by Martha Keyes
He rattled his head from side to side, trying to dispel the fog and recapture the extent of his impetuous behavior. Had he truly agreed to a stake for a woman’s hand in marriage?
He flipped his legs over the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees and rubbing his forehead. What was he to do with the mess he had created for himself?
His actions could hardly be considered those of a gentleman. What could have possessed him to agree to Cosgrove’s mad stakes? He cursed himself for letting his feelings for Julia lead him to behave in such an uncharacteristic and abominable way.
He explored his options as he sat on the edge of the bed, massaging his temples.
He could blame it on the drink—after all, that had undeniably played a part. He could pretend to have no memory of the night. Many a man could legitimately make such a claim if they had drunk as much as he had. Charles was nearly sure he'd be able to get away with such a charade. After all, Cosgrove was unlikely to remember much. And perhaps the girl—was it Isabel? —had given no credence to anything he or her father had said, knowing how much they'd had to drink. She seemed to be familiar enough with the way of things among drinking gentlemen.
He smiled slightly as he remembered her use of the phrase "in his cups" when referring to her father.
Letting out a long sigh, he put his forehead in his hands. How he wished he could pretend nothing had happened.
But he couldn't engage in such knavish conduct. His conscience wouldn't allow it. The thought of how his mother would have felt to know of his behavior, and then that he had compounded the reproach by trying to escape the consequences? He could imagine the drooping of her features, the sadness in her eyes; he could hear her say in her sweet voice, “You are so much more than this, Charles.”
No, he couldn’t disgrace himself and his mother’s memory with such conduct, no matter how much it appealed to him. He would have to formally offer for Miss Cosgrove and make the best of the mess he had made for himself.
An hour later, he set off for Belport Street, the set of his jaw matching his determined pace. His resolution flagged only twice as he considered just how final and irretrievable a step he was taking; as he wondered how Julia would react when she heard the news of his engagement.
But there was little purpose in hesitating for the sake of Julia, and he knew it did him little credit to factor her reaction into his decision. Whether he went to Belport Street or not, Julia had moved forward with her life, discarding him for someone else.
Charles didn't know how much of his dislike for Farrow was due to Julia's infatuation with him and how much of it was genuine and unrelated, but dislike him he did. He had heard enough rumors to strongly suspect Farrow of being a rake. It was entirely possible that Julia would come to regret her association with the man.
Charles was anxious to be there for her when she did, and yet equally determined not to be.
The Cosgrove household had been quiet that morning, a circumstance welcomed by Isabel. Her father was laid up feeling the aftereffects of his carousing, and everyone knew better than to suffer his wrath by making noise.
Isabel had hope that the later he stayed abed, the less likely he was to remember the strange night he had passed. If he remembered enough, though, he would undoubtedly wish to speak to her about it.
It was not a conversation she wished to have, particularly when he would be in an irritable humor due to his headache. It might be an inevitable exchange, but she felt no compunction in doing what she could to postpone it.
She dressed for the day and, as the time drew nearer when her father might be expected to come downstairs, took the book from her nightstand. She walked down the stairs with as light a step as possible, reaching the entryway just as the bell rang and one of the footmen opened the front door.
She stopped short, listening to the exchange at the door with alarm. She knew that voice.
"If you'll just step inside, sir," said the footman, "I'll inquire if Miss Cosgrove is at home."
Isabel whirled around, eyeing the nearest doorway for an escape, but it was too late.
"Oh! Miss Cosgrove," the footman said.
Isabel closed her eyes in chagrin, not even turning around.
The footman stumbled awkwardly over his words.
She breathed in deeply then turned to thank and excuse the footman, assuring him that she would handle things from there. She bit her bottom lip and glanced at the stairwell, sincerely hoping Cecilia would not appear and see her with Mr. Galbraith. The day was already going to be unpleasant enough without one of Cecilia's fits of jealousy.
When Isabel turned to Mr. Galbraith, he was watching her with a curious and evaluative eye. He held his hat in his hands, and his jaw had a decisive set about it.
She wondered if he were there to make his excuses for the night before; to inform her that, not only had he made a mistake in implying that he wished to marry her, but that he would in fact be paying his addresses to Cecilia.
She smiled wryly, wondering whether he possessed enough finesse to carry off such an unwieldy conversation. It might be painful to watch, but it might also be satisfying to hear him bumble his way through such an exchange.
His thick brows were, as they often seemed to be, furrowed. She wondered if he was troubled or whether it was simply the shape and size of the brows that gave such an illusion. His dark and brooding features would be even more striking paired with Cecilia's fair and delicate style.
"Miss Cosgrove," he said, clearing his throat. "Forgive me for intruding on your morning, but I wondered if I might have a word?"
Hearing a noise above stairs, Isabel shot another glance at the stairwell. The likelihood of being able to carry out a tête-à-tête in the house without the knowledge of Cecilia or her father was next to nothing.
The thought of confronting Mr. Galbraith alone, face-to-face, while he, she could only assume, apologized, made her feel slightly dizzy. It would be better to hear him out in the fresh air where she wouldn't be required to look at him and could ensure that the interview lasted only as long as it took to walk to the church.
If apologize he must, she would let him unburden his conscience, forgive him with as much frankness and nonchalance as she could muster, and say adieu in the sincere hope that she would be able to avoid him for the duration of the Season. She felt confident that she could maintain the façade of casual composure for the time it would be required of her.
"I'm happy to oblige," she said untruthfully, "but I am afraid I am on my way out the door. I'm only walking around the corner to the church, though, if you'd care to accompany me."
Mr. Galbraith hesitated a moment. "Gladly," he said with a civil smile and set jaw. He opened the door for her, and she thanked him with a smile and nod.
They walked a few moments in silence. While she knew an impulse to fill the silence, she bit her tongue. He should set the tone for the conversation. Otherwise, she was likely to say any number of unnecessary things.
She noted his hesitation with a mixture of sympathy and schadenfreude. Admitting one was in the wrong was never pleasant, but it gave her some small satisfaction to know that he was embarrassed. It only seemed fair after her own embarrassment the night before.
"Miss Cosgrove,” he said. "I owe you an apology."
She said nothing, feeling too much in agreement with the statement to add anything of value, but her grip on the book tightened, and she swallowed. The rectory normally felt like a quick walk, but today the distance warped to feel much too long.
She saw him looking at her out of the corner of her eye and stared ahead, schooling her features into a pleasant gaze forward.
He cleared his throat. "I will not endeavor to excuse my state last night, but I do wish to express regret that you were made to witness it." He glanced at her, and she repressed a small smile.
"Why do you smile?" he asked.
Her head tilted to the side for a moment before she said, "I'm nearly certain that I shouldn't answe
r that."
Mr. Galbraith looked nonplussed. "So, you leave me to assume the worst."
"Not at all," she replied. "I hesitate because my thoughts were shockingly unfilial."
He frowned and shook his head, still seeming at a loss.
She let out a small laugh. "Shall I let you cajole me into filial impiety? If I confess such iniquitous thoughts to you, how will I face the rector when we reach the church?"
One of his eyebrows went up. "And if I promise not to betray you to him?" he suggested.
Her mouth broke into one of her rare, large smiles. "Very well," she said. "If you break your promise, though, I warn you that I won't hesitate to cast the blame upon you.”
"We have an accord," he said with mock gravity.
She pursed her lips before continuing. "You apologized that I was made to witness your state, as you called it. And I found myself thinking of my father—of his conducting imaginary orchestras and, even more to the point, being violently ill. I find myself wondering if perhaps it isn't I who should apologize to you for his state? You should not expect an apology from him, I can tell you. Compared to my father, your behavior appears almost admirable."
He laughed at her mention of the orchestra. "I had forgotten about the conducting."
"Oh dear," she said. "Well I am afraid that now you must suffer, like me, with the image forever emblazoned on your memory."
His smile fell slightly. The humor left his eyes, and his jaw hardened again.
What had she said to provoke such a change?
"Whether or not you find my apology necessary," he said, "I offer it to you.” He cleared his throat. “I also wish to make clear to you that I was in earnest last night."
She stiffened, and her lips parted.
"I refer to my offer of marriage, of course," he clarified. "I would be honored if you would accept me as your husband."
She swallowed and looked at him. He was staring straight ahead, his square jaw even more distinct than usual. She had expected an apology, not an actual marriage offer.
She considered reminding him that he had never actually offered marriage to her the night before. She had simply been informed that he was to be her future husband. But looking at his clenching jaw, his head held high, and the slight flare to his nostrils, she realized that he was simply trying to do the honorable thing.
"Mr. Galbraith,” she said. “I thank you for your desire to do what you feel is right. But I was in earnest when I said that we would do well to forget last night altogether."
He looked at her with an arrested expression.
She gave him a small, encouraging smile. "And forgive me," she said in a teasing voice, "but I am prideful enough to hope that, if I find myself in a position to accept an offer of marriage, the person making it won't do so as if bearing news of their own impending death."
"Surely I didn't say it in such fashion," he said in a doubtful voice.
She only raised her brows.
"In any case," he continued, "it is not the way I feel. Since we are unacquainted with one another, naturally I cannot pretend to sentiment where it does not exist.”
She looked at him, smiling slightly as she pictured the young boy who had cheered her up when she desperately needed it.
“What is it?” he said.
“You don’t remember at all, do you?”
He turned his head toward her and frowned. “Remember what?”
She laughed lightly and looked ahead. “We knew each other once, years ago.”
He reared back. “We did?”
She nodded slowly. “You did me a great kindness once, on a visit with your father to us in Dorsetshire.”
He narrowed his eyes, turning his head to look at her, as if he might remember by searching her face. “Remind me.”
She sighed. How many times had she thought back on that instance of kindness? And he had likely never thought on it again.
“I was crying,” she said, “because Cecilia had taken my favorite doll. You put your arm around me, consoled me, and then took me—”
“—to roll down the hill!” He looked at her, delight in his expression at having remembered. “Until we were severely berated, if I recall correctly.”
Isabel laughed and nodded her head. For some reason, she found great comfort in his remembering.
He shook his head, the grin on his face widening again. “I had forgotten entirely. But it only goes to prove my point. I feel that we could get along with one another quite well. I would endeavor to make you comfortable and to seek your contentment, just as I did then."
She pursed her lips to keep from smiling. "A marked improvement," she said with a dignified nod. "Far less like a death pronouncement and more like making a case in front of a magistrate."
He looked torn between laugh and offense.
As they reached the gate to the church, he opened his mouth and shut it lamely.
Isabel's hand holding the book shot out to bar him from moving forward. Her other hand came to her mouth in a shushing gesture, her ear cocked.
The distinct sound of sniffling reached their ears. It was coming from nearby, inside the churchyard which lay around the corner.
Isabel hesitated a moment, not wishing to intrude on the person's privacy. But the crying sounded like that of a child. She walked toward it, conscious that Mr. Galbraith hesitated before following her.
5
A young girl sat on an ivy-strewn stone bench, hunched over and shaking with sobs. Her dark, uncoiffed hair hid her face from view. Her stature was more that of a young woman nearing the end of her schoolroom days than of the child Isabel had pictured. Her clothing was neat, though not perhaps in the first style of elegance.
Isabel observed the girl for a moment with a frown before approaching further. She knelt in front of her, holding her book in one arm and placing a hand softly on the young woman's knee.
The young lady's head came up in surprise. "Oh dear!" she said in a high-pitched, distressed voice as she looked at Isabel and then Mr. Galbraith.
Even in the sad circumstances in which they discovered her, the picture she presented was food for inspiration. Dark chocolate-colored waves of hair made her porcelain skin all the brighter. Teardrops hung on the tips of long black lashes, framing eyes the color of the ivy surrounding her. The color of the girl’s pouting lips matched cheeks becomingly tinged with the double blush of emotion and discovery.
"Whatever is the matter, my dear?" Isabel asked in a soft voice.
"Oh, only everything!" the girl replied. "And indeed I'm very sorry to be crying! Mother would be cross if she saw me, but I feel so very lost that I can't help it!"
"There, there." Isabel took a seat next to her. "It will all be all right.” She patted the girl’s knee. “We can help you find your way back home."
"Oh no!” the girl said, her eyes wide with horror. “Please don't make me! I can't go back!"
Isabel shot a confused look at Mr. Galbraith who raised his brows and shrugged his shoulders.
"To be sure, we won't make you do anything," Isabel consoled her. "But I thought you said you were lost?"
"I feel lost," the young lady corrected her. "I came to speak with the rector, but I am afraid he will send me to the workhouse. I'm sure I should die!" Her shoulders convulsed as she began to cry again.
Mr. Galbraith approached cautiously, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief and offering it to the girl. He stepped back gingerly, as if afraid he might inadvertently set off another burst of emotion.
But the girl only smiled gratefully at him through her tears, saying, "Oh, how kind you are!" She blew her nose soundly.
When Isabel inquired her name, the girl donned a wary look and asked first whether they would force her to return to her mother if she told them. Isabel reassured her that they would do no such thing, after which the girl's shoulders relaxed and she sighed.
"It is Hester Helena Robson," she said in a voice of dejection. "But I detest the name Hester, s
o you may call me Hetty, if you please."
"Hetty it is," said Isabel with a twinkle. "I am Isabel Cosgrove—you may call me Izzy if you like. And this is Mr. Charles Galbraith."
Hetty had been wiping the corner of her eye with the handkerchief, but she looked up on hearing the names. She looked at Isabel and then at Mr. Galbraith.
"But are you not married?"
Isabel avoided the eyes of Mr. Galbraith. "No, no," Isabel said with a tinge of pink in her cheeks. "In fact, we only became acquainted last night."
Hetty's brow furrowed deeply. "Mama says I should always have a chaperone in the presence of an unmarried gentleman, unless she expressly permits it."
Isabel glanced at Mr. Galbraith to see how he would handle such implied censure. He repressed a smile and shook his head at Isabel with a look of feigned disapproval.
"Your mother is quite right, of course," he said to Hetty. "And how often does she expressly permit forgoing the chaperone?" His tone was mildly curious.
The same question had occurred to Isabel. Given the patent fear of home which Hetty had expressed earlier and the naive comment on her mother's blend of strictness and permissiveness, Isabel felt she knew what type of woman Mrs. Robson probably was.
"Oh," Hetty said in a reassuring voice. "Only with three or four gentlemen."
Mr. Galbraith nodded as though his assumptions had been confirmed.
Isabel looked at him with her mouth twisted to the side. The protection offered by Hetty’s mother seemed the type that conveniently disappeared when an eligible gentleman was nearby. With such beauty as the girl possessed, it was hardly to be wondered at that she should attract much attention, despite coming from a family who seemed not to belong to the haut ton.
"Indeed," Isabel said, unsure what else she could offer. "Perhaps we should go find Mr. Safford. Were you not wishful to speak with him?"
Why Hetty had come to speak to the rector, Isabel didn't know, but perhaps he would be able to help sort out whatever difficulty Hetty was in. It took some coaxing before Hetty would agree to enter the church, but Isabel was able to convince her that Mr. Safford was a kind soul who would do whatever he could to help.
