Page 44 of The Lover’s Eye

When Giles entered his library, he was still wearing the traces of a smile—as well as the remaining evidence that he’d interrupted his wife’s bath. Finch’s obsidian eyes drifted to his water spattered front as soon as he crossed the threshold.

“I would like to make this a quick business, Finch. I’ve got other things I’d like to do this evening.”

“Yes, my lord,” Finch said, following Giles to his desk.

“Is this all of it?” Giles asked, flipping through the correspondence and papers awaiting him.

“All of the business matters, yes, but there is something else, my lord. Something I did not wish to mention in front of the lady.”

Giles raised a dark brow. “That’s her ladyship to you, Finch. What secretive affairs could there possibly be?”

“The reverend is coming to see you at eight.”

Giles’s hand connected with the table in a forceful smack. “Why the devil would you agree to such a meeting without first coming to me? Need I remind you I’ve travelled sixty miles today?”

“Yes, my lord, but he has come to Cambo House every day since you have been gone. I believe he thought to see you at Miss Gouldsmith’s funeral.”

“It would have been stranger for me to have been in attendance than not,” Giles growled. “I am a married man, and no one should expect me to let my wife travel alone.”

“He wishes to return a certain necklace to you, I believe.”

Giles sighed heavily, raising a hand to his temple. “Finch, do not ever let this happen again. I do not give a wit how good a friend Gouldsmith is to you; it is unacceptable for you to make such additions to my calendar without consulting me first.”

“Yes, my lord. I do apologize.”

Giles stared into the recalcitrant black eyes, and their pale, white-haired setting. If remorse lay there, he could not find it. He recalled Finch’s ambiguous interaction with Isobel which had unsettled her so, and figured no better time would arise to address it.

“Oh, and Finch? Do not ever speak of Aurelia to my wife.”

“I have not done—”

His voice went gelid, each syllable gutting. “Not so much as a hint.”

The butler nodded.

Giles made quick work of the estate matters, and Finch returned to announce Reverend Gouldsmith’s arrival just as the clock began chiming eight.

Giles wanted to turn the vicar away; he knew he possessed the authority to do so.

Yet the impulse seemed counterintuitive.

He needed to confront the man’s concerns directly, just as he’d done with the inquest. Each matter settled was a step further ahead, toward the future.

Reverend Gouldsmith entered the library with his hands tucked deep into his black pockets. His thin hair was wind rumpled, and a reddish swag shadowed the skin beneath his eyes. Giles did feel sympathy for him, just not in the way everyone assumed. He rose to greet his guest.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” the reverend said. “I’ll not trouble you long.”

“I trust all went well with the funeral proceedings?”

“Yes, yes, I just cannot believe the Lord has taken her so soon. I heard you were in Cumberland with your bride?”

“Yes. We’ve only returned this afternoon.” Giles was relieved when the hint was taken, and Reverend Gouldsmith removed a hand from his pocket. The blank lover’s eye necklace coiled in his palm, its smooth surface glaring up at Giles.

“The coroner told me you wished me to keep this, and while I appreciate your generosity, I cannot.”

“I would much rather you keep it,” Giles said.

“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.”

Reverend Gouldsmith placed it into Giles’s outstretched hand. The metal was unnervingly warm where it had been stowed in the vicar’s pocket. Giles switched to letting it dangle from his finger, wishing to touch it no more than necessary. “If you insist,” he said.

“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.”

Giles did not react. He did not want to give even the barest hint of encouragement to whatever might follow, for he felt a sick foreboding settling in his stomach.

“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.”

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

“Please. Please listen.” Reverend Gouldsmith moved a step nearer, his lower lip trembling as he spoke. “Abigail said there were … well, signs .”

“I do not understand,” Giles said, even though he was petrified that he might know perfectly well what accusations were about to be levelled against him.

He needed distraction, some reason to look away from those bloodshot eyes.

He strode over to the desk, unlocking the bottom drawer and dropping the necklace inside.

“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?”

Giles closed his eyes, exhaling a heavy breath. He could hear the tremor of tears in the vicar’s voice. He hated every damned thing about this. None of it was right. None of it was fair.

“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—”

Giles opened his eyes to see the lone lock of hair in the drawer. He picked it up and returned to the vicar’s side. “Reverend, 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.”

Reverend Gouldsmith took the keepsake and his face changed, as if he had found an unexpected pocket of peace. His shoulders sagged and he smiled tremulously. “Oh. Oh, my. Her hair. You’ve kept it.”

“It did not seem right to dispose of it, but as you know, sir, I am a married man. It is not a thing I should keep, nor do I want to.”

Far from seeming offended, the vicar nodded convulsively. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“Now if you will excuse me,” Giles said, angling a glance at the door. The vicar took the hint at once, heading for the exit and still cradling the lock of hair in his upturned palms. “And Reverend?”

He turned back.

“I hope you understand how harmful such talk can be. I ask, not for myself, but for my wife, that we allow these matters to stay fixed in the past.”

“Yes, Trevelyan. Of course.” With a bowed head, he left the room.

It took several minutes of sitting in silence for Giles to collect himself. The fact that six months of reclusiveness—and taking a wife— had not eased the pressure of the past was both dumfounding and infuriating. It felt like a shadow that he could not outrun.

From his seat behind the desk, Giles could still see the lover’s eye necklace spooled in the bottom of the open drawer.

He slammed it shut with his foot. He had a plan to divest himself of the bauble, and by God if that plan didn’t work, he would toss it into the sea himself, its worth in gold be damned.

Giles wound his way up to his bedchamber to bathe and prepare for bed. He was exhausted, both physically and mentally; the promise of finishing his night with Isobel was the only thing keeping him moving.

He was worried about her. She had been rattled by whatever gammon Lady Sempill had spewed, and he had every reason to believe it pertained to his prior engagement. He only hoped his reassurance had been enough to make her believe in his total loyalty to her.

By the time he got to Isobel’s chambers, Smooch reluctantly following at his heels and claiming a seat on the chaise, her candle had been blown out and her book set aside. She was curled up on her side, her face in shadow.

“I’m sorry I’m so late, darling,” Giles said, slipping into bed beside her. He was greeted by her warmth and her powdery rosy scent, and suddenly, he thought everything might be all right.

“Did you have a lot of business to attend to?” she asked, her voice muffled by the pillows.

He sighed, positioning his body next to hers and running his fingers up and down her arm. “Not overmuch. But anything that keeps me from you is more than I should like.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

“What took so much of your time, then?”

The trail of his fingers stuttered and slowed. He had a sudden, horrifying premonition that she might have learned of Reverend Gouldsmith’s visit. No, he reassured himself, she would tell me. She would be throwing pillows at my head—and rightfully so.

“Just the usual annoyances,” he said, settling in to sleep. It was not a daunting feat with her at his side. “Nothing to fret over. I’m where I need to be now.”

?

Isobel feigned sleep the next morning, burrowing her head in her pillow as Giles rose and kissed her cheek, returning to his own chambers.

She waited until the sounds of his washing and dressing ended, and then she launched out of bed, ringing for Betsey and ordering the carriage to be brought around.

“Where are you headed, my lady?” Betsey asked reprovingly. “You need to rest before enduring more travel. It’s not good for you, I say.”

“I am only going to Shoremoss to breakfast with my sister,” Isobel said, attempting to divert her head in the opposite direction of the maid, who moved around her adjusting the buttons and tassels of her gown.

She did not want anyone to see how puffy her face was, how bloodshot her eyes—least of all her husband.

Isobel knew if she saw him now, she would burst into the same gut-wrenching sobs of the night before. She needed a listening ear, even if she got the sharp sisterly tongue in response.