Wherefore Art Thou.

by Melanie Thurlow

  “Mrs. Banks, your protests fall on deaf ears. I shall see to the repairs at once.”

  Mrs. Banks merely shook her head as she smirked at Desmond in a maternal sort of way.

  “Worry not. I will keep Lady Isabelle quite entertained in your absence.”

  Desmond opened his mouth, and—fearing that he would readily accept Mrs. Banks’ offer to take her off of his hands—she jumped in with, “Oh, but I was so looking forward to keeping Lord Thornton company today, getting my hands dirty, even.”

  The absurd nature of the look Mrs. Banks gave her was followed by a smile and an, “Of course, my lady. But please do make yourself at home here if you feel even the faintest bit tired.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Banks,” Desmond put in.

  And as they strode away, heading towards the fields and the fences that needed mending, Isabelle knew she didn’t mistake what she heard Mrs. Banks cooing to her daughters. “What a lovely couple they make.”

  Nor did she mistake the girls’ reply on a sigh, “So in love.”

  What a joke.

  *****

  There was a line of sweat marking its way down the center of his spine. He could feel it making its merry way down to the waist of his trousers. Come to think of it—which he hadn’t thus far done—he was drenched in sweat. His damp shirt was clinging about his neck and shoulders, and with every stroke that he brought the mallet down on the post, his hair dripped as though it were raining.

  Desmond straightened, then arched backwards, stretching the muscles in his back, watching Isabelle.

  Isabelle.

  He fought the nerve to scoff.

  Making up a name merely to appease his tenants? And what happened when she regained her memory, and her name? What would she do then? It didn’t seem as though she had thought her plan through but, he conceded, it was probably for the best that she’d not stayed on the farm with the Banks’—who knows how much deeper she would have talked herself.

  She could make up fake names and pretend, but the reality of the matter was that who she was now was not reality. Not yet.

  Not that he much liked having his future wife out laboring in the fields beside him. His finances might not be in the best order, but there was a while yet before he had to have a lady using her hands for more than just pouring tea and sewing handkerchiefs.

  Though, if the need arose, she would make a fine field worker. As it was, she was doing a remarkable job digging holes for the fence posts. And she hadn’t thus far, in the hours of their work, complained, even though it was clear that she wanted to.

  He watched her wince silently, her face crumpling in on itself, as she drove the shovel into the ground. Desmond wiped his brow as she did it again, only this time she didn’t just wince. She hissed. And dropped the shovel in her hands.

  “What is it?” his hard tone asked as he closed the distance that stood between them.

  It wasn’t necessary for her to answer—as soon as she turned the palm of her hand up towards the sun, he could see the long splinter of wood sticking out of the crease in her thumb.

  “A splinter,” she said.

  “Here, let me,” Desmond said, taking her hand in his. She resisted for barely a second, before relenting control to him. He tipped and tilted her hand, this way and that, before pinching the end of the splinter and pulling it out, straight and fast.

  She didn’t make a sound, but Desmond knew the ache of a splinter. He leaned down and brought her hand to his mouth—at which she did try to pull back. “This helps,” he explained, moistening the spot with his spit and then gently massaging the skin with his thumbs.

  “Better?” Desmond asked, looking up at her through his brows.

  “A bit,” she choked, looking down on him with wide, wild eyes.

  “Good. Now sit down. You need to rest.”

  “I’m fine,” she defended. “I can still work.”

  Well, this was getting him nowhere. He was going to have to fall on a sword that was not his own. “I need a break, and I cannot tolerate you working while I sit on my haunches. Imagine if someone were to pass by? It would make me look like an indolent aristocrat.”

  “I think anyone would have a hard time believing that about you, Desmond,” she said. It was not with great feeling, but her calm voice and placid expression were honest.

  Desmond. She’d taken to calling him that, and he wasn’t certain he liked it. He certainly didn’t approve. He’d given her his name to use, but the sound of it on her tongue…

  He momentarily closed his eyes.

  She was young, without a chaperone, and practically missing half her brain, he should keep as much distance between them as possible. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that, to tell her to call him by his title instead of his name.

  Blessedly, Isabelle sat beside him in the tall grass without further protest.

  It felt like a minor achievement.

  Then, nodding toward their work, she asked, “Why do you do all this, anyways? Where is Mr. Banks? Shouldn’t he be repairing these fences himself?”

  “Mr. Banks passed on several years ago,” he explained.

  “And you allowed his family to stay here anyways?”

  “Well, not me. My steward. After the quick, and unexpected, death of my aunt and uncle four years ago, I returned to England just long enough to accede the title and give my steward complete control over the estate while I was away.”

  He recalled the time like it was yesterday. No one had known how to find him. He’d been released from his imprisonment in France and he’d taken off. He’d needed to be alone. And so he sought to travel the globe. He’d been in India when one of the men his uncle’s steward had hired found him and related the news of the death of the Earl, his uncle taken from life at the age of fifty-three by a heart weakened by fever. And by the time he’d journeyed back to England, the Countess had passed as well.

  There’d been no welcoming ceremony when he’d quietly returned home all those years ago, merely two more headstones in the earth to keep him company. And he couldn’t stay. By that time it had been four years since his release, but he’d still felt trapped. He’d known since before he’d purchased an officer’s commission in the King’s army that he would eventually inherit the title of his deceased father’s brother, but he was not prepared. Not mentally. There was too much pain he had suffered, too much guilt and regret. He’d seen too much loss. And he couldn’t bear the constant reminder of another. Couldn’t live in his ancestor’s home and know that he was the last limb remaining on their family tree.

  And so, he had left. He had left and neglected his title and ignored his responsibilities. Now the earldom was insolvent, and it was yet another thing he had to add to his guilt and regret.

  He shook his head, shaking off the past, and continued, “It’s not conventional, but Mrs. Banks and her daughters are hard workers and have tended the land well in the years since her husband’s passing.”

  “I see,” she answered thoughtfully. “But why do you do it? Why not hire it out? Aren’t gentleman supposed to be, I don’t know, less coarse?”

  The question burrowed its way under his skin and pricked his nerve. “Huh,” Desmond scoffed to mask his affront. “You think me coarse?”

  “You don’t?” she asked, looking up at him directly. Her eyebrows were synched in a quizzical manner that was most attractive, and intriguing.

  Looking at her, he realized she didn’t mean it as an insult, but an observation. He read it in her eyes. She was trying to get to know him. He didn’t know why. He hardly wanted to know him. Settling down, he answered, “I suppose you are correct. I am coarse.”

  Of course, he knew that already. Life had made him this way long ago. It wasn’t any surprise. And yet, the knowledge of it still weighed heavily.

  He wasn’t born to be a master, an earl. He wasn’t born for greatness. But he had inherited it from his father’s brother. Desmond was born a mere mister, and now he was an earl, an
d here he was toiling in the fields like a hired hand.

  “But why?” she asked. “Do you not want to be a proper gentleman?”

  The question hit him like a loaded gun.

  Desmond squinted out towards the horizon. “That’s no longer an option,” he said.

  “Is it because of the war?” Her words were soft, delicate. They made the muscles surrounding his heart squeeze. The sensation made it difficult to breathe.

  He turned to her to find her eyes, once light, now clearly reflecting the crisp, cloudless sky above them.

  He exhaled through parted lips as his jaw slackened.

  She was merely supposed to become his wife, not anything more. But perhaps that was impossible. Her manner and her looks were almost an impossible mixture. So maybe it wasn’t so surprising that, despite his own coarseness, he was touched by her intelligence, her honesty, her kindness.

  Perhaps it wasn’t impossible for them to find love between each other.

  But that thought was ridiculous. Of course he knew that finding love, being in love, was not impossible. But he knew just as well that love had no place in his life. Love made life more complicated. And his was complicated enough.

  But…

  There could be no buts.

  He tried to answer her question, but he couldn’t find words. His eyes shifted away from her until hers did the same, then he slid his eyes back up to stare at her profile.

  She had long since discarded her bonnet, and Desmond was more than momentarily distracted by her windblown hair whipping around her face. The color was intriguing. It made her look rich. Gold did that. She could be the homeliest girl and she would look like a thousand pounds because of that hair.

  Of course, she was as far from homely as anyone could be.

  Everything about her was perfect. All the way down to her stoic work ethic.

  He swallowed, feeling suddenly an electricity in the air that he was quite certain had not been there before, an electricity that made him feel just a bit less steady.

  He breathed out a beleaguered sigh that had her turning her head, the same question in her eyes that she did not give voice to repeat.

  “Because of a lot of things,” he finally answered.

  Then breaking the tension, and hoping to stomp out any further inquiries, Desmond dug into the basket, pulling out the sandwiches Cook had prepared, as Isabelle inspected the palms of her hands. The fabric she had wrapped around them earlier hadn’t had much of an effect and the skin had bubbled into painful red blisters. Still, she didn’t complain.

  Desmond admired that.

  “You should head back to the farm.” It was more than a suggestion. It wasn’t meant to be left up for debate—especially not refusal. “Mrs. Banks will no doubt have a remedy for healing blisters and hot tea for refreshment.”

  “I don’t mind staying.”

  “Isabelle,” he said, realizing quickly just how easily the false name rolled off his tongue, and just how well it fit her. “You should go. I can finish here.”

  “But you will finish faster with my help,” she said.

  Her voice, it was so sweet that he wished he could liquefy it and put it in a cup. One sip of its pureness and surely any man would fall madly in love.

  Not that he wanted to fall in love. Not that he was in love.

  Only that it was entirely possible that, if he were to fall in love, she wouldn’t be such a bad one to choose to fall for.

  All those people that fell stupidly in love, drank the poison and died slowly in a marriage that was rushed, not entered into with a clear head, were fools. Desmond shook his head. Fools, the lot of them. It was entirely possible to choose whether or not to love, and with whom to love. It just took a clear and sensible head, and a practical heart that knew it’s limitations.

  But if his head wasn’t clear, wasn’t sensible, he’d have fallen for her in an instant. The moment that his carriage struck her, his heart too would have been struck.

  Luckily, his head was clear and he maintained his sensibility.

  It was merely a momentary weakness.

  It wasn’t anything more.

  Her beauty and her character were not merely traits, but facts. And he was a man—he could not pretend he was not at least somewhat affected.

  “Very well,” he heard himself say through the muddle of his thoughts that served as distraction.

  She could stay. She could work. She could blister and bleed, and he would prove to himself that he didn’t care.

  Because he didn’t.

  He didn’t care.

  And he certainly didn’t love her.

  Chapter 21

  The cart had barely come to a stop before Isabelle jumped down and ran to the shelter of the greenery in an attempt to disguise the fact that her lunch was begging to be chewed again.

  Isabelle stumbled into a thatch of trees. She was going to be sick, and the last thing she intended on doing was vomiting in front of the man that was to someday be her husband. He wouldn’t be her anything if he knew why it was she was going to be sick. And it was far easier not to answer any questions if Desmond didn’t know to ask them.

  She made it no more than a dozen feet before she could hold back no longer. It felt like her insides had exploded as the acidic mixture sprayed out of her mouth. She placed her hands on her knees. She had not the strength to care about her hair or her skirts or her shoes. She couldn’t think beyond ridding her body of this awful poison that started in her belly and burned its way upward, making her cry.

  She remained in just that position for several moments, even after the entirety of her stomach’s contents had been regurgitated.

  When she stood, she felt the pressure that she hadn’t before noticed on her shoulder. It was very definitely a hand. A man’s hand. Desmond’s, to be exact. As she straightened, he held out a handkerchief which she readily accepted. It wasn’t well-mannered to blow one’s nose in front of anybody—and certainly not in front of a gentleman—but under the current circumstances it really couldn’t be helped.

  It felt like her nose was on fire. And anyone who had ever felt that horrid, burning sensation before would understand entirely and take exception to her lack of decorum in the moment.

  “Are you unwell?” Desmond asked, concern lacing every syllable.

  “Just a bit jostled by the ride, is all. No need to worry. I am better now,” she answered as decorously as was possible considering he had just witnessed her expelling the contents of her stomach. Twice in as many days.

  It was only a matter of time before he put two and two together and came up with the answer. That she was with child.

  Isabelle ran her hands through her hair, hopeful that she could rub away her thoughts, and the truth along with them. She paused mid-way. Her hair was dry. Fancy that.

  She turned to Desmond who was staring at her intently.

  He had held her hair.

  She bit back a sigh at the loveliness in the gesture.

  It was thanks to him that not a single strand was covered in the putrid bile that now covered the ground, and her shoes.

  And despite all that, despite the acidic taste on her tongue and the dissipating nausea, all she could feel was the tingling of the air between and around them. She could feel it as though it were almost a physical force, trying to pull her to him. And she wanted to go, wanted to let go and let the gravity of them guide her.

  But Desmond stopped her advance before she started. “As soon as we’re back to the house and you’re in bed, I’m sending for the doctor.”

  Her first response wanted naturally to be a distinct refusal, but wisdom won over tongue. He was man of logic—emotions would not break through his barrier.

  “Desmond,” she said, tilting her head up to him, her eyes flirtatious, lips puckering. She took a step toward him and placed a delicate hand on his arm, looking down at their juncture, before once again meeting his gaze. “It is most unnecessary. I am perfectly well. I was merely a bit queasy
from the jostling. Besides, you were probably right, I should not have come out today. I am still recovering after all, and overexerting myself will do me no benefit, neither physically nor mentally. Please accept my firm apology, and please do not trouble sending for a doctor. It would be a wasted expense as my illness is not an illness at all, merely fatigue brought on by my own foolishness.”

  She held steady under his gaze as she waited for his reply, for his swift rebuttal.

  You won’t say, “No,” she willed.

  “Very well,” he agreed.

  “Thank you,” she said to him before she noticed where they were. “Oh,” Isabelle gasped. “Where are we?”

  The little thatch of trees she had wandered through broke away just feet before her, revealing a rather enchanting spring.

  “Ah, you’ve discovered my secret.”

  “Is it a secret? I do apologize,” she said deferentially.

  “No one knows about it but I. Well, no one that I know of knows about it. Except, now, for you.”

  “Well, it’s a secret wasted upon me. I know not how to swim.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t believe I do. Obviously, I can’t be sure, however, it seems like something a person would remember.”

  “You’ll have to learn then,” he murmured.

  “Would you teach me?” she asked, turning to him, unable contain the excitement in the exclamation.

  She felt confined in so many ways. It wasn’t because of the stays she wore, or because of her pale skin or weak muscles which made a hard day’s labor nearly impossible to endure. It was that she couldn’t remember who she was or where she was going. She liked Desmond, but she hadn’t picked him. Would she have done so had she had the choice?

  And with all of this confinement that she felt, she felt like chasing whatever bit of freedom she could. Even if it was merely the freedom of freeing her legs from the ground gravity insisted they walk upon.

  She could swim.

  “Could you teach me? Now?” she asked excitedly before he could breathe a word of answer.

  “It is getting rather late and, in your state, we really should be heading back,” he said, but Isabelle was already skipping toward the water, her previous woes of a fitful stomach all but forgotten.