by Martha Keyes
"I see," she said with a feigned smile as she put the thoughts aside. "But if my father lost, what did he stand to gain if he had won?"
"I hold a number of his vowels, and I was to forfeit them if he won."
Isabel pondered for a moment. "So, my father was the de facto winner either way. When you said he had lost, I had a moment's hope that we could simply offer him what he stood to win in place of a marriage between you and me. But I'm afraid there is no question of that."
Mr. Galbraith tilted his head and his brows drew together. "You think he would rather we marry than for me to relinquish his debts? They are substantial."
Isabel grimaced. "I am sure of it. Do you not see? If we marry, he knows he won't be expected to pay his debts to his own son-in-law."
Mr. Galbraith sighed. "How foolish of me not to have seen that. A result of too much drink, no doubt." His eyes went still for a moment as he became lost in thought. He smiled wryly. "I was very sure he was about to take the final hand, but his luck seemed to change suddenly, and he lost."
Isabel grimaced. "He must have realized what losing would mean." She chewed her lip.
"I don't wish to put you in a difficult position," Mr. Galbraith said. His brow was grave, but there was a determined set to his jaw. "But I am a man of my word, and I gave your father my word that I would marry you."
All at once, Isabel felt repulsion and longing. She admired Mr. Galbraith for his desire to keep his word of honor—the strange affinity she felt for him grew at the illumination of his character. She wished, though, that the terms of his martyrdom had not been to marry her.
She could not submit to such a thing, even if it was what she would have wanted under other circumstances.
"I admire you, Mr. Galbraith," she said with a sad smile. "But I can't marry you."
He opened his mouth to speak but she put a hand up to stop him.
"What if I told you that there was another way?’ she said. “To appease my father without us sacrificing ourselves to your honor and his selfishness?"
"Go on," he said cautiously.
"Well," she said as she inhaled deeply, "in the spirit of our frank conversation, I have a suggestion to put forward. It will likely be repugnant to you at first, but I ask you to consider it for a day before deciding. I believe it is the best way to preserve both your happiness and mine."
His mouth twisted to the side in a smile. "You terrify me. But let's have it."
Isabel nodded. If he didn't think her a hoyden without a conscience already, he surely would once she laid out her plan.
"My sister Cecilia is, if all goes well, soon to become engaged to a man of great position and substance. If you and I can convince my father that we mean to marry—just until my sister's engagement— then I am convinced he can be brought to give up the notion."
Mr. Galbraith's brows were up, and Isabel colored slightly but continued on. "What's more, I think that we might turn the situation even more to your account with a little care."
Mr. Galbraith's brows went up even further, but his intrigued smile robbed the expression of offense.
"I had the opportunity," Isabel said, "to observe Miss Darling a little last night. You mentioned Cecilia reminding you of her, and I believe that they are both the type of women who enjoy attaining what seems to be just out of their reach."
Mr. Galbraith considered her words and conceded with a nod.
"Perhaps she has come to consider you too within reach; to take you for granted."
She waited for her words to sink in, unsure whether he would become defensive of himself or of Miss Darling. But he only pursed his lips as he mulled over what she was saying.
"If my father is to believe that we mean to marry, we will need to act in a convincing manner—or at least keep up appearances enough that he doesn't question things. Might we not use such an imperative to help Miss Darling remember her regard for you? If she believes that your affection and attention is shifting toward another, I think she may come to her senses."
He looked at her through squinted eyes. "This isn't perchance your way of revenging yourself upon me? A plan to jilt me? Teach me a lesson?” He put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “It would be entirely called for, of course!"
Isabel suppressed a smile. "Very perceptive of you. Nothing motivates me quite like mutually-destructive revenge. I only wish I had thought of it myself."
A responsive laugh escaped him. "But it is a plan to jilt me, is it not?"
Isabel shook her head. "No. We shall tell my father that we plan to marry but that we cannot be formally or publicly engaged because it wouldn't be suitable."
"It wouldn't?" said Mr. Galbraith between a statement and a question.
"Decidedly not." Her voice had a hint of teasing sternness in it. "On account of your uncle's recent death."
Mr. Galbraith stared at her.
"Do you have an uncle who has died recently?" asked Isabel with a hopeful tilt to her brow and voice. "It would be so convenient."
Mr. Galbraith's shoulders shook. "I'm afraid my relatives have never been the type to care about inconveniencing others. My uncles are all wretchedly healthy."
Isabel sighed. "I felicitate them."
"I'm afraid," he said, looking very near laughter, "the only thing I have to offer is an aunt who died nearly a year and a half ago." He bared his teeth in a grimace. "Not very helpful."
Isabel sat up straighter, and she suddenly put a hand over his clasped hands. He looked down at it with laughing eyes.
"On the contrary," she said, taking her hand off his when she realized what she had done. "I believe we may put her to good use—may she rest in peace," she added with soberness. "We will tell my father that you were very close to Aunt—" she paused, looking at him.
"Gertrude," he offered.
"—Aunt Gertrude, yes. She was very jealous in her affections, and never believed any woman could endeavor to deserve you. Thus it came about that you made an especial promise to her on her deathbed—unwisely perhaps, but one is wont to placate dying people, isn't one? —that you would respect and mourn her death by postponing any engagement or nuptials until she had been gone a full two years. It sounds quite eccentric," she said, seeing Mr. Galbraith's expression, "but Aunt Gertrude was always singular. And since my father believes in nothing so firmly as he believes in the capriciousness and strange whims of females, I think he will not only believe it but will likely expound upon the subject for a number of minutes."
Mr. Galbraith looked torn between amusement and surprise.
Isabel continued. "And as long as he believes we plan to marry, we need not broadcast the information to anyone else—we will simply take pains to be seen more in one another's company. All the while, you will pay less attention to Miss Darling, ensuring that you are cordial but never lingering. We, on the other hand, must be seen to always enjoy one another's company."
"I begin to think that will not be such a task." He was obviously enjoying himself.
Isabel ignored his comment, finishing with, "Following such a plan, I believe we may win on both suits."
Mr. Galbraith looked at her with a mixture of admiration and amusement. "I think that I believe you."
"Well," she said prosaically, "being acquainted as I am with my father and having the advantage of understanding women on account of being one myself, I do think you would be wise to allow yourself to be guided by me in this. Or," she said with a slight sigh, "perhaps you think me only fit for Bedlam, in which case I'm sure there are many who might sympathize with you."
"I admit," he said, "to feeling reluctant. For a number of reasons, not least of which is on your own behalf. If your father discovered the ruse, what would become of you?"
She smiled reassuringly. "Don't let that bother you."
"Don't let it bother me indeed," he exclaimed. "What a rogue you must think me. I am to agree to this plan in which you risk yourself to help me without a thought for what it might mean for you?"
&n
bsp; She had considered the possibility that her father might discover the deceit, but she had not allowed herself to dwell on it. She felt she could more easily face her father's ire than marriage to a man in love with another. She had to remain confident that the plan would succeed. Mary would help her see things through.
"I'm afraid you must trust me on that account," she said with a grimace.
He didn't look convinced. "It also seems that much of the plan hinges upon something out of our control: the success of a gentleman's suit with your sister."
"Well not entirely out of our control. I may have some influence there, as well." She sounded more confident than she felt.
He chuckled. "I suppose I should have guessed as much."
Seeing Mary and Hetty making their way back over, Isabel hastened to add, "Only promise me you will think on it. I feel confident that if we work together, we may come about, and you may well have your Miss Darling after all." She smiled at him as confidently as she could manage, while wondering what she might be getting herself into.
Agreeing to spend more time with Mr. Galbraith was the choice of a masochist. To know he would be paying her attention as part of an act and with no one but herself to blame for the farce—well, it would certainly be a test of her charity. But the temporary hurt it might cause would be preferable to a lifetime of pain if they were to marry.
"I apologize," Mary exclaimed as they approached. "I made Hetty promise she should tell me her story—from the beginning—and you know how I ask a thousand questions, Izzy."
"None better," said Isabel with a teasing smile. "I'm very glad that Hetty has told you all. You likely know much more than Mr. Galbraith or I, but it's of no account. What remains is to decide what the best route is for Hetty."
"And I am afraid," Mr. Galbraith confessed, "that I am no help at all. I have been a bit consumed with other matters, but I promise to reform my ways and see what I can discover from my acquaintances." He smiled his apology at Hetty, and she looked back at him with utter confidence.
"And unfortunately," said Isabel, "I am just as little help. But don't fret, Hetty. We won't leave you to fend for yourself. Mary in particular is very resourceful." She smiled at Mary. "She will undoubtedly be a powerful ally."
Mary's brows went up and down in a gesture of cunning. "Yes, indeed."
"What would you like, Hetty?" said Isabel. "I feel that your wishes should be honored as much as possible, though we can obviously make no promises."
"Oh," Hetty cried, "I'm sure I could wish nothing better than to stay for the rest of my life with you, Izzy!"
Mr. Galbraith and Isabel met eyes for a moment, her expression touched yet flustered, his amused.
"A great tribute to her character," Mr. Galbraith said. "And I'm sure she shares your sentiments. But I doubt the matter is up to her." He looked at Isabel with a knowing expression.
Isabel bit the inside of her lip. "It is true, Hetty. I'm very sorry to say it, but I believe that my mother will not allow it. She will consider you a threat to Cecilia’s prospects. But, come, let us think more on what type of situation might best suit you. Have you any relations who might take you in?”
Hetty considered for a moment. “My father’s relations all live near Bradford.”
Isabel looked a question at Mr. Galbraith. “Leeds,” he said with a grimace.
They could hardly send her such a distance alone. She was much too naïve.
“And your mother’s family?” Isabel asked, unoptimistic.
Hetty made a look of distaste. “I have never met them, but Mama has not spoken kindly of them.” Her expression softened. “There may be someone…” She trailed off.
The three others shared hopeful glances. “Who?” Mary said.
Hetty sighed. “Before we moved to town, there was a young man…” She looked shyly up at them. “Until Mama refused to let us see one another. She said that I might marry as high as I pleased and that on no account was I to waste myself on Solomon Abbott. But indeed, he is the best sort of man!”
Isabel could feel Mary’s gaze on her, but she avoided her eye. There was little hope that the Mr. Abbott she spoke of would feel any degree of enthusiasm about marrying Hetty in her current situation, whatever his feelings for her had been before.
“Well,” Isabel said matter-of-factly, “let us speak more on that later. In the meantime, we must prepare ourselves for the event that it is necessary for you to become employed in some capacity or another. Do you think you should like to be a lady's maid?"
Hetty lit up. "Oh, I should like it very much! My mother says I am skilled with hair."
Isabel was relieved that Hetty had interest in and an apparent aptitude for becoming a lady's maid, though she was unsure that she should accept Mrs. Robson’s opinion on Hetty’s skill. Isabel would have to judge for herself whether it was accurate or not.
Hetty could certainly be taught how to meet and even exceed the expectations of a mistress more quickly and easily than she could be taught how to arrange hair.
"Well," Isabel said in her practical voice, "perhaps I can persuade Anaïs to take you under her wing for the next few days, to give you a taste for what life as a lady’s maid is like. She is the abigail Cecilia and I share," she added as an explanation.
"Splendid idea," Mary said. "That is, if you can understand the girl."
Isabel smiled and placed a reassuring hand on Hetty's arm. "She is very French—strict, but she has a kind heart."
Hetty looked unsure. "But might I not become your very own lady's maid and Anaïs could help your sister?"
Mary sent a knowing glance in Isabel's direction.
Isabel looked at Hetty with a pained expression. "I do wish that were an option, my dear. But..." she wavered as she wondered how to explain the situation without sounding like a victim.
If it had been an option, Isabel would have loved to take Hetty on as her own abigail. But when Anaïs had been hired by her father, it was as maid to both Cosgrove sisters. It was her father’s way of economizing without inconveniencing himself. Isabel knew better than to ask for her own abigail, particularly when she was trying not to ruffle her father’s feathers. She knew the answer without asking.
Whenever Cecilia and Isabel needed Anaïs at the same time, it was understood that Cecilia took preference, despite being the younger sister. They had shared more than a maid. Isabel had not even enjoyed her own Season. Her father hadn’t been able to bear the thought of wasting a Season on Isabel alone when Cecilia's prospects were so much brighter.
"But," Mary piped in unapologetically, "her father is quite odious and will not lift a finger to help Izzy. He is too busy lavishing praise on Cecilia."
Isabel's eyes widened, and she looked at Mary with censure.
Mr. Galbraith, however, was looking hard-pressed not to laugh aloud. "It appears that you are not guilty of filial impiety, Miss Cosgrove, but rather of holding the generally-accepted opinion."
The reproachful look Isabel sent him was sapped of its power by the way she fought off a smile.
"The reasons are of no importance." She glared at Mary and Mr. Galbraith, recomposing her expression as it rested on Hetty. "It is simply not a possibility, despite how much I would welcome your services, Hetty. But don't fret, my dear. I will ensure Anaïs is not unkind to you, and we will do our utmost to find you a favorable situation."
The problem of convincing Anaïs and Cecilia to tolerate the arrangement with Hetty was pushed to the future in Isabel's mind more easily than the nagging problem of who would take on a lady's maid soon to give birth to an illegitimate child. But she hoped that, with Mary's help and connections, they would succeed in finding the right person. The adored Mr. Abbott she regarded not at all. That road would certainly lead to nowhere.
She sighed as she realized how much of her current situation depended upon hope for a positive outcome.
The sound of a closing door followed by rushed footsteps on flagstone broke into her thoughts. She glanced tow
ard the church in time to see the back of a gentleman's coat disappearing from the churchyard.
A small gasp sounded, and Isabel looked at Hetty. Her face was pale, eyes round, and lips parted. Mr. Galbraith’s eyes were narrowed, trained on the departed figure.
"Farrow," he said in a curious voice. "A weekday visit with the rector. I had no idea he was so devout."
"Oh no," Hetty cried. "He has come to take me to Bedlam!"
Isabel pulled Hetty in toward her, shushing her softly. "Nonsense, my dear. He didn't even see us."
Mr. Galbraith cleared his throat, and Isabel looked over.
"He did," Mr. Galbraith said, and Isabel felt she could have hit him as Hetty grabbed her desperately. "But—" he emphasized the word "—he merely looked curious at the sight of us. He clearly did not come to throw you in Bedlam. Otherwise why would he have left? And besides, what right could he have to do such a thing?" He shook his head and smiled at her. "You are safe with us."
Hetty looked calmer, and Isabel watched Mr. Galbraith with a small sense of awe. His thick brows made it easy to assume a coarseness or hardness to him, but he was obviously neither. He seemed to handle Hetty's dramatic temperament better than most gentlemen would have. Perhaps he was well-suited to someone like Cecilia or Julia Darling, after all.
A shuffling sound met their ears, and Isabel looked a second time toward the church. Hetty buried her head in Isabel's shoulder, breathing, "It's him, it's him, it's him."
But it was Mr. Safford, standing in the stone doorway of the church. He looked disheveled, one hand bracing the wall for support, the other cupping his head. He was looking with squinted eyes in the direction Mr. Farrow had departed.
"He looks injured," Mary remarked with her brows drawn together.
"Mr. Safford," Isabel called out, leaving Hetty with Mary. "Are you unwell?" She walked briskly toward the rector with Mr. Galbraith following close behind.
Mr. Safford looked over.
"Miss Cosgrove, Mr. Galbraith," he said in surprise, clearing his throat as his voice came out weak and unstable. "What are you doing here? Did you see him?"
"Who? Farrow?" asked Mr. Galbraith.
