There were dozens of Jack, and of Henry’s father. The spot she had visited with Henry, overlooking the river, also appeared over and again. The same scene appeared in every season, from lush spring green to stark snow and ice. There were others that disturbed her, and she covered her mouth with her hand to stop herself from crying out. Dead creatures, their rotten flesh seething with maggots, flies gathered at their glassy eyes, sat side by side with paintings of flowers and fruit. Bright pink dog roses called out to her, the paint vibrant and summery, their jaunty, joyful faces turned to a warm blue sky. The sight of it made her heart sing, remembering the warmth of a summer sun, their scent strong in her memory, though she’d only seen them in his work.
Isabella remembered what Jack had said then, that this was how Henry saw the world, with such vivid clarity. With regret, she realised she could not stay and look longer for fear of disturbing his work. Though she had long since accepted the genius of his talent, it was only now she understood. Henry was the painting, and the paintings were Henry. This was his mind at work, detailing what he saw, finding order and understanding in a world that often overwhelmed him. She blinked back tears at the idea that others might not understand him. The tales of the Bear of Barcham Wood had reached her ears, and she’d considered him mad and dangerous. A man who ought to be locked up. Now she felt no fear of him at all, but she feared for him.
Too afraid to stay any longer, she searched for the breakfast tray, finding it on a table halfway across the room, and untouched. She swallowed and sucked in a breath before moving forward to fetch it.
There wasn’t a great deal of room on the table top. Something covered every available surface of the room, paints and painting supplies, jars stuffed with brushes of every shape and size, canvases leaned against the tables, smaller ones stacked in towering piles. With difficulty, Isabella moved things about to find enough room for the plate of cakes, and then reached for the tray. As she moved, her elbow touched the edge of a small canvas, balanced against a jug full of brushes, and it clattered to the floor.
Isabella froze, her heart leaping to her throat as she sucked in a breath. Horrified, she turned, daring to look, to find Henry had turned to stare at her.
He was silent, blinking at her as though he’d just woken from a deep sleep. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, his beard grown thick once more.
Henry said nothing, just stared at her. Isabella found herself torn between apologising and running from the room without a word. She was too afraid to do either, and so the two of them stood frozen. She watched as Henry frowned and then rubbed a hand over his face. He looked back at her, a little surprised, but not displeased.
“Hello.”
As her heart was beating in her throat, it took Isabella several tries to reply to him.
“H-Hello, Henry,” she stammered. She licked her lips and then gestured to the plate she’d brought. “Jack’s gone to town and I … I thought you might be hungry, so I b-brought you some cakes. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she added in a rush. Her palms were sweaty, and she wiped them on the front of her dress, watching him for any signs of distress or anger.
Henry smiled.
“I like your cakes,” he said.
“Oh.” Isabella let out a breath of relief, pleased by his words. She watched as he set down his palette and brush and walked towards her to inspect her offering
“I’m so glad,” she said, and then hesitated, wondering if this was just the calm before the storm. “Henry,” she began, unsure of whether this was a good time. “I’m … I’m sorry I upset you.”
Henry paused, his hand hovering over the cakes. He didn’t look up at her, but shrugged, a guarded, rather troubled expression crossing his face.
“It’s true,” he said, his voice soft.
Isabella frowned, wondering what he meant, but wanting to take the sadness from his face. Henry ought to never be sad. The thought came from nowhere, but the truth of it settled in her heart.
“What’s true, Henry?” she asked, her voice soft as she moved closer to him. He took the plate of cakes and moved away from her. There was a bed, she noticed now, pushed against one wall. He settled himself there to eat the cakes, and she knew he wouldn’t answer unless she pressed him.
With a mixture of trepidation and determination, Isabella followed him, sitting at his side. At first, the impropriety of the situation alarmed her until she remembered they were married. That thought was both alarming and reassuring at once, and she wasn’t sure which bothered her most. Henry, however, was unhappy, and the sight of it tugged at her heart.
“Henry,” she said, getting no reaction from him. Taking a breath and her courage in her hands, she reached out as she’d seen Jack do, and put her hand to his face. His beard was soft beneath her touch as she forced him to turn to her.
“What’s true?” she asked again, keeping the words gentle.
Henry glanced at her, such sorrow in his eyes that her heart ached now. He looked down, unwilling to hold her gaze. “I …” he began, and then faltered. “I am ridiculous.”
Isabella had given out many insults in her days, some of them designed to cut to the quick. She spoke without care for the results, without bothering to consider the effect of her barbed comments. That she had said such a thing to Henry, though … She wanted to cut out her own tongue.
“Oh, Henry,” she said, blinking back tears now. “It isn’t true. Not at all. That was a wicked and terrible thing to say, and I’ve regretted it every second since.”
He looked up at her then, doubt shining in his eyes, and she placed her other hand upon his cheek, cradling his face between them both.
“Look at me,” she said, needing him to see the truth in her words. “I didn’t mean it. I was cross because I’m spoilt, and I wanted my own way. It’s me that’s ridiculous, Henry. Not you.”
She watched him, watched the worry leave his eyes, a tentative smile at his lips.
“You’re lovely, Isabella,” he said, his voice quiet. “I like you, very much.”
Isabella sucked in a breath, torn as her heart sang and her mind told her she was being idiotic. This could lead to no good, for either of them. Henry didn’t know what he was saying. Not in the way a husband would say it. She was a fool to believe otherwise.
“I like you, too, Henry.”
He beamed at her, such pleasure in his eyes she could not help but laugh.
“Now eat your cakes,” she said, a scolding tone to her voice as she tried to break the intimacy of the moment. “You must eat, you know. Jack and I have been so worried for you.”
He popped one whole cake into his mouth and turned to give her a quizzical look whilst he chewed.
“You have?” he asked, once he had devoured the cake.
“Of course,” she said, tutting at him. “You lock yourself in here for weeks on end, not seeing a soul, not sleeping, not eating. It’s bad for you. You’ll make yourself ill.”
He took another cake and chewed it. “These are good,” he mumbled with his mouth full before reaching for another. “It’s not been weeks,” he added, shaking his head as Isabella frowned at him.
“How long do you think it’s been, then?” she demanded, curious now.
He shrugged. “A few days,” he said, before popping another cake in his mouth and chewing with a contented expression.
“Henry!” Isabella exclaimed. “You’ve been shut in here for nineteen days.”
Henry turned to look at her, his expression wary. “I have?”
“You have,” she agreed, her voice stern as she reached out and tugged at his beard. “And you’ve not washed or shaved like you promised.”
Anxiety glittered in his eyes and Isabella was contrite at once. “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” she said, stroking his cheek until the fear left his expression. “I’m just worried for you, that’s all. I didn’t mean to scold you.”
Henry raised his hand, covering hers as he turned his face into her palm, closing his
eyes.
Isabella tried to squash the feeling that rose in her chest at the sight of her big, handsome, troubled husband, leaning into her caress. “You’re tired, Henry,” she whispered, wishing she could persuade him to rest. He looked grey with exhaustion. “Won’t you sleep for a while, please?”
He opened his eyes, glancing back at his painting and frowning.
“For me,” she added, wondering if that would mean anything to him.
His eyes flew back to hers, a considering look in his eyes.
“If you stay,” he said.
Isabella sat back, trying to remove her hand from his cheek, but Henry wouldn’t let her go. He lowered it from his face, but held it still, his thumb caressing her palm now.
“Stay while I sleep … please,” he said.
Isabella opened her mouth to refuse him, but the look in his eyes was irresistible. My word, even unshaven and unwashed, he was beautiful.
“Lay down, then,” she instructed, her tone business-like. There was no harm in watching over him whilst he slept if it would make him rest.
Henry stuffed the last cake in his mouth and set the plate down before reaching to pull off his boots. Isabella watched as he crawled up the bed and collapsed against the pillow with a sigh. She suspected he’d only just realised how tired he was. For a moment, she thought he’d fallen asleep the moment his head had touched the pillow, but then those dark eyes opened again, and he patted the spot beside him.
“Stay with me. You promised,” he added.
“I did not promise,” she retorted, amused that he would put words in her mouth.
“You’re going to stay, you said …” he began, sitting up again.
“All right, all right,” Isabella assured him, wondering what on earth she was doing. “But you stay on your side.”
Henry huffed a little, but appeared too tired to argue. “Be here when I wake up,” he mumbled, the words slurring as his eyes closed again.
Isabella settled herself beside him, feeling a smile curve over her mouth. “I promise.”
He gave a contented sigh and fell asleep in seconds.
She watched him for a long time, staring at him, listening to the steady sound of his breathing, watching the rise and fall of his broad chest. His hair, dirty and unkempt as it was, still showed a rich dark brown. His eyelashes, too, so thick he’d be the envy of every woman who would give their right arm for such luxuriant lashes. He looked peaceful in sleep, contented, his heavy limbs relaxed, one hand reaching across the bed, as if he held it out to her.
Isabella didn’t know what motivated her, why she did it, but she took his hand, entwining her fingers with his, and slept at his side.
Chapter 11
“Wherein a taste of happiness.”
Jack worried when he returned to find no sign of Isabella. That she’d left them already was a thought he found burrowed into his heart and wouldn’t let go. How ever would he break the news to Henry?
Yet it made no sense to him. Isabella was just weeks away from having her baby, she wouldn’t leave now. He’d believed her happy here, contented, at least. He didn’t doubt she wished life had dealt her a different hand, but in the circumstances, she didn’t seem miserable.
Then he discovered the cakes. These were perfect golden queen cakes. Well, well, the girl had taught herself how to cook. Jack felt a sudden rush of pride for her. She’d not given up, like he might have believed of a hoity-toity girl of her class. He took one and bit into it, savouring the delicate flavour of rose water and almonds, the juicy burst of the currents against the fluffy sponge. Heaven.
All at once, he knew where she’d gone. Oh, good Lord.
It was quiet outside Henry’s studio. Jack didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. He might find the whole place wrecked and Henry gone. With a deal of trepidation, he opened the door, and eased his way in.
It was dark, the evening having set in. The fires had long since burned out, as no one had attended them, but as far as he could see, nothing was out of place. There were no smashed bottles or canvases flung hither and yon.
With no expectation of finding him, Jack turned towards the bed and froze. Henry was there all right, and so was Isabella. Torn between curiosity and mortification, Jack moved a little closer. They were sleeping side by side, chaste as nuns, but Jack noted their hands linked, the fingers curled around each other.
“Well, I’m blowed,” he murmured, shaking his head and not knowing quite what to make of it. That Henry had feelings for the girl was clear enough, though Jack wondered if he understood what they meant. Not that Henry was too stupid to understand, only that he’d missed the period where young men found out about the fairer sex, isolated as he was. He was naïve in matters of the heart. Though he knew well enough, the mechanics of what happened between men and women. You couldn’t be that interested in nature and animals and not pick up a few clues.
He wondered if Isabella understood what she was playing with. If she thought to treat Henry like a child, or a brother, Jack suspected she’d be in for a shock.
Either way, there was little he could do about it. This hand would have to play out, and Jack would have to pick up the pieces if things didn’t turn out as he hoped.
***
Isabella woke to the flickering of candlelight and blinked, disorientated. Her nose cold, the air chill, though the rest of her felt warm under a thick layer of blankets. She smothered a yawn and hauled her heavy body upright. With a start, she realised she was sleeping in Henry’s bed, and as it was now dark out, she’d been there for hours. He must have put the blankets over her when he’d woken up.
Henry was painting again. The canvas blocked her view of him, but she could see his shadow cast from the blaze of candles around him. The desire to look at his work was tantalising, but she wouldn’t. Not until he invited her. She’d learned her lesson there. What was he painting, though? He’d sketched her with such fascination for so long, she’d assumed he was painting her, but for all she knew, it could be another of the disturbing pictures of dead things, or a still life. She had no idea. There was also the lingering sense of anxiety she might not like what she saw. The first drawings he’d done of her had showed her a side of herself she’d not liked at all. She wanted to leave that girl behind. At least that would be one good thing to come of her fall from grace.
As she considered her words, she wondered what she was thinking. There was more than one good thing to come out of her disgrace. She smoothed her hands over her stomach, still startled by just how large she’d grown. Jack had arranged a doctor to come and see her whilst Henry had shut himself away, and he’d assured her that it was a normal, healthy pregnancy. His manner, however, had been unpleasant. She knew he must know all the gossip about her, must know her circumstances. A man like that attending her during the birth filled her with horror and fear. She didn’t trust him. Jack said he was the best accoucheur in the area, though, and the nearest to them here. There weren’t a lot of choices open to her.
Isabella tugged one blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. The fires had been lit, but the heat hadn’t touched the cavernous space. With a surge of embarrassment, she realised that Jack had been in here, as Henry would never have thought to have lit them once he’d begun work again.
Emboldened by the fact he hadn’t lost his temper on discovering her in his studio, Isabella crept closer to the canvas. She peaked around the side, careful only to look at Henry, and not at his work. To her surprise, she found that he wasn’t painting, only staring at the picture with a critical eye. It took a moment for him to realise she was there, but when he did, the pleased smile he gave her stole her breath.
“You stayed,” he said, the words infused with such genuine happiness that Isabella experienced the strangest sense of belonging. No one had ever been so happy to have her company, just for the pleasure of being with her.
“I promised,” she said, and then caught her breath as her stomach tightened. For a momen
t it was like her body had turned to rock, the sensation frightening and painful.
Isabella cried out, reaching out to grasp for something to steady her and finding Henry, his strong arms supporting her.
She looked up, finding him watching her, quiet and calm, no sense of concern or fear in his eyes. It gave her courage.
“It will pass,” he said, the words so certain and reassuring that Isabella didn’t doubt him. Sure enough, the pain receded, and her stomach relaxed.
“How did you know?” she asked, staring at him, clutching at his arm even though the pain had gone. “How do you know it isn’t starting now?” The terror of that thought had her gasping for breath again.
“I’ve been reading about it,” he said, looking a little guarded now. “And I’ve watched animals, cats and mice, horses, they often seem to have pains long before the birth. It’s normal. Like practising.”
Isabella stared at him, unsure how she felt at being compared to a horse, but he was serious, sincere. She’d seen how single-minded he was first-hand, the intensity with which he studied. If Henry said this was a normal, then she believed him.
“Do you feel better now?” he asked, concern in his eyes, such warmth that Isabella could only stare at him for a moment before she found her tongue again.
“Yes,” she said, only now realising how intimate their position. One hand grasped his arm, the muscle hard and heavy beneath her fingers, the other rested on his chest. The steady beat of his heart thudded beneath her palm, the heat of him fierce through his shirt. It was only now she realised he’d washed and shaved, the clean scent of soap lingering. There was no sickly cologne, which she often found cloying and overpowering. He smelled clean, with a faint touch of linseed oil and paint, a familiar combination she now recognised as distinctly him.
Henry held her gaze for a moment, and then he knelt before her, reaching out a hand to her stomach. He paused, his hand suspended before she smiled at him and nodded her permission. Isabella fought the rising tide of emotion that swelled inside at her the sight of him, knelt before her, his touch so gentle.
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