The daylight was spreading across the countryside now, a strange purplish tint to the morning. The sense of unreality rushed back to her and she could almost believe she walked in a dream. A nightmare.
Isabella looked up as tiny, icy prickles touched her skin. She gave an incredulous laugh and held out her hand as the snowflakes melted against her skin. Well, she’d sunk as far as it was possible to go. God was laughing at her for sure, retribution for all her sins crashing down upon her head with the delicacy of a fragile white flake. At least there was no one around at this hour of the morning, no one else to witness her shame. There were plenty who would enjoy it, who would say she’d gotten what she deserved. Perhaps they were right?
Isabella had smiled whilst delivering such pretty, little insults. She had destroyed with barbed comments wrapped up in lace and sympathetic smiles. She had never been on the receiving end of such treatment herself, though. Even her mother had been honest in her criticism, though she saved her words for the privacy of their home. She’d never bothered softening the cut with false smiles.
Well, Isabella was done with it, done with all of them. There was at least a sense of freedom in her decision. For once, she would choose the path her life would take. Even if it was a dead end.
Now she had made her choice. There was no way out and nothing left for her. Her pride blazed too fierce to endure the humiliation of seeing the world laugh at her. Isabella would not suffer their pity and their sneers, their enjoyment at her downfall. So, she would end this herself, now, and hope that their consciences troubled them for a day or two. She harboured no illusions it would be any longer than that.
As Isabella picked up the heavy satin skirts of her dress, the fabric caught upon the frozen ground, tearing the luxurious satin, but she trudged on, uncaring. The skies lightened overhead, a new day dawning as the sun rose, and one that would set without her. She forced her weary body onwards, resigned, as she headed towards the river.
Chapter 2
“Wherein we meet an equally unlikely hero.”
“Henry.” Jack waited, knowing Henry would not answer him until he had finished his breakfast. He didn’t know why he bothered trying. Some stubborn sense of devilry that made him push the man’s limits, perhaps? Henry shovelled the last spoonful of porridge into his mouth and set the spoon down. He placed it with care, so it didn’t make a sound. The sound of metal clinking against pottery made the poor fellow twitch with anxiety. “Henry, why don’t you work inside today? It’s cold enough to freeze your balls off, lad.”
Henry shook his head, reaching for the heavy leather coat he wore. He looked like a wild thing to Jack’s eye. It was no wonder the locals called him the Bear of Barcham Wood. He was a huge man and sent fear into the hearts of those who saw him. It was a rare event for a poacher to set foot on his land. No one dared.
Jack had tried to get him to tidy up, to take care of his appearance. No matter how Jack nagged or wheedled, Henry didn’t care a damn for such things. Jack had even tried bribing him into shaving his beard, but to no avail. His work was all-consuming, and time spent doing anything else was time wasted.
“Are you going down to the badger’s set again?”
He got a nod this time. Henry wasn’t much for conversation. Jack had worried he might not speak again after his father died. It was eighteen months ago, now, since William Barbour had gone, and Henry seemed ever more detached. His interaction with the world had always been tenuous at the best. Now he seemed not to care that he was slipping away. Poor William’s last words had been to implore Jack to take care of Henry, and Jack had sworn an oath. Not that William had needed to ask. Henry was the closest thing Jack had ever had or would ever have to a son.
“Righty ho, then,” Jack replied, his tone jovial in the hope of gaining a smile at least. “I’ll bring you some lunch later, shall I?”
Henry didn’t answer, just picking up the bag that carried his supplies and slinging it over one massive shoulder. The hulking size of him was something that worried Jack a little as he himself got older. Henry’s father had been the kindest and most patient of men and the only one Henry had listened to. The lad’s temper was often uneven, though, increasingly so. Jack worried that when he died and left Henry alone … But what was the point in worrying? Jack was no spring chicken, but the reaper wasn’t knocking just yet. Fifty-five wasn’t so old.
Jack turned and looked at himself in the kitchen window. His reflection stared back at him against the white sky outside. His hair was black still … well, mostly.
“You come back if it snows, you hear me?” Jack hollered, following Henry down the gloomy corridor to the back door, both men’s heavy boots clumping and noisy upon the dusty marble tiles. Henry shut the door behind him with no comment and Jack sighed.
“Nice talking to you,” he muttered, before heading back to the kitchen to tidy up.
Barcham Place had once been one of the grandest houses around, well, apart from the Marquess of Winterbourne’s place. The marquess was one of their closest neighbours, and Longwold was something else again, a sprawling castle and centuries old. Henry’s home, Barcham Place, was Jacobean, built in the early seventeenth century by Henry’s ancestors. They’d been prosperous wool merchants and eager to show off their newfound status and wealth. Two hundred years later and the Barbour family had been one of the foremost names in the Cotswolds. Until Henry had arrived.
His mother had died giving birth, and his father, shattered by her loss, had put his heart and soul into Henry. It soon became clear that the boy was not like other lads, though. The boy didn’t laugh and play and join in games with others. Too quiet, he would study books or pictures or draw for hours without ever speaking or making eye contact with anyone else. He couldn’t abide people, either. His father and Jack were the two exceptions to that rule, though, even they seemed too much some days. If there were more than two other people in the room, Henry would become agitated until he upped and ran away.
William had cut the staff, instructing them not to enter certain rooms of the house so that his son could be left in peace. As Henry grew and grew and the staff found him increasingly odd … they left of their own accord.
William did not see the lad as odd, however. He thought him a gift from God, and Henry had a gift. From the time he could hold a pencil, his talents had been clear and astonishing. He would draw anything, and in such perfect detail, it took your breath away.
His paintings, however, had been the final straw for many of the staff.
Jack sighed as he sunk the dirty dishes into the hot soapy water. There was only him left now. The two of them rattling around in the vast house as the dust and cobwebs settled around them. They saw no one, and no one saw them. It was how Henry liked things, but it was no way for a young man to live. Though he was twenty-nine now; it wasn’t like he would ever marry. Still, there was little Jack could do. He didn’t have a way with Henry like his father had done, and Jack knew no one else would ever give him a chance. He was too outwardly intimidating, too strange. No one would take the time to figure him out, to realise that the man beneath the surface was actually shy and kind and thoughtful.
So, they existed here, bound together until one of them shuffled off. Jack had even wondered about finishing the lad off himself if he felt his own time was near. Might be kinder than leaving him all alone. Some fool would discover him and put him in an asylum, and he wouldn’t let that happen. Henry wasn’t mad, and he wasn’t a danger to anyone but himself … on the whole.
Jack looked up to see that the snow was falling already, fine white flakes dancing on the icy air. He’d have to make a good, thick soup and see if he could get it to Henry while it was still hot. Silly sod would freeze himself to death, otherwise.
***
Isabella stared at the water, her heart beating in her throat. How strange that now, when contemplating her own death, she had never felt more alive. The river was running fast and deep after the heavy rains of the past month. That
was lucky, at least. It would be quick.
She took off her pelisse and shoes and laid them down on the frosty ground, shivering as the cold and damp penetrated her stockinged feet. Was it odd that she wasn’t crying? She didn’t know, but she felt calm, fatalistic, perhaps. There was a sense of peace to her decision after so many weeks of fear and worry. At least it would be over. She admitted to a sense of satisfaction at doing this on her mother’s doorstep. She would go out with the maximum of scandal and her mother would have to endure it. Isabella would not fade away as she’d hoped. It was a small blow, perhaps, but it was something.
The water was so icy that she cried out as she stepped into it. Her skirts clung to her, tangling at her ankles. As she forced herself to move deeper, the fabric became heavier still, pulling her shoulders down as the satin soaked up the water. The river was to her knees now, the power of it tugging at her skirts, pushing at her legs. She imagined the moment of her death and closed her eyes as fear lanced through her. Isabella sucked in a deep breath, knowing that this was to be her last moment, meaning to step forward with her eyes shut tight … when the baby moved.
It was a fluttering sensation followed by a sudden kick, so startling that her eyes opened with surprise. She sucked in a breath, staring down. Without even thinking about it her hand went to her stomach, covering the place it had been felt. There was nothing more, but in that moment, everything changed.
The baby had been nothing more than a nightmare, a shadowy and unseen thing that was ruining her life and destroying any chance to escape the world she lived in. Yet despite all the evidence, it had not been real to her. It was a parasite, nothing more. She had never seen it as a living thing, as something that belonged to her. Yet now it did. This child was hers in a way nothing ever had been before. It was hers to protect and here she was, standing in the middle of an icy river and about to do away with them both.
The horror of her actions hit her hard and fast, and guilt and disgust were a weight far heavier than her shame and the world’s condemnation of it. Isabella wanted to live. She wanted to see her child. She wanted more than an ignominious end to a miserable life.
Her child would live a life far different than the miserable existence she had managed. They would succeed where she had failed. Not by inheriting a title or marrying a marquess, though. Their success would come from living to the full, it would come from happiness. It would be the knowledge that they were loved and cherished as she had never been.
How she was to achieve that in her current circumstances, she could not fathom. The determination she would achieve it was so strong that she could taste it.
Fear bubbled up in her chest as she tried to turn and found her skirts so heavy she couldn’t move. She tried to turn, forcing her body to push against the current when the rushing water and slippery stones beneath her feet conspired against her. Isabella screamed as her foot slid out from under her and the shock of hitting the water knocked the air from her lungs. Flailing and kicking, she surged along with the current, fighting to keep her head above water as she was rushed along like nothing more than a fallen leaf. Terror was absolute, a scrabbling, frantic, clawing desire to live forcing her to fight the current, even though she knew it was helpless. She had killed herself and her child, and it was by far the most wicked thing she’d ever done.
***
The spot by the badger’s set was one of Henry’s favourite places. He often came here at night to witness the animals in their habitat, snuffling about, searching for food and going about their daily rituals. They had become used to him as he sat still and quiet for hours at a time. That was something he was good at. But during the day this place belonged to him alone, and he enjoyed the view it gave. Here, he imagined he was the only person in the world, and that suited him fine. People were confusing, disturbing. He didn’t understand them, and they certainly didn’t understand him. Well, apart from his father. Father always knew the right thing to say, and the right time to say it. He knew when to keep quiet, which was even more important. He missed his father in a way he’d never missed anything before. His absence had left a dull ache that lived beneath his skin and wouldn’t leave him be.
He liked Jack, too. Not as much as his father, though. Henry pushed away the strange longing that grew now, curling about his heart. That longing had threatened to undo him. He clung to his peace by his fingertips.
Once, when he was very young, his father had taken him on a trip. Henry did not know where they had gone, but it had involved a sea voyage. A storm had blown up, out of nowhere, and Henry had never been more afraid in all his life. The seas had tossed the ship back and forth, throwing Henry from one side of his cabin to the other. Unable to endure the confines of the tiny room he had fled to the deck and had been swept overboard.
Terror had been absolute, the lack of control horrifying. His father said that it had been a miracle he’d been saved, yet someone had managed to get a rope about him and drag him to safety.
The nightmares of drowning, of a cruel and vicious sea, had lasted for years and sometimes resurfaced if he was upset or under pressure. He’d revisited them often in the weeks after his father had died.
There were other dreams, too, where he floated adrift, alone in a small boat. He didn’t mind those so much. When he worked, when his mind was caught up and filled with enthusiasm, his dreams and the sea stayed as calm as a millpond. Things that were wrong though, sounds that jarred him, a touch of something that was odd or unfamiliar, these things made his heart pound, his chest grow tight, and the remembered fear of those vast waves would crash down upon him until he feared he might drown.
Yet if the world around him stayed the same and nothing changed, then he could breathe. He could find peace. The seas remained calm. The weight of change, though, it would press down on him like water filling his lungs, chasing the air from his chest.
Here, out in the open, with the skies wide above him and the countryside full of life but devoid of people, here his heart beat slow and even.
Henry's pencil moved with precision, the faint sound of lead on paper just discernible as the breeze rustled dead leaves, and the sound of the river rushing filled his ears. Moss and lichen were Henry's current fascinations. He had drawn the same patch from every angle over the past days, but he never grew bored with it. The need to record it, just as it appeared and from every angle, was undeniable, irresistible. He was driven to record it in full before he could move on with a sense of satisfaction.
The bright, sulphur yellow of the lichen entranced him, vivid and acidic on such a dull day. The colour almost dazzled under the light of a white sky, like a tiny patch of summer sunlight trapped in the winter and stuck to a rock. Beside it, a cushiony patch of moss, luxurious and soft if he touched it with a fingertip. Henry liked soft things, silks and satins and bright colours. A bright ribbon, a piece of coloured glass, sunlight shining through a crystal glass, these things held the power to entrance him and hold him spellbound for hours.
The scream that rent the air made him drop his pad and pencil, the air sucked from his lungs. Henry sprang to his feet, furious with whoever had disturbed his peace. This was his place, his and the badgers. Whoever it was didn’t ought to be here. They had to go.
Then he looked at the river. There was someone down there, someone in the water. He caught his breath, the remembrance of being dragged down to the depths of a fathomless sea rushing to the forefront of his mind. Whoever was down there, they fought the waves, too, fighting to keep their head above water as Henry had, as he still did. The sudden sense of kinship was as strange as it was alarming.
Henry stared at the figure clinging to a broken branch, struggling to keep a hold as the torrent tried to snatch them back, dragging them down into the dark and chaos.
All at once his father’s voice sounded in his head, reminding him he could not just stand and watch another creature in pain. You must act, Henry, do not stand and observe. Take part in life.
He ran. Knowing
time grew short and that he must not fail, was exhilarating despite his fears. The desire to please his father added momentum as the figure clung to the branch. Henry heard the snap of twigs and the crunch of leaves under his boots, his breath harsh and urgent in his own ears. The water, when he reached it, sucked the air from his lungs as the cold burned his skin. Henry shrugged off his heavy coat, tossing it to the bank as he strode into the water.
He could see her now, desperation in her eyes. Those eyes glinted, a sudden flash of blue, as startling and intense as a kingfisher disappearing beneath the water. His last glimpse saw them, full of pleading as her grip failed and the water dragged her down. Henry gasped, he wanted to see that colour again. He lunged forward and swam after her, diving beneath the tumultuous water as his own fears seemed quiet for once. His fingers touched a billow of fabric and snatched hold, pulling her closer.
The struggle to pull her out left Henry panting and breathless as he dragged her from the current, yet he felt triumphant hauling his sodden prize to the bank. She was still and silent, and for a moment Henry feared his efforts had been too late to save her. He laid her down on the icy bank, relieved when he saw the slight movement of her chest. For a moment, he stared at her, dazzled. Her deep blue dress pleased him, the same shade as that fleeting glimpse of her eyes. Her hair was yellow, paler than the lichen, though the water darkened it now. It would be lighter once it dried. Henry reached out a tentative finger and touched her skin, sucking in a breath at the texture. So soft.
Although his hands shook with cold, his body racked by shivering and his teeth chattering so hard he had to force his jaw shut to still them, he longed for his paper and pencil. He wanted to draw her, to examine her from every angle, to study her. The desire to do so stole what little remained of his breath.
She stirred then, and he froze, a sense of exhilaration thrumming beneath his skin which was new and strange to him. He watched as she blinked and then turned on her side, coughing and coughing and retching river water. Henry held still, the same way he did when a wild thing came upon him at work. If he didn’t move they would stay, they would let him study them as they went about their lives.
Flaming June Page 2
