by Martha Keyes
But Aunt Eliza's name had been suddenly banned from the home after her decision to marry an artisan from the nearby village.
Cecilia and Isabel would sometimes whisper to one another when their father wasn't around, laughing as they remembered the times they had spent with Aunt Eliza, plotting to discover her whereabouts in order to orchestrate a secret visit.
It had only been years later that Isabel had discovered Aunt Eliza's whereabouts by accident, happening upon a note from Eliza to her father. Aunt Eliza and her husband were struggling to make ends meet with four young children in a small village outside of Colchester, and she was asking—begging, really—for any assistance her brother might lend. Isabel had never discovered whether her father had answered the letter, but she knew him well enough to guess that he had not. When she had gone to show the letter to Cecilia later, it was nowhere to be found.
Aunt Eliza would welcome Isabel with open arms. She had no doubt of it. But to seek refuge with her would be no small thing—it would be a burden upon Eliza's family, and it would put Isabel in a world very different from the one she had become accustomed to. Nor would she know anyone who could provide her with a reference if she wished to apply for work somewhere in the vicinity.
She inhaled deeply, setting her hands atop the Bible and willing her heart to calm itself. She would have to discover when the next Mail Coach would depart for Colchester and decide how much she could manage to bring with her. Her body shivered as she thought on the bleak future she faced. But it was no use to dwell on the difficulties she could not change. Nor was there time to write ahead to Aunt Eliza to forewarn her.
She stood, setting the Bible on the pew and brushing her skirts downward. There was much to arrange before a departure to Aunt Eliza's could be undertaken. The most urgent matter—and one she little relished—was to inform Charles of the information about Mr. Farrow. Such a thing could only be communicated safely in person. It wouldn't do to send a note with such a report—she needed to be sure that Charles—and only Charles—received it and could act on it.
She walked swiftly out of the church, down the stone steps, and through the courtyard and gate, rubbing her hands together as she walked in the opposite direction of home. What she was about to do was highly improper. But what did propriety matter? Such considerations seemed ridiculous in the face of the future she was confronting.
She signaled a passing hackney, instructed the driver where to take her, and stepped in with palms beginning to sweat. She would tell Charles everything she knew about Mr. Farrow. That was certain. Whether she would decide to follow the rector's advice and be fully honest about her own feelings was another matter entirely. Her heart seemed to pound more and more loudly with each street the hackney passed.
When the driver pulled in front of Charles's building, Isabel took a moment to compose herself, straightening her shoulders and neck. Perhaps if she looked in control, she would feel in control.
She took her lips between her teeth as she stepped up to the door, resisting an impulse to look around her and see whether anyone was watching her—a young, unchaperoned woman at the door of a bachelor. She pulled the bell.
The liveried servant who answered the door raised his brows upon seeing who sought admittance, but after inspecting her clothing and comportment, he seemed to be satisfied enough that he said he would check whether Mr. Galbraith was at home to visitors.
Isabel wiggled her toes in her half-boots as she waited, trying not to think about what Charles's servant must think of her showing up on his doorstep, unescorted, or how many of his servants would soon hear of the strange occurrence.
"Isabel!"
She looked up, surprised to see Charles instead of his servant. He beckoned her to enter, his eyes alert with worry. "Come," he said, leading her swiftly through the entry hall and toward one of the few doors leading off the landing at the bottom of the staircase. He closed the door behind them, offering her a seat on one of three chairs in the room.
"Is something wrong?" he said as soon as she had taken a seat.
She shook her head quickly, hoping to allay his fears. "That is, nothing is urgently wrong. But I needed to speak with you on a matter of business—" she swallowed, debating whether to add anything "—and on a personal matter."
He pulled one of the empty chairs toward her, sitting so that his knees were only inches from hers.
She readjusted in her seat, angling her own knees to the side and tucking one foot under the other. She looked up, meeting Charles's earnest gaze.
His hair was slightly disheveled as if he'd put a hand through it one too many times, and he appeared to have loosened his cravat, probably not expecting any visitors. The subtle unkemptness of his appearance sent a wave of sadness over her. There was so much of Charles that she wished to know better, and yet she sat in front of him, keenly aware that she might never see him again.
He sat waiting for her to elaborate, an intent look in his brown eyes.
"You remember, I'm sure,” she said, “when I told you that Mr. Farrow is extremely dangerous."
He grimaced in response with a curt nod.
"I was unable to elaborate at the time simply because I had been told everything in confidence. I know it was upsetting to you to find me so uncommunicative after making such a claim."
Charles put up a hand. "I should not have pressed you as I did."
She smiled appreciatively. "I understand why you did, and I'm sorry I couldn't tell you then what I will tell you now. Mr. Safford has given me leave to communicate the entirety of the situation to you. I hope it will allow you to take the necessary action to protect those you love." She cleared her throat after saying the last word, her eyes flitting away from his for a moment.
Charles's mouth turned down in a frown. "What has the rector to do with Mr. Farrow?"
"Everything, it turns out." She took a deep breath and tried to concisely but clearly recount what the rector had shared with her about Mr. Farrow's relationship to him, the violent turn Mr. Farrow's visit had taken, and the existence of the secret will, left by the rector's estranged brother. She watched as Charles reared back in his seat twice and his eyebrows took turns raising up and knitting together.
He let her speak uninterrupted, and when she had finished, he sat with his elbows resting on his knees and his clasped hands covering his mouth.
"You see," Isabel said slowly, "why I have been so concerned for Hetty's safety." She paused and kept her eyes on him, wondering if his mind had already jumped to Miss Darling. "And why I think it important for you to have this information, even now that Hetty is taken care of."
His head came up. "For Julia's safety, you mean?"
Isabel nodded. "For her safety, first and foremost.” She readjusted in her seat and cleared her throat. “But I think that it may also be the final card you have needed."
His head tilted to the side slightly. "What do you mean?"
Her hands fidgeted. She felt reluctant to explain her meaning. Surely he had already seen the hand fate had dealt him? When she spoke, it was in a softer voice than she was accustomed to using. "Once Miss Darling understands the character of Mr. Farrow, she will naturally lose interest in his attentions, leading her to...." She trailed off as she saw his eyebrows snap together.
He stood up hastily. "I have no desire to win Julia's hand in such a way. To be chosen by default." He shook his head quickly.
Isabel stared at the carpeted floor. "You want her heart."
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Charles turn his head to look at her. His hand paused in the act of stroking his chin distractedly. "Yes," he said simply. “To marry her without it would be worse than to lose her.”
Isabel smiled wryly. "I understand."
She looked up, and their eyes locked for a moment. With both hope and dread, she wondered whether he sensed the meaning behind her words. His eyes never wavered from hers.
"I have never asked you," he said, "whether your own affections are eng
aged."
Isabel swallowed. "What do you mean?"
His arms fell to his sides, and his shoulders came up slightly. "From the beginning of our acquaintance, you have been very driven to release us from the duty to marry one another. I thought perhaps the reason was that there is someone else whom you wish to marry."
Isabel's eyes began to sting, and she blinked rapidly, taking a steadying breath. If there was any time to tell Charles her true feelings, this was the moment.
"Or perhaps you have taken me in greater aversion than I realized." His tone was one of sad humor, and it twisted her heart, so much did she desire to refute the suggestion.
She chose her words carefully. "My wish has always been that you could marry where your heart led you."
"And for you to be able to do the same?" he suggested.
She smiled unevenly, but her brow was drawn. She didn’t trust herself to respond. "In any case, you may do what you will with the information I have armed you with. I believe, though, that my role in all of this has played out. I can confidently leave you to arrange everything and wish you all the best in your future with Miss Darling." She smiled at him, but he only chewed his lip, staring down near her feet.
"And what of you?" He looked up at her.
"What of me?" she said with an attempt at a lighthearted shrug of her shoulders.
"Is everything arranged for a union between your sister and Lord Brockway, then?"
She gripped her lips together, and the words from the Bible flitted through her head. The truth will make you free. What if she could only manage a portion of the truth? "I believe Lord Brockway's offer to be forthcoming." She swallowed, disliking the way her stomach clenched. The words themselves were true, but she had used them to make Charles believe an untruth.
He nodded and then said, "Very well. But I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to communicate the news of our situation to your father. It was an agreement between him and me. I must be the one to inform him of the breach."
"No!" Isabel said, straightening in her chair with a tense hand on each of the chair's arms. If Charles spoke to her father before she had left, her father would undoubtedly attempt to force the marriage by demanding Charles abide by the terms of their agreement. All of her sacrifice would be in vain, and they would be back where they started.
No, she needed Charles to wait. By then, she would be gone, and her father would be in possession of a note explaining everything. Charles would bear no blame.
Charles reared back on seeing her reaction. "I must insist on this point, Isabel. It is a matter of honor."
Isabel clasped her hands together in pleading, "I understand. But I beg you to wait a few days before doing anything. He must not hear from you before things are arranged for Cecilia. Surely you understand."
He nodded his assent though he looked grave. "And you are sure that he will be satisfied by Miss Cecilia's marriage to Lord Brockway? That you will not be adversely affected by all of this?" He looked at her expectantly and seeing her pause, he said softly, "I know that you have no desire to marry me, Isabel. But I couldn't bear to discover that you had been made unhappy as a result of this entire mess I've created."
She could feel his eyes on her, but she couldn't bear to meet them.
"You are sure that this is what you want?" he asked.
Something about the note in his voice brought her eyes up to his. What was that gleam in his eyes? Was it sadness?
She nodded in response—it was all she could manage, and it somehow felt less dishonest than saying the words aloud.
Her response was the truth, in a way—this was what she wanted. And yet also so far from what she wanted. She would be adversely affected by it all, but perhaps the knowledge that her own suffering had made his happiness possible would buoy her up in the days to come.
He seemed so grave as she looked at him. But why? She needed to know that there was meaning to her sacrifice.
She hoped the smile she put on was convincing. "How do you feel? Being so close to attaining the happiness you have wished for all this time?"
He ran a hand through his tousled hair. "Strange, to be honest. Not at all as I apprehended I would feel."
It was not the answer she had expected. And it was one that, left to itself, might give her hope that she had no right to feel. "Perhaps," she suggested, "you won't be able to truly exult until you are engaged to Miss Darling?"
"Yes," he said, seeming to consider her words. "Perhaps you are right." He stood straighter, more confidently and smiled his half-smile. "It will all feel right when everything is finally arranged, when I’ve heard Julia reassure me of her love."
Isabel shot up from her seat to leave, not sure she could bear to hear more. She had heard enough. Charles was still consumed with the desire to have Miss Darling's affection again—he was obviously struggling with the anxiety and anticipation of achieving a long-held goal. And how could he not have Miss Darling's affection after all? She would have to be a simpleton not to love Charles.
Her feet felt rooted to the spot. How could she leave, knowing she wouldn't see his face; knowing that she couldn't explain to him, say a proper goodbye?
"Was there not a personal matter you wished to speak of?" Charles asked, coming out of a reflective state.
Isabel's heart pounded as she looked at him. Love is never wasted, the rector had said. Surely he was right. But did love have to be expressed in words to be shown? Wasn't the show of her love the fact that she was allowing Charles to have the life he wished for rather than the life that his honor would require of him if he knew the whole truth?
"I..." she stammered. To her horror, she felt her chin begin to tremble and her eyes sting.
Charles's brow furrowed, and he came toward her, holding both hands out to receive hers. "What is it? What's wrong?"
Her hands hung at her sides, and he picked them up gently, causing her heart to beat erratically for a moment. He searched her eyes, and she smiled weakly at him.
"It is nothing," she said, trying to store up the feeling of her hands enclosed in his.
Anger seemed to flash through his eyes momentarily, and he let go of her hands. "If you say so," he said, turning away.
She moved toward the door, and he followed, turning the handle and opening it for her. His jaw was set tightly when she looked at him a last time.
"I wish you every happiness, Charles. Goodbye."
23
Charles’s jaw slackened as the door closed behind Isabel. He stood for a moment, staring with unfocused eyes at the wooden door before turning and sitting on the couch.
She had asked him how he felt being so close to attaining what he had hoped for for so long. And he had spoken truth when he had said that he felt strange. She had indeed given him the final tool to bring Julia back to him. Without Farrow muddying the waters, Julia was much more likely to give her undivided attention to Charles. She had, after all, made it quite plain that she still wished for Charles to court her, to win her hand back. Aside from Farrow, she had seemed to show only passing interest in the gentlemen who vied for her hand at balls, parties, and routs.
So why did he feel troubled? Was it, as Isabel had suggested, because he couldn't feel sure of the victory until it was truly had? Was it because, despite Julia's attention and flirtation, he couldn't be sure that her heart was engaged as it had been prior to coming to London?
That might account for some of his feelings, but it didn't explain everything. When Isabel had claimed that her part had been fully played in their act, he had felt an impulse to suggest one more endeavor together, a reluctance to put an end to the arrangement they had. Were those feelings simply a desire to ensure that Julia understood that he was not simply waiting for her, hoping for her to choose him? But wasn't that exactly what he was doing?
He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. In any case, he needed to make Julia understand that Farrow was a reprobate. She could not be left ignorant. If Farrow truly faced the fin
ancial difficulties Isabel mentioned, he would be foolish to let Julia slip through his hands with a dowry such as she would bring to marriage.
He took his pocket watch out, realizing that he had less time than he thought before he was set to meet Julia and her friend in the Park for a stroll. He rang the bell, requesting his horse be made ready, and then trotted up the stairs to his room to make himself more presentable.
He took the most direct route to the Park, going as quickly as was feasible in the traffic of the London streets. He was anxious to find Julia, hoping that being in her presence would reassure him that the chips were falling into place the way they should be. He found Julia, her maid, and her friend Miss Burton standing under the shade of a large tree—Julia's favorite in the Park.
He dismounted, greeting the group, and leading his horse to a nearby bush where he looped the reins around one of the larger branches. The horse seemed contented to nibble on the available grass.
He stepped toward the three women, and Julia immediately slid her slender arm into his with a wide smile and an upward glance. It was the same way she had looked at him for years—the look that had made his heart stop and then thud. But after observing her direct the same look toward Farrow a number of times, it had lost much of its effect upon him.
"I'm so very glad to see you, Charles," she said, pulling him along to walk in a large circle around the base of the tree. "It feels an age since I saw you."
He looked down at her with a half-smile. "I saw you only two days since."
"An age," she reiterated with a teasing smile. "I depend upon you not to let it happen again."
"What? Let a day pass without seeing one another?" he said incredulously.
She nodded.
