Page 9 of The Lover’s Eye

Isobel paced the stuffy drawing room, stifling a sneeze. If it had felt oppressive during the light of day, it certainly did now, with the curtains drawn and a fire blazing hotly in the grate. She fanned at her face with a hand.

She was surrounded by trinkets, unrelated stacks of books, and piles of decorative pillows.

The room would be a daunting one to clean properly, but rather than pity the housemaids, Isobel silently rebuked them.

It was all the skipped over dust and clutter that irritated her breathing now.

That, and of course the wait for the old physician to emerge from Marriane’s bedchamber.

Dr. Dunn had been with her sister a long time now. Too long for comfort, Isobel decided.

After getting Marriane to bed and pulling the bell with fervor to summon her lady’s maid, Isobel had rushed to find Pemberton. She found him in the same position, with boots atop his desk. The only difference was he had folded his thick hands over his waistcoat and begun to doze.

Isobel had raced down the length of the room without care. She cleared her throat loudly, asking, “Is there a local physician you can call for?”

When it did not awaken him, she glanced around in mounting fury.

She would do anything to avoid touching him to rouse him.

Ah , she thought upon seeing the cut glass decanter of brandy.

She popped the stopper on it, and at the first utterance of the sound, Pemberton was rising, wide-eyed and thirsty-looking.

“Marriane has taken ill again. She needs a physician at once.”

The tassels tangled as he sat down his booted feet. He took several seconds to comprehend Isobel’s words. “She especially asked me not to call on Dr. Dunn this time,” Pemberton had said at last, staring off.

This time.

That was the phrase Isobel thought of now, some hours later. It had taken her own urging, and an account of Marriane’s condition from her lady’s maid, to convince Pemberton to send for the local physician.

It pained Isobel to confront the undercurrent of those words, and the relative calm of everyone around her. Marriane was frequently ill. So much so, that those in close proximity to her had begun growing immune to it.

Her pace was interrupted by the tinkering of a door handle and the murmur of a male voice in the corridor. Dr. Dunn had just closed the door when Isobel rushed up to him, her chest heaving. She had not stopped moving since the incident on the stairs.

“Oh,” Dr. Dunn said, his wispy grey brows raising in unconcealed condescension. “And who might you be?”

“I am her sister, sir. How is she?”

A lopsided smile hitched the old physician’s lips. “All is well. Certainly nothing for you to worry about, miss. I think it would be best if you got some rest, as well.”

He started for the stairs. Isobel felt momentarily pulled between her sister’s door and Dr. Dunn’s receding back. It was clear he did not wish to share his findings with her, but could she trust Marriane to?

“Excuse me, sir.” Isobel edged neatly in front of him, lifting her chin in feigned confidence. “I require knowledge of my sister’s condition, as I have come all the way from Cumberland to be satisfied that she is well.”

The sympathetic smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. In its place, a sneer formed among the white-whiskered folds of Dr. Dunn’s face. “Then you may take it up with his lordship, who I am on my way to speak with right now. I beg your pardon.”

He sidled past her in a swift movement, leaving behind his unpleasant scent: the cloying floral of drugs, the staunch iron of blood.

Embarrassment gripped Isobel for an instant, but it was hastily usurped by indignation.

If only he knew how it was, she thought.

I am likely to care for her better than he or her husband will.

As she retreated down the hall, Isobel acknowledged the harsher truth.

Dr. Dunn probably could see ‘how it was’ , but had no care to spare.

He wouldn’t tell Isobel anything of value, anything that wasn’t a close cousin to ‘get some rest’.

No, in his eyes she was nothing more than a feeble-minded woman.

When Isobel eased open the door to Marriane’s room, she was confronted by near total darkness. Only one candle burned beside the fourposter bed, leaving most of the cavernous chamber shrouded in shadow.

Marriane lay among the billowing covers, her delicate profile silhouetted by the candle. Only now could Isobel see just how gaunt her cheeks had become.

“Marriane?” she murmured, moving to the edge of the bed and seeking out her sister’s hand. It was cold and did not return her squeeze. “How are you?”

Her eyes opened suddenly. They were black as coal in the weak light, simultaneously impassioned and unfeeling. Whatever lay beneath their wild openness was akin to pain, to fury. None of Marriane’s customary warmth or vivacity inhabited that gaze.

“It was so foolish to ask you here.”

Isobel swallowed. “Do you not wish me to be here?”

The eyes turned on her. They almost gave the impression of being two-dimensional, masterful brushstrokes that artfully depicted suffering. “What do you think ails me, sister?”

“I-I do not know.” Isobel shifted on the bed.

“You are not so green as all that. No, tell me. What do you think? I insist.”

Isobel reclaimed her hand. She knew her sister well enough to recognize the resolve in her voice; she had spent a lifetime heeding to it. Marriane expected an answer.

“Did you,” Isobel began, wetting her lips. “Lose a child?”

“See? Not as green as all that.” Marianne’s voice was unnervingly chipper, but each word was clipped close on her tongue. “Yes, Isobel. I lost a child. Another one.”

Isobel began to apologize, to ask Marriane if there was anything of benefit she could do, but was interrupted.

“I should be quite used to it by now. It’s a wonder, a true wonder, it frightened me so I had Martin write you.” Marriane laughed, the sound high and dripping with scorn. “I daresay I could have kept all three a secret from you, had you not shown up and had me running about the house.”

Marriane’s expression contorted. Her lips blanched and she squeezed her eyes closed. “What am I to do, Isobel? If I cannot give him a son, an heir? That is my only duty, the only thing I have to offer him, and I do not seem able—”

Her words fell apart in the same moment as her resolve. A wracking sob heaved her frail frame, and she clutched at Isobel with such fervor there was nothing to be done but hold her. The doctor’s scent clung to Marriane, and after long minutes, the laudanum he had administered pulled her under.

?

Trevelyan waited seven days to return the Ridgeway coach to Shoremoss Hall, and that space of time felt like weeks to Isobel.

Despite Marriane receiving a clean bill of health from the odious Dr. Dunn, she continued to be gripped by melancholia.

She picked at her food, bearing the meager forkfuls with a grimace.

All the expensive, well-placed rouge did nothing for the hollow cradles under her eyes, and Isobel often awoke in the small hours of morning to hear her sister already awake.

“When was the last time you made up a handkerchief?” Isobel asked, gesturing to the abandoned basket of needlework by the chintz sofa. The sisters were sitting in the drawing room, awaiting Trevelyan’s arrival.

“I don’t recall,” Marriane said. “It’s a worthless hobby.”

“No, it’s not, and you enjoy it. I’ve used the ones you embroidered for me so many times they’re growing threadbare. You do such beautiful work, Marriane. You should pick it up again.”

Marriane gave her a cutting glance. “I have duties, as a marchioness. One duty, really, and all my focus must be concentrated there.”

Isobel inched closer to her. “That may be, but that doesn’t mean you’ve become a new person. The things you enjoy still matter. You still matter.”

“I am a different person, Isobel. I’m a lady of duty. That’s what happens when you marry. You’ll see.”

Angry heat surged in Isobel. She didn’t want to ‘see’. If the prospect of marrying into the Sempill family wasn’t dispiriting enough on its own, observing the tense arrangement between Marriane and Pemberton was enough to make Isobel crave spinsterhood.

“Has he made you feel this way?” Isobel prompted. “Because I’ll not tolerate—”

“Of course he is dissatisfied!” Marriane hissed. “He’s given me everything: the fine gowns and jewelry, leave to redecorate anything I choose, all I desired that Papa could never afford. I haven’t been able to provide the one dratted thing—”

The appearance of a footman silenced her. “Pardon me, my lady. Lord Trevelyan has arrived; he’s below, with his lordship.”

Marriane craned her head around to view the mahogany mantel clock. “Excellent. There’s time enough to invite him to stay for dinner.” She rose, smoothing her fine muslin skirts. “Would you like to join me?”

“I believe I’ll remain here.”

Marriane left the room, the jewels clasped around her neck and pinned in her hair sparkling with the movement. Isobel heaved the sigh she’d been holding and began to massage her temples.

The blissful day she’d spent in Lord Trevelyan’s company felt long gone, along with her optimism that she could fix anything in her path.

He couldn’t know how afflicted Marriane truly was, and still he had not called at Shoremoss Hall once prior to now, and this was only an obligatory visit to deliver the coach.

Had he any real interest in courting her, he would have paid her more attention while she was seven miles away, and not sixty.

No, it was plain enough. Two people not often in society had been thrust together by chance, and delighted in the rarity of company and conversation— not each other. Just as she’d thought.

“He’s staying for dinner,” Marriane said, already speaking before she crossed the drawing room threshold. “Come, let’s pick out our best silks.”

Isobel smiled blinkingly.

Damn it .