were about to conduct some parliamentary business with his ramrod straight posture and hands clasped behind his back.

“Yes?” Isobel asked. She found him positively adorable.

“Oh, dash it.” Giles began rolling up the cuffs of his shirtsleeves.

“What are you doing?” she laughed.

“I don’t want to lord over you. I want to look into your eyes and perhaps even steal a kiss,” he said, grinning mischievously down at her.

When he had finished with his sleeves, he crouched beside the tub, resting his forearms on the edge.

He stuck a forefinger into the water to test its temperature.

“Damn it Isobel!” he exclaimed, removing his hand and wiping it dry. “You’re going to burn your skin off! Who prepared this water? Do you need to step out until it cools?”

She laughed, a succession of little giggles impossible to repress.

“What?” Giles demanded, but he was now smiling, too.

“I’ve requested it this hot,” she said, finally. “I like it!”

He shook his head. “I didn’t know I’d married a madwoman.” He reached for her face, treading carefully as if to avoid the fire below, and sent Isobel into more giggles. She placed a hand, still dripping with water and even wafting with a bit of steam, to his cheek.

“Ow,” he crowed, but his smile didn’t falter. “I’ll have to provide ample punishment for that.” He pressed his cool, soft lips against her warm, wet ones.

“And how would you go about doing that?” she asked between smiling kisses.

“Do not forget that I’ve learnt your ticklish spot.”

Isobel let out a little gasp. “Oh, Giles, you wouldn’t dare!”

A devilish grin broadened his lips. “Oh, but dearest, I would .”

He began reaching his bare forearm deeper into the water, grimacing at the heat but not relenting as his fingers trailed along Isobel’s submerged body.

“Stop it!” she laughed, pushing his invading arm away and causing a good-sized splash that flecked his shirt and waistcoat with dark droplets.

“Later,” he said, winking.

Isobel leant up, crossing her arms on the brim of the tub and resting her chin on them. “My bath is going to get cold if you stay and distract me. What is it you’ve come to say?”

“I don’t think we’re in any danger of that,” he joked, but his face settled into a more serious expression. His blue eyes fixed on Isobel as if she were the only living creature in all the world. “I wanted to remind you that whatever that old gabster said today, you mustn’t believe her.”

Isobel gave a small nod. “I am all right.”

Giles cocked his head to one side. “There’s no need to lie. I’ve watched it affect you all day.”

She swallowed and looked away. Was she truly so easily read?

He put two fingers under her chin and turned her back toward him. “I need you to believe that she cannot hurt you. No one can, Isobel. It is you and I now, and I couldn’t be happier for it. Do you understand?”

She nodded with more tenacity, a little smile perking her lips.

“Excellent.” He planted a long kiss on her mouth. “I will see you later tonight, perhaps?”

“Yes, you shall.”

He began walking away, and Isobel called him back.

“Yes?”

“Thank you, Giles.”

Even after he had gone and the corridor had grown still with quiet, Isobel continued smiling, submerged up to her chin in water. She had a little fire of happiness burning within her now, a comfort far greater than any external luxuries.

She loved him. She was gripped by a desire to tell him—she need only wait for the right moment, the best words.

Isobel knew she needed to scrub her skin, to cleanse the dirt and grime of travel. She would feel better for it. But a sparkling blissfulness seemed to crown her head, allowing it to slacken against the copper tub. Perhaps if she just rested for a few minutes …

A knocking at her chamber door awoke Isobel with a start. The water that had soothed her was now cold and uncomfortable.

“Milady, may I come in?” Betsey asked on the other side of the door.

“Yes,” she called, grabbing the sponge.

Betsey entered the room with a large pail. “I thought you might be in want of some more hot water.”

“Oh, Betsey, you are a gem. I’m afraid I dozed off.”

The addition of hot water made the tub bearable again, the temperature tepid enough to calm Isobel’s freezing flesh.

“It’s no wonder, after all your travel. It’s not good for a young lady to be traipsing about so,” Betsey said with a maternal air, even though she was not much older than her charge.

“I will rest well tonight,” Isobel assured her, momentarily surprised by her own certainty. Giles had given her that, and she remembered he was waiting for her. “Betsey, is Giles still in the library?”

“Yes, milady.” The maid raised a brow. “Would you like me to return in a few minutes and help you prepare for bed?”

Isobel nodded enthusiastically. The cooling temperature of her bath, coupled with a great desire to see her husband, propelled her through the motions of her washing with haste.

She dried herself and slipped into a nightdress, and when Betsey returned, she plaited her freshly washed hair and massaged rosewater and almond cream into her skin.

She positioned herself by the fire with a book to wait on Giles. She was tempted to hurry him along, but didn’t want to incur more of Finch’s disapproval. But when half an hour had passed and her eyes started to grow hazy from yawning, Isobel stood and went to her husband’s chambers.

Her knocks were left unanswered, and she only found Smooch inside, chewing on a bit of repurposed rope tied with different sailing knots. The chocolate and white spaniel raised her pretty face at Isobel’s entrance, licking her mouth nervously.

“It’s all right, sweet Smooch,” Isobel said, crouching to let the dog sniff her hand. Smooch declined, turning her head away and looking toward the nearest door.

Isobel sighed. She had made little progress in befriending the dog, but at least Smooch did not run at the sight of her now. She gave her a few light strokes on the top of her head, but seeing Smooch look unnerved by each of them, she gave up and stood.

“Why aren’t you in the library with your papa?” she asked, realizing the oddity of it. Smooch rarely left Giles’s side when he was working.

She returned to her own room, putting on a warm dressing robe and slippers, and started down the corridor. She still didn’t want to risk Finch’s censure, but even seeing Giles reclined in his favorite chair would set her mind at ease.

After spending a few days away, Isobel was reminded anew how expansive and quiet Cambo House was. It was still enough to seem uninhabited altogether, until a servant happened to pass by or Smooch dropped one of her playthings down the stairs.

As she made her way down the corridor toward the library, the only sounds were those of her own slippers against the tile and the occasional settling creak or pop of the old building. The library doors were cracked open, and Isobel hesitated, catching the tenor of male voices from within.

“I would much rather you keep it,” Giles said. There was an unmistakable strain in his tone.

“No, I cannot. I understand if you do not wish to have it any longer, but perhaps it could be repurposed. It is of great value, to be sure.”

Isobel’s brain was itching to place the voice. It was a suave baritone, marked by a slight tremble. She heard the clink of metal as something changed hands. A key, perhaps?

She edged closer to the sliver of opening, adjusting her eye until she could see a pearl-rimmed pendant dangling from a gold chain. Giles held it, his visitor somewhere out of view.

“If you insist,” Giles said. His face contorted with something akin to agony.

“There is one other thing. I feel poorly even thinking of it, and I fear I will only feel worse for speaking it, but I must. You are the only one I can ask.”

Reverend Gouldsmith. Isobel recognized his voice now. She edged away from the door’s opening, her hand raising to her throat.

“You know Abigail,” said the vicar. “She has been with us since we moved here; she has been all but a mother to Aurelia. Well she … she has suspicions, Trevelyan.”

There it was again, the informal use of his name. It harkened back to an old intimacy between the two families that unsettled Isobel and stimulated that now familiar bud of jealousy in her breast.

“Reverend, I feel certain I cannot be of assistance to you, whatever the matter is.”

“Please. Please listen,” the vicar said, the turbulence in his voice growing more pronounced. “Abigail said there were … well, signs .”

“I do not understand,” Giles said coldly. She heard his footsteps and flattened against the wall, but it seemed he was walking farther into the room. His keys rattled, and the reverend talked on.

“I know I should not ask. I know it cannot change anything. But Trevelyan, was I going to be a grandfather? Did I not know it?”

Pain tore through his voice, and Isobel felt her knees gelatinize.

She gripped the doorframe with enough strength in her little fingers to support her weight.

She hadn’t given much credence to those rumors, but hearing the question come so honestly from Reverend Gouldsmith’s mouth, his evidence based upon fact …

Giles still had not answered, and the vicar continued, his voice growing desperate.

“I won’t be angry with you. Do not think that is my purpose.

I-I know my daughter was a passionate girl, and I know you loved each other very much—she took pains to tell me all the time.

So you see, I understand. It would not be unnatural—”

“Reverend,” Giles broke in. “I am terribly sorry for what happened to your daughter. She deserved far better. But I’m afraid this is all I can offer you. We mustn’t speak of this again.”

The hair on Isobel’s arms rose, a rushing chill like waking up in that cold bath. She itched to take another peek through the opening, but the vicar’s next words satisfied her curiosity.

“Oh. Oh, my. Her hair. You’ve kept it.”

If someone had levelled a punch to Isobel’s stomach, she could not have felt any more stunned, any more winded. A sob began climbing up her windpipe, constricting every muscle. She slipped away from the door, hoping her steps were quiet as she stumbled up the stairs and into her bedchamber.

The visions followed her. The look of anguish etched onto Giles’s features. The necklace being returned. And though she had not seen it, her mind provided an image of crystalline blonde hair.

There was no way she could continue fooling herself.

The keepsakes, the evident grief, the remembered profession of great love.

Giles did still feel something. Isobel had nearly convinced herself he was keeping secrets for her own benefit, to prevent things like this from poisoning her mind and giving root to doubt.

Now, she thought it must be because some of the rumors were true.

He had loved her first. He grieved her still. She had been in his bed, expecting his child.

Isobel was a woman of seconds.

Even as the ugly thought entered her mind, she beat her fist into her mattress.

She was wrong. It was wrong to feel this way.

Giles had a history, yes, but he had never denied that.

It did not make their marriage less. She realized then, in a sobering rush of truth, why her chest felt like it was splitting open.

Giles was not trusting her with all of himself. While Isobel had laid herself bare to him and fully fallen in love, Giles had been locking things away.

The blue room. A lock of hair. And, worst of all, a piece of his heart. He did not trust her with all of himself, and she ached to know him, to help ease his pain.

What was it she had said, when they lay tangled and breathless that first night together?

I am all yours.

She realized now that he had never said it back.