Page 50 of The Lover’s Eye

The vicarage was a healthy-looking establishment, constructed of asymmetrical stone and fat swaths of bulging mortar long since dried. Smoke rose out of the chimney, but skirted a sharp trail inland under the incessant sea breeze.

Isobel had followed Reverend Gouldsmith there, thankful for his relaxed pace, which allowed her to linger behind and support her falling bandage with a discreet hand.

The busiest part of the village was a stone’s throw away, but the vicarage and chapel gave the feeling of seclusion. They perched near land’s end, taking the brunt of the winds and absorbing the suffuse noise of the waves.

Looking at the chapel brought back bright memories of Giles and their wedding. Isobel’s guilt swelled. Again. She should be home with him, not traipsing about alone on the outskirts of the village.

Reverend Gouldsmith clamored up a beaten path from the beach to his home, resting a hand on his knee, which clicked loudly. “Here we are,” he said, extending his arm to let Isobel pass in front of him.

The vicarage’s wooden door opened with a brief, mouselike squeak, and she was ushered into warm darkness.

The humble parlor, with its low ceilings and closely set furniture, seemed to trap the warmth of the sun and the small fire burning in the grate.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in a room so comfortable after spending a cold month in the cavernous spaces of Cambo House, which defied every effort of heating.

“Please, make yourself comfortable, Lady Trevelyan,” Reverend Gouldsmith said, gesturing to a chair of overstuffed, faded cushions. “I shall inform Abigail of your arrival, and see to it that refreshment is prepared for you.”

“Thank you,” Isobel said, sinking into the chair with relief.

She had grown more tired than she realized, and her primal instincts were winning out.

No doubt she should have felt more ill at ease sitting in the vicarage parlor, but all she felt was comfort, and anticipation at the prospect of a meal.

A woman with a hunched back came into the room, walking on her toes. She had to sit in the chair across from Isobel to meet her eye.

“G’day there, my name’s Abigail. ’Tis a pleasure to meet you, Lady Trevelyan.” Isobel returned the warm greeting. “I’m afraid all I ’ave is some buns left from breakfast, and some pickled herring. If you don’t mind waitin’ on a proper supper—”

“Oh, please no,” Isobel interjected. “Do not trouble yourself. That sounds lovely, and I will surely have my husband worried if I stay long.”

Abigail bowed her head in assent. “Very well, milady. I’ll have it right out for you, and with some tea.” She made to stand, pushing firmly up off the chair arm.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Isobel said quietly. “Is there somewhere I might tidy up?” She was desperate to see how her leg was fairing and make use of a chamber pot.

“Certainly. Follow me, dear.”

Isobel was shown down a narrow passage and into a little room at the end of it.

A small bed had been made comfortable by layers of quilts and an assortment of lumpy pillows.

There was a little washstand with a chipped basin on it, a chest of drawers, and a writing desk with a scratched top.

The room faced the sea, and a series of small windows took full advantage of the fact.

Isobel walked up to them, peering out at the view.

Wild, grassy dunes rolled into the sea-bitten beach. Waves came in irregular but soothing patterns, leaving the sand a glistening charcoal in their wake. Beyond, she recognized the thin rise of sand out at sea; the island from Marriane’s Banbury story about the vicar and the witch.

She inched closer to the window, as if a few centimeters might make the difference in her being able to see some eerie woman miles out to sea, and her foot bumped the writing desk.

Isobel muttered an oath before she could remember where she was, and bent to pick up a paper that had whisked off the desk. A series of times had been scribbled in a feminine hand. She stared at them, but found no apparent order to the hours and minutes. Aurelia.

The name materialized in Isobel’s brain. Oh God. This was her room. Her desk, her writing, her paper. She thrust it on the desk and backed away.

Isobel hurried then, tidying her appearance and redressing her bandage.

The burn was a brighter shade of red than when she’d awoken that morning, and stung rebelliously as she wrapped it.

No doubt Dr. Dunn would never have given her leave to resume her walks, had he realized they were miles long treks on the moors and not gentle strolls through the garden.

Back in the parlor, Reverend Gouldsmith rose to greet her. There were spiced buns topped with caraway seeds, butter, and cold pickled herring laid out on a tray. Isobel watched as his freckle-spattered hand poured a cup of tea with total commanded steadiness.

Just one more reminder of the ladies luncheon. She winced.

“Is that an island off the coast?” Isobel asked, hoping to fill the silence and banish her own thoughts. “Does anyone travel there?”

A sympathetic smile drew out the vicar’s mouth. “Oh, yes. That island is quite the local legend, Lady Trevelyan. I have been there myself many times, but I don’t know that I’ll ever go back.”

“Oh?” Isobel took a long sip of tea. It was brewed stronger than she liked, but was so soothing against the dryness of her throat, she thought it the best cup she’d ever had. “Why is that?”

“There is a lost woman who lives there. I used to go and witness to her every sennight, but she threatened my life the last time.”

So Marriane hadn’t been lying.

“Though I cannot say I blame her. I was in a very troubled state of mind when I went to her,” he continued, pausing to scratch the back of his head. “I had just lost my daughter. I wanted answers, and gave no thought to the cost.”

Isobel munched on a bit of biscuit, little flakes breaking off so easily she struggled to consume it in a civilized fashion. Her curiosity was stirred, but she could think of no proper response, only hoping he would continue unprovoked.

“I found a list of times in Aurelia’s room, you see. The only sense I could make of them was tide times, as if she were noting when it was safe to cross the flats to the island. But I was far too harsh with the old woman, I’m afraid. I continued to press her when I should not have done.”

“That must be understandable,” Isobel said softly. “You were acting from a place of grief.”

The vicar’s eyes twinkled behind his spectacles. “No. It was a lapse in faith, but I am at peace now. I shall never have answers, nor do I need them.” His gaze was misty as it tilted toward the ceiling. “Seeing her in eternity will be enough.”

“Amen.”

Isobel jumped, not realizing Abigail had entered the room to replenish the tray. She reached for the silver cross hanging low on her bosom and clutched it in wrinkly hands.

“‘ For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away ,’” Reverend Gouldsmith quoted, giving a deep, unburdening sigh.

Isobel downed the remainder of her tea so hastily, the liquid bulged in her stomach.

?

Giles startled himself awake. His head had lolled until his chin rested upon his chest, and his neck ached righteously. In front of him, he saw an illegible word at the end of the document he had been working on, a stripe of ink trailing down the page, and …

A splatter of ink on his breeches.

He groaned, bending to retrieve the fallen pen before massaging the back of his neck roughly. This is my penance to pay for sleeping so poorly, he thought. The quieter part of his brain had more to say: it was also the cost of his guilty conscience.

Giles had regretted speaking to Isobel so harshly since the day they had fought. As soon as his temper cooled, he had been tempted to go to her. But what would he say? How could he lay rest to her fears?

He couldn’t tell her the whole truth. That much was for damn sure.

He had contemplated it deeply, fear and the possible outcomes haunting him in the small hours, but there was no way he could give her every answer without devastating her. And if he revealed only pieces of it, her existing curiosity would turn unquenchable.

The clock hands indicated midafternoon. Dr. Dunn had given Isobel a clean bill of health that morning, and Giles had heard her come downstairs, lingering outside of the library door. He ached to see her. Had prayed she would come to him, even. But she hadn’t.

They had been living like strangers for the last two days, and the strain was fast growing intolerable. He longed to restore the happiness they had found so effortlessly together. Laughter, and long walks. The nights, even longer.

Giles’s chest gave an aching twinge.

“Just go to her, you daft idiot,” he mumbled to himself, plunging up from his chair quickly enough to wake Smooch from her slumber.

He stalked up the stairs in long strides, taking two and three steps at a time until he reached her door. His soft knocks went unanswered. When he tried the handle, the door unlatched easily, revealing a vacant room.

“Oh, pardon me, my lord.”

Giles turned to see Betsey standing in the hall, holding a folded stack of linens. “I was just bringin’ these up for her ladyship,” she said, timidity drawing her eyes down. “I’ll return later.”

“Wait,” Giles called after her when she turned her back. “Where is she?”

Betsey’s lips thinned out, and she fidgeted in place. “I’m not sure, my lord. She said she was goin’ for a walk this mornin’, but I’ve not seen her since.”

He was walking past the maid before she finished speaking. He knew Finch had been ill tempered toward Isobel that morning. Why hadn’t he scolded him more fiercely? More importantly, why hadn’t he checked on her sooner?