Page 53 of The Lover’s Eye

Giles felt something cool and damp on his forehead, his cheek, his nose. He grumbled wordlessly, flipping over to lie on his stomach. The distinctive imprint of spaniel paws landed on his back then, claws scratching his shoulder blades.

“What the devil is it, Smooch?” he mumbled, bending his arm at an awkward angle to rub her.

The touch did not quiet her, though, and she continued prancing over him and panting in his ear.

Just enough reality sieved into Giles’s consciousness for him to realize Isobel was no longer in bed. He sat up.

Good God. Could that clock conceivably be right?

He jumped out of bed, tugging back a curtain.

Sunlight blinded him. Worse than that— afternoon sunlight, hot gold tempered by a heavy bed of clouds.

He couldn’t remember ever sleeping so long in his life.

His limbs were stiff, his neck achy, but he did feel surprisingly rejuvenated.

Though no doubt that had more to do with making amends with his wife than his slumber.

Giles stretched as he walked through to Isobel’s chamber. He smiled at the sight of her bed, unslept in, before noticing a small note on her pillow. He snatched it up, reading and rereading. He blinked at the closing line.

I love you.

He laughed in soft disbelief, in wonder. He did not realize he had lowered himself to the ground until Smooch rapidly circled him with a whimper. “What is it, girl?” He showed her the note. “Everything is going to be perfectly all right. See? Can you believe that?”

She loves me.

Smooch did not settle, even as Giles dressed and went downstairs. He figured it had been hours since Isobel left that note, and she had likely already returned home. But after not finding her in her usual places, Giles decided to tend to the gardens and await her return.

Finch appeared as he reached the portico doors, his dark eyes serious when he rose from his bow. “My lord, I should like to discuss a matter of importance with you.”

“Not now, Finch. Business can wait.” Giles had taken his first step outside when the butler’s voice stilled him.

“It is about her ladyship, sir. I’m afraid she may have put herself in danger.”

Giles turned back, his jaw tightening. “If this is some attempt to cause trouble between us—” His sentence trailed when he met Finch’s gaze. His heart went with it, sinking like a stone to the pit of his stomach. “What? What is it? What’s happened?”

The butler stepped nearer, lowering his voice to confidential tones.

“Forgive me, sir, for I know it is not my place to speculate, but I have reason to believe her ladyship is not at Shoremoss Hall as she said.” He paused, breathing noisily.

“She went to the kitchens, sir, asking after tide times and gathering a parcel of spices. And when the coachman took her to Shoremoss, she requested he leave her at the gates, sir, and not return there until seven.”

Smooch was jumping on Giles’s legs, scratching and whimpering. The room seemed to lilt in his vision, the same disembodied feeling he got after drinking his father’s old whiskey. Surely she hadn’t gone to that blasted island. It didn’t make sense. Not unless …

She suspected the whole truth.

“Finch,” he blurted out, leaning on the open door for support. “Have my horse brought around. Now!”

?

The old woman, who refused to give a name for herself, looked more commonplace within the shadow of the shack.

She and Isobel sat across from one another with only a smoky fire for company.

Drying herbs and necklaces of variegated beads dangled from the warped rafters, flexing when gusts of wind found purchase between cracks in the walls.

The green eyes fixed on Isobel’s bursting reticule, and she found the courage to speak. “Did Aurelia Gouldsmith come to you, wanting to rid herself of a child?”

“Yes. Twice. First time she come, she didn’t have no payment. I offered to make the tonic in exchange for ’er gold necklace—tonics don’t come so cheap as talk, y’see—but she refused. Said ’er lover would notice it gone an’ start askin’ questions. Wanted it real quiet, see.”

The old woman sighed when she met Isobel’s hungry gaze, and reluctantly continued. “When she come back, she were in a desperate way. She was ready to give me ’er necklace then, I say!”

Isobel’s brows pinched together. “What changed?”

“Said ’er lover had got wind of ’er plan to be rid o’ the babe. He was plannin’ to keep ’er under watch an’ guard to prevent ’er comin’ back to me.”

“So that second visit, you gave her the tonic?” Isobel’s pulse was thunderous, settling deep in her temples. The temperature of the shack seemed to be ever rising.

“No—I’m no’ God, now, am I? Tonics take time and preparin’. I told her as I needed two nights to make it up. She said she hadn’t the time. She were in a frightful way, couldn’t keep still for nothin’. I warned her o’ the risin’ tide, but she didn’t care to listen.”

Gooseflesh raced over Isobel’s skin, even as she burned up with heat. “Sh-She drowned. Did you know that?”

The old woman didn’t flinch, but stayed molded against her creaky, woven chair. “Aye. From the vicar. He come, book in hand, havin’ a fit for answers. But he don’t pay witches, and I don’t talk without payment. I run ’im off.”

“When you say … her lover,” Isobel said, her fingers twining around the reticule, “you mean the father of her child?”

“’Course.”

“And that man—that man was not Giles Trevelyan?”

“No. She said it weren’t her betrothed a’givin’ her trouble. She liked him well enough. Her lover t’were some other man of high birth. Married man, she said.”

A high-pitched whistle started somewhere deep in Isobel’s ears. She put a palm to her forehead and found it slick with sweat. “Do you know his name?”

The old woman’s jaw worked as she thought, the pointed chin moving idly.

“Can’t call it up, as it were. Perhaps if I was to hear it …

The missy was frightful nervy when she was here, a lookin’ over her shoulder all the time.

I asked ’er who she expected to follow her as far, and she says her lover was a seaman—”

“Pemberton?” Isobel interrupted. Her voice was wispy, broken, her eyes burning ferociously as salty perspiration trailed through her lashes. “Lord Martin Pemberton, t-the Marquess of Whitburn?”

“That’s it.” The old woman’s cool, roving eyes sharpened. “Say, are you ’is wife? I don’t want no trouble!”

Isobel was already standing, the room fading in and out of shadow. She took a step forward and her foot caught on a chair, toppling it over. “No. No, I’m not. T-Thank you for your help.” She thrust the reticule out, and an invisible hand jerked it from her wrist.

“You’re not leavin’, are ye?”

Isobel had already reached the door and opened it. She paused to lean on it, trying to draw in the cool sea air, but her breaths came in short, desperate pants.

“I wouldn’t,” said the woman. “You’ve waited too long. The sea will be comin’ in. Comin’ in …”

Isobel squinted, peering skyward. The sun had made a considerable descent, the mask of grey clouds darkened by several shades. “I must go,” she said.

The older woman shook her head. She wasn’t looking at Isobel anymore, but cradling the little culinary wonders in her hand, raking them over the deep lines of her palm and rocking in her chair. “You’ll never make it.”

Isobel stumbled out of the shack and toward the sea, the discomforts of her initial journey descending like mist. The soles of her feet stung and the burn on her leg chafed, even against the softness of her skirts.

The force of pain served only one benefit: it cleared the fog from her head, which had pushed her near to fainting.

Her mind was split into two halves. She wanted to thrash Giles for keeping such a secret from her, for being in some way complicit in Pemberton’s disgusting behavior toward her sister and Aurelia.

And yet, the other half would give anything to be back in Giles’s arms. To set all to rights.

She knew his heart, knew there must be more— and she would make him unearth it all.

She loved him, damn it, and she was going to tell him to his face.

Energy coursed through her veins as she reached the island’s shores. The stretch of seabed connecting her to the mainland was still visible, not yet interrupted by the sea—but the lapping edges had drawn closer. Much closer.

She swallowed, gathering her skirts in her hands and setting out with a fresh wave of determination. She had made the passage once, she could make it again.

Before one foot could sink in the mud, she was already fighting against the suction of the last step, propelling herself ever farther. No matter the hungry ache in her belly or the tiredness that had finally begun to engulf her after so many nights of poor sleep, she would manage.

She tried to wipe her mind clean of fear, filling it instead with thoughts of her husband, of all they would do differently now.

He had been right, when he said it was not Aurelia pushing them apart.

It had been themselves—their mingling insecurities and fears and perceived shortcomings.

They had allowed their minds to concoct grand threats to their love; threats that never were.

Isobel’s thoughts were interrupted by the slosh of water.

The tide was coming in, and fast. Under the darkening sky, the sea looked brackish, lined with ripples and foaming as it submerged the rich brown sand beneath her feet.

Isobel yanked her gaze up to assess the distance between herself and dry land. She couldn’t be much above halfway.

Panic began to set in as she trudged forward with even more force than before, now having to tread shallow water in addition to the greedy seabed.

She had all the mental strength required to complete her journey, but her legs scalded with fatigue, only allowing her to go so fast, every muscle on fire from endless exertion.

She started ripping up the hem of her skirt and petticoat, never stopping her forward motion.

She needed to rid herself of as much baggage as possible.

She had forgotten her bonnet on the island, but was forced to drop her boots and stockings now.

The thin fabric of her garments tore easily, leaving her dress to hang in a ragged edge about her knees.

This. The burning lungs, the onslaught of terror. The sea possessed no mercy, lent no consideration. Her limbs moved with maximum effort, even as she cried out in horror at the insufficiency of them.

This was what Aurelia had felt.

Isobel had a vague blossoming of understanding deep in her core, like a bit of her soul was mending, separate from this urgent struggle for survival.

She had spent so much time hating this stranger, weaving comparisons and judgements, even blaming Aurelia for the barriers that existed in her and Giles’s marriage. She had been horribly wrong.

And now, Isobel was free.