Obsession Wears Opals

by Renee Bernard

  “It isn’t very painful.” Isabel soaped her arms, the awkward moment stretching out between the women.

  “I’ll leave you to it.” Mrs. McFadden retreated again and Isabel slid down into the tub until the tip of her nose lapped at the water.

  Isabel lingered as long as she could, long after the practical business of a bath had been concluded. The warmth enticed her to stay but she also felt shy about her inability to respond to the housekeeper’s hints to share her story. It was natural for her to ask, but Isabel still wasn’t sure what to say. She felt cowardly and small today. Darius had spoken of her bravery, but it was difficult to see it in the still and quiet of the house.

  She closed her eyes and the memory of the chess lesson came back to her.

  The queen is the most powerful piece on the board.

  She believed it when he said it. Worlds of power and freedom opened up as Darius sat across the small table, as tantalizing as the electricity of his touch when she’d taken his hand.

  She wasn’t brazen enough for flirtation or unaware of the nature of her position.

  I am a married woman.

  But with the smell of cinnamon surrounding her, Isabel’s heartbeat raced at the notion that his skin would carry the same scent, that there would be traces of it on her own, and that by merely breathing in, she was connecting with Darius in a very real and intimate way. For one fleeting instant, the memory of Darius in her room in the night with his shirt unbuttoned spun out in her imagination, and she wondered what her life would have been if he were the one who had the right to touch her.

  She sank back down into the water to scrub her feet and toes, attempting to ignore the rebellious and impractical twists of her thoughts. A lifetime of dutiful obedience and a firm adherence to every rule and restriction ever placed on her wasn’t something a woman overthrew easily.

  Besides, I have already trespassed so far over the line there may be no chance for any sort of life. Richard swore to denounce me and have me committed before he’d allow a divorce. He said a thousand times that he would rather see me dead than give up a farthing of my dowry or be publicly humiliated in scandal.

  There is no retreat to be made.

  Mr. Thorne has already placed himself in harm’s way.

  It would be demeaning if he knew I’d repaid his generosity with sordid carnal thoughts involving his . . . person.

  She finished quickly, washing and rinsing her long hair to pile it loosely on top of her head before climbing out of the water to dry. Abandoning the warm water for the cooler drafts of the pantry was a test of her resolve, but Isabel did her best to embrace practicalities and give Mrs. McFadden the free run of her kitchen for her work.

  The dress she’d borrowed from Mrs. McFadden didn’t require any help, as the buttons were placed in the front. It was a simpler design for women who would know nothing of a ladies’ maid or the intricate fashions that dictated that a lady have assistance as she dressed. But managing the belt and refolding the skirt to make sure she didn’t trip ended her illusions of independence.

  “Mrs. McFadden. I . . . Would you help me with this?” Isabel asked as she stepped through the curtain.

  “Of course.” The housekeeper washed and dried her hands before approaching. “Let’s see to you.”

  Isabel dutifully turned or moved as the older woman made quick work of it and straightened the back of the blouse to make sure the undershirt lay flat against her bruised back.

  “Here. Let’s get your hair combed and pleated while it’s still wet. It’s an old trick when you have hair as soft as yours, but I think we can manage.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. McFadden.”

  “It’s practically white, isn’t it? Like an angel’s.” The housekeeper sighed as she combed through it.

  “My nurse used to tease me when I was little and said I was a ghost baby left on my parents’ doorsteps.” Isabel shrugged as she took a seat on the stool near the kitchen table. “But I never was transparent enough to get out of lessons or escape the blame for mischief.”

  “What child is?” Mrs. McFadden scoffed. “My brothers probably wished themselves invisible a thousand times for all the trouble they managed to get into! Worthless hooligans! All of them!”

  “How many brothers do you have, Mrs. McFadden?”

  “Three fools and a sister. All in the village still.” The housekeeper’s voice was muffled as she put a few hairpins in her mouth as she worked. “I see them market days each week and they come out to check on me sometimes.”

  She removed the pins from her mouth with a sigh. “Interfering matchmakers and gossips, that’s what they are! But I’ve waved ’em off for the most part, my lady, so you needn’t fear at being spotted. Not that I expect you to be dancing in the lane outside the house or making a show of yourself. . . .”

  Isabel sat as still as she could while Mrs. McFadden played the ladies’ maid, braiding and pinning up her hair. When she was done, she handed Isabel a small metal mirror and returned to her stove to see to the evening’s courses.

  Isabel reached up to touch the elaborate coils, admiring the woman’s efforts. “You’re a woman of many surprising talents, Mrs. McFadden.”

  The housekeeper puffed her cheeks in protest. “It’s just braids. I’m no ladies’ maid.”

  “Well, I’m grateful for it. Thank you.”

  “I’m one to speak my mind. I hinted earlier but now I’ll just ask.” Mrs. McFadden crossed her arms. “Was it truly your husband? That did all that?”

  Isabel wasn’t sure how to answer. She simply nodded and set the metal mirror back down on the kitchen table.

  “Is he a drunkard?” the housekeeper said.

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Mrs. McFadden.”

  “Of course not! Who speaks of such things? It’s a trifling business.” Mrs. McFadden held her ground, her eyes kind despite her stubborn stance. “I had a cousin who endured a terrible husband. Of course, the way he told it, he suffered the worst in the bargain. She died in childbed, if that’s a mercy, but he swears to this day she brought out the worst in him and blathers on whenever he’s drunk about how he’s a candidate for sainthood.”

  It was all Isabel could do to just blink in reply. It was the assumption of everyone who guessed at a wife’s mistreatment that she had in some way earned her punishments. It was certainly the way her own mother had responded to her complaints.

  Mrs. McFadden continued undaunted. “Some would say it’s a woman’s place and a testament to her character to stick no matter what. But those that say it haven’t been on the wrong end of it, have they?”

  “Have you . . . Were you—ever at the wrong end of it?”

  “No.” The woman’s eyes darkened. “Ailbert was a dear, and you’d not know it by me now, but I was as meek a thing as ever walked this earth when Ailbert courted me. I never spoke above a whisper.”

  Isabel couldn’t stop the smile of disbelief that crossed her lips. “Never?”

  “A tale for another day, then.”

  “Oh, please! Won’t you tell it now?” Isabel pleaded gently.

  “Very well. In short, I was shy as a young girl. Ailbert’s father had beef cows and we met in the market by accident one day and—that was that. He was so pretty! He won my heart in a single afternoon and I don’t think I said four words, I was so overwhelmed. So he teased me and called me his . . .” Mrs. McFadden’s voice trailed off, her eyes misting with the memories. “He called me his sweet dragon, which made no sense at all and made me laugh. He joked and said he was afraid of me and would dedicate his whole life to making sure I never frowned or fussed. We were married that same month and I had heaven in my hands for an entire year.”

  Isabel stood slowly from the table, hoping to offer her hand if the woman needed it, marveling at the changes that fate could bring about.

  “Well, he died. Fever.” The older woman’s voice hardened, her words clipped and brittle. “And when he passed, I howled like a banshee. I yelled and
roared to shake down the skies and I never stopped, and I never will. I frown and I fuss. Because . . . that, madam, is what dragons do.”

  “You aren’t a—”

  “Home, woman!” Hamish’s gruff voice interrupted them from the outer kitchen doorway. “I’ve brought your precious Englishman home in one piece. Now come complain about the state of him and tell me when supper is!”

  “Get out of my kitchen!” Mrs. McFadden turned to chase the groom out. “You smell like horse sweat and worse! And she’ll catch her death with the draft you’re letting in, you big, ugly clod!”

  The door slammed behind him and Isabel jumped away from the table, startled by the violence of the exchange, an icy knot in her stomach.

  “They’re early!” Mrs. McFadden was oblivious, cheerfully turning back as if all was right in the world. “I must see to the professor and make sure he’s warm and settled. He’ll sit in a cold, wet coat and ruin the furniture otherwise! Dinner’s nearly ready and I’ll ring for you to come down to the library if you’d like once I’m set on serving.”

  “Th-That would be lovely, Mrs. McFadden.” Isabel retreated, warily eyeing the door where Mr. MacQueen had made his escape. “If you need an extra hand—”

  “Pah! I can manage well enough! And a lady like yourself? In my kitchen? I’d go balmy before I’d allow it, madam. No fears on that account!” She ushered Isabel out like a small child, then bustled toward the other side of the house and the front entry to intercept “her Englishman.”

  Isabel had no choice but to retreat to her room and wait for the bell, feeling a bit useless and anxious at the abrupt shift, but she was excited to see Darius again and enjoy his company. It had been an empty, strange day without him, and now Mrs. McFadden’s tale of loss spun around in her head.

  Heaven in her hands.

  Whatever does that mean?

  ***

  Darius arranged the table before the fire and then added another pillow to her chair to make it seem more inviting. He stepped back to survey the scene before scowling at the notion that in all his studies and pursuits, he hadn’t the foggiest idea of what appealed to a woman when it came to rose-embroidered cushions or upholstered chairs. He tried to remember the details of Mrs. Warren’s lavender-hued parlor for reference and was faced with the real possibility that there was very little he could do to remedy things. He’d bought the house lock, stock, and barrel from a man who had died a bachelor, and now lived in it himself as a bachelor.

  It’s foolish to question the lack of lace at this point.

  And I doubt she’d care.

  Mrs. McFadden came in with the dinner tray and set down the covered dishes on his desk with a grunt of disapproval. “I’ll let her know dinner’s ready.”

  “You’re a treasure, Mrs. McFadden,” Darius said as solemnly as he could and was instantly rewarded with a fiery look.

  “I’m not going to be turned by flattery, Mr. Thorne.”

  Darius took a short step forward. “Is something wrong, Mrs. McFadden?”

  The woman crossed her arms. “I’m—not acquainted with many highborn ladies, and the few I’ve seen made me think I was a lucky woman to be out of their path. But . . . I’m going soft on her, sir.”

  “How is this a terrible thing?” he asked.

  The housekeeper stiffened. “For a man who knows everything, you don’t know anything, do you? Never mind. When this goes the way of a penny novel, I’m not the one that’ll be sobbing in a mud puddle over it. You hear me? I’ll say I told you so, and then I’m punishing you for the rest of your days for breaking my heart over that dear little lamb!”

  He ducked his head, aware that if he smiled at her now he risked his safety. “Yes, Mrs. McFadden.”

  She growled in frustration and turned to leave. “I’m ringing the bell. I’ll be back for the tray when you’re done eating. I’ve a headache, so don’t you dare keep her up late!” She closed the door firmly behind her and Darius shook his head.

  Helen must have truly charmed her in his absence. He felt a stab of guilt at putting the prickly woman in a position to care, but there was nothing he could say to change things.

  Mrs. McFadden doesn’t like to risk the hurt because she’s tasted the worst before.

  And I’m the bigger fool because I know she’s right. There is no happy ending for me. Even if I work a miracle and find a way to free her from her husband and restore her to her family or to some version of her former life—I’m that idiot left crying in a mud puddle.

  Darius was intelligent enough to know all the signs of danger. He was already smitten. He’d taken pleasure in collecting all the items on Mrs. McFadden’s list and added a few things he imagined a lady needed. When he wasn’t with Helen, she dominated his thoughts. And when he was with her, for the first time in his life, Darius couldn’t think at all.

  But all of this self-pity hinges on the stupid notion that any of my actions are for personal gain. I don’t need a vicar to point out that failed logic. It’s for Helen. Helen’s happiness is the only goal. Nothing else matters. I will protect her and see her to safety and then—then I can worry about mud puddles and Mrs. McFadden’s feelings and the consequences to her cooking.

  “Worst case, I can escape to the Warrens’ for baked goods while awaiting forgiveness and—”

  The door opened and Helen’s appearance interrupted his monologue. She was wearing one of the new dresses he’d picked up for her in town. It was a simple, ready-made thing, but Darius had liked the pale blue print embroidered with tiny flowers. The shopkeeper’s wife had convinced him that the ribbon edges were most desirable, and that even a country miss wished to have the “little touches” that made her feel pretty.

  But Helen of Troy was no country miss.

  In pale blue, she looked like an elegant dream. The cut of it was flattering and the simplicity of the design set off her figure and ensured that it was Helen herself that drew the eye and caught a man’s attention. Her hair was up in a wreath of braids and twists, and eyes the color of white opals shone with pleasure.

  “You’re staring, Mr. Thorne.” Helen smiled as she smoothed out the skirts.

  “You look lovely.” Darius cleared his throat and tried to recover his composure. “The color suits you. I only hope it’s not too plain for your taste.”

  She shook her head and made a turn for him, a timeless and unconscious gesture to demonstrate her happiness and show off her skirts. “Your hidden skills betray you, sir.” She faced him shyly and lifted her hem just an inch or two to give him a glimpse of the soft-soled shoes he’d found her.

  “Are they more comfortable than riding boots?” he asked.

  “Without a doubt!” Helen laughed, dropping her skirts. “But how did you manage it? They fit perfectly!”

  Darius shrugged his shoulders and picked up the tray to carry it over to the small table next to the fireplace. “I’m tempted to make some insane claim of superior observation.”

  She moved to help him, shifting the chessboard over to make sure there was room for their picnic. “Resist temptation and tell me the truth.”

  He pressed his lips together, weighing it out. “Only if you never tell Mrs. McFadden.”

  Helen straightened her back, her expression startled. “I’ll swear but . . .”

  “I was going to borrow your boots after you’d gone to bed and trace the soles onto a paper for the sizing, but I couldn’t find them and I certainly couldn’t wake Mrs. McFadden to ask for them. So”—Darius lowered his voice conspiratorially—“I retraced events and found a muddy footprint in the stables that I knew wasn’t mine or Hamish’s. So I measured that and—there you have it!”

  “And why can’t I tell Mrs. McFadden?”

  It was an obscure tangle but Darius did his best to keep Helen out of it. “Because I don’t want her to know I was poking about the stables at such an hour. Just—trust me and let’s not mention it to her, all right?”

  “As you wish.” She conceded gracefully an
d took her seat, allowing him to do the same. “The dinner smells delicious.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” He settled in across from her. “I’m not sure why, but the farther away you are from the dining room, the better food tastes.”

  “Does it?” she asked in astonishment.

  “Absolutely! I first discovered it when I was in school after sneaking biscuits into bed. They were perfectly ordinary in the dining hall, but when ferreted up in that bedroom, they were ambrosia.” He shared the story intending to amuse her but too late realized he may have just confessed to petty theft. So much for that!

  “This is a theory you’ve tested often?” she said.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. But it has more to do with the eccentricities of a bachelor than anything else.” He pulled one of the rolls apart. “Or an aversion to eating alone at tables that can accommodate eight people.”

  Isabel’s eyes dropped to her plate and she recalled with clarity the ridiculous length of her parents’ dining room table and the lack of intimacy and conversation. During her debut Season, she’d been giddy at the swirl of frivolous exchanges and cheerful banter at parties, convinced that there was nothing in the world so wonderful as the noise and distractions of a grand social occasion.

  I was starving for all of it and measured my happiness in the number of ruffles on a skirt or the calling cards on a tray. God . . . what an easy slip of a thing for Richard to collect. . . .

  “What are you thinking over there?” he asked.

  “I’m thinking . . .” Isabel looked up, captured by the sincere concern in his forest green eyes. She was thinking of how she’d come to love the wonderful turns of his mind and how clever he was. But aloud, she was able to say only, “I was thinking I should see if Mrs. McFadden will let us wager a few biscuits on our game tonight. Then the winner can have the pleasure of ferreting them up to their rooms for a midnight snack.”

  He laughed. “There’s a bet I’ll take! Although”—he picked up his fork—“now that you know of my criminal past, there’s nothing to say that the leader of the Black army might not just steal biscuits on account.”