His words cut her to the quick. “Less frequent?”
Mr. Nashe leaned back in his chair and stared out the window. Isabelle had always thought he moved with a fluid grace. And now, in repose, he held himself with an aristocratic, even regal, bearing. She felt shabby and low by comparison.
“I am certain you will find such an arrangement preferable to daily contact.” He continued to gaze out the window as he spoke, not deigning to look at her. The mask muffled his already low voice, rendering his words indistinct. But she understood his meaning well enough.
“I have somehow displeased you.”
She had known this would happen. Oh, she might have foolishly deluded herself for a time that it would not, but in her heart of hearts she had known.
A tear splashed lightly onto one of the notepapers. It surprised her. She hadn’t been aware she was crying.
“Displeased me?” Mr. Nashe echoed after a brief delay, still staring out the window.
Isabelle could tell that his thoughts were elsewhere. But then why should he be concerned with the likes of her?
Mr. Nashe turned his attention away from the window and looked once more in her direction. “Whyever should I—?” He stopped mid question. “Miss Tate?”
She covered her cheeks with her hands in a futile attempt to hide her tears. “Yes, sir?”
“Are you crying?”
Isabelle thought he sounded angry, most likely put out by her undignified display of emotion. He left his chair, coming around the desk to stand beside her. Her first instinct was to shrink from him, but she remembered when he had accused her of doing just that. Rather than anger him further, she would have to hold firm.
“Dry your eyes,” he said, producing a handkerchief from his pocket.
She did as she was told, unable to take her eyes from his. Afraid to take her eyes from his, watching him the way she had to watch her father when he came home drunk and belligerent.
“I wish you wouldn’t look at me that way, as though you expected I should strike you.”
Isabelle lowered her eyes. They fell on his deformed hand, the fingers curling in on themselves exactly as though he was forming a fist to strike her.
“Have I done something to cause your tears?”
Unable to think of a plausible lie, she could only nod.
Mr. Nashe dropped to his knees beside her chair. “What have I done? Tell me.”
He put his hand on the arm of her chair, wrapping his dark gloved fingers around the light colored wood. His jacket sleeve and shirt cuff drew back a fraction of an inch, enough to reveal a line of skin, the thick scars there like curdled flesh, lumpy, waxen white and streaked with red. Isabelle thought how she would have liked to run her finger over the bare skin to discover its feel.
“Please.”
Isabelle felt an inexplicable and intense tenderness toward his unmindful exposure. The sight of that thin line of abused flesh reminded her of her own hidden ugliness. “I don’t blame you for avoiding my company.”
“Why?”
She lifted her eyes to his. “I am dull, uneducated, poor—drab. Inferior in every way.”
“That is what you think?”
She nodded. The effort of enumerating her all too apparent shortcomings had exhausted her speech.
Silent as well, he studied her, as if to confirm the validity of her assertion. Isabelle resisted the urge to squirm beneath his examination. After all, he would see nothing she did not already know.
Then she realized—of course—what should have been obvious to her from his behavior. He knew. He had somehow discovered her secret. He had made inquiries, or someone had told him.
The shame of it nearly took her breath away. She felt naked before this man, the way she had sworn never to be again for any man.
“You must think I’m a truly horrible person.” Her cheeks heated with the admission, while inside, she felt frozen to the marrow.
He was shaking his head. “I only thought to spare you the discomfort of my company.”
Isabelle frowned, thinking at first that he mocked her, only gradually realizing that his eyes said otherwise. She saw neither distaste nor revulsion there, only kindness and concern. In her relief, she forgot her usual caution, and let slip an uncalculated confession.
“But I like your company.”
He made a strangled noise in his throat and rocked back on his heels, gripping the arm of her chair with both hands. “I think you mean that,” he said slowly, when his words finally came.
“Of course I do.”
The gap between his shirt cuff and glove had widened, exposing more of his scarred flesh. In that moment, Isabelle conceived a sudden desire, an insistent and profound need to know what it was that lay beneath the man’s mask. She had entertained a certain curiosity about it from time to time, which was only natural. But this was an altogether different impulse. She had to fight a nearly uncontrollable urge to lean forward and tear away the cloth covering his face.
Like her own shameful secrets, perhaps some things were best kept hidden. She held the handkerchief up by one corner, allowing the folds to fall free, and draped it across his wrists.
“I don’t need this any longer. Thank you.”
He inhaled sharply, immediately understanding that he had exposed his unsightly scars. He rose up on his knees, letting his fingers slide off the chair arm. His hands disappeared from sight in a flutter of white cloth.
Though she had not meant to insult him, that was exactly what she had done. She wanted to say she had meant to offer him back his modesty, which he had inadvertently breached. She wanted to say his scars did not offend her.
He got to his feet, glancing down at her a moment before surveying the room, looking from side to side as if he feared a trap.
“Good day, Miss Tate.” He gave a cursory bow and left the room without waiting for her response.
Isabelle stared at the neatly stacked papers he’d left her. She lifted one of them at random, smoothed it flat against the surface of the desk, then took a fresh sheet from the drawer. “Be careful what you wish for,” she murmured under her breath.
Mr. Nashe had been honest with her, she concluded. Exceedingly honest. Not so much by what he said as by what he did not. She had confessed, too forwardly perhaps, that she liked his company. But had he said he felt the same? No. Neither had he disagreed with her admission of her own faults.
She smiled wryly to herself, remembering their conversation on Sunday. She had told him she preferred they be frank with one another, and he’d agreed.
She was forced to admit that Mr. Nashe, at least, had kept his part of the bargain.
* * *
Jonathan watched Richard as he sat across the dining table, enjoying Cook’s most recent offering with his usual gusto. He had never been more grateful for Richard’s company than tonight, yet he could not remember a single line of their conversation since they sat down to dinner. A perplexing matter had occupied his thoughts, one that distracted him from fully engaging in their discourse.
Not only was he perplexed by the matter, he was at a loss how to introduce his question without seeming unduly interested in its answer. His friendship with Richard had always been a candid one. He might hide from the rest of the world as a matter of course, but never from Richard. Why, then, his impulse for secrecy concerning this one topic?
These were murky waters. Perhaps the best thing for it was to plunge in, and damn the consequences.
Richard had fallen silent, slicing into a portion of roast beef with the concentration of a surgeon. Jonathan seized his opportunity.
“Miss Tate said the most astounding thing to me today. I still cannot fathom it.”
Richard stopped with his fork in mid air. The beef dripped gravy back onto his plate while he stared across at Jonathan. With a sinking feeling, Jonathan began to realize that he must have sounded as troubled as he felt.
“What did she say? Or do you plan to keep me guessing?” Richard fini
shed the act of bringing fork to mouth and began to chew thoughtfully, never taking his eyes from Jonathan’s.
Jonathan felt his mouth go dry. He reached for his wineglass, stalling for time, and took a slow swallow. Richard was making far too much of his remark, studying him as if he were about to confess a shocking sin.
“She said she didn’t blame me for avoiding her company.”
Richard rested his knife and fork on his plate with exaggerated care, arching his brows quizzically when he’d finished. “Have you now?”
It was as much an accusation as a question. Too late, Jonathan recognized his mistake and quickly pleaded a defense. “I’ve been occupied with my work this week.”
Richard considered this excuse, then let the issue pass. “Is that all she said?”
“No. I was about to tell you.” Hearing the unintended sharpness in his voice, Jonathan hurried to explain before Richard took offense. “She said she was drab, poor, uneducated. My inferior in every way.”
“Oh dear. That was quite a speech.” Richard eyed him sharply. “What brought it on?”
Jonathan shook his head. “I haven’t a clue.”
It was God’s truth, he hadn’t the least idea.
Richard sat back in his chair, ignoring his dinner. “And how did you counter her statement?”
“I didn’t.”
“You didn’t?” Richard repeated, with an evenness that underscored his incredulity. Jonathan got the idea that perhaps he had, after all, just confessed a terrible sin, one he hadn’t known he’d committed.
“How could I counter the truth?” Surely the upstanding doctor did not expect him to lie. “She is poor, you have told me as much yourself. And I can only take her word that she is uneducated—most women are, for that matter. As for her drabness, you must be cognizant of her woefully sparse wardrobe. I’ve seen charwomen better dressed.”
Richard was shaking his head, had been doing so the entire time Jonathan was speaking. “You’re right, but I’m afraid you made a big mistake.”
“How so?”
He had done nothing save state the obvious. Why should Richard criticize him for that? Yet he was shaking his head again the way a parent would in disappointment at a child’s egregious error, one that, however innocently perpetrated, would nevertheless produce unfortunate consequences.
“My boy . . . ”
Jonathan huffed indignantly at Richard’s patronizing reminder of their difference in age.
“My boy,” Richard went on, ignoring his reaction. “Any time a woman denigrates herself, whether through a display of false modesty or in a moment of unfettered truth, you must deny all of it as utter nonsense. That is,” he paused significantly, “if you wish to preserve her good will toward you.”
Jonathan frowned. “Even a woman who prefers frankness?”
Richard leaned forward and tapped his finger against the table in the space between their plates. “Especially such a woman.”
“I don’t understand. Your statement is completely illogical.”
Richard nodded as if he’d finally gotten his point across. “That is your problem. You are approaching the question with logic, always a mistake where women are concerned.”
Jonathan took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “I have already put my foot wrong. There’s nothing to be done for it now.”
“Don’t give up so easily. True, women value praise above all else, but there is another thing almost as dear to them.”
“Please,” Jonathan gestured with an upturned palm, adding sarcastically, “enlighten me.”
“Contrition,” Richard declared. “A contrite apology, preferably accompanied by flowers, or chocolates, or a costly item of jewelry—depending on the degree of transgression, you understand. Such offerings will normally work wonders to reestablish yourself in her esteem.”
“Ah.” Jonathan’s left brow lowered as that side of his mouth curved down into a scowl.
He was certain that Miss Tate would reject such blatant bribery. Even if he were to buy her the world’s most expensive jewel, she would be loath to accept it from the hands of a monster.
The hands of a monster. Hadn’t she indicated her abhorrence at the sight of his scarred wrists? If she only knew, those scars were the least of his disfigurements. He could offer her far greater horrors. The sight of his face had already driven one young woman to her death.
Richard’s laughter intruded on Jonathan’s bitter thoughts. “You are perplexed,” he said. “Abandon logic and the mysteries of womankind will become much simpler to understand.”
“I cannot abandon logic,” Jonathan replied sullenly. “It is against my nature to do so.”
Richard picked up his knife and fork and resumed his meal as though the matter had been laid to rest. “You will, my boy, you will.” He scooped up a forkful of mashed potatoes, adding as he lifted them to his mouth, “If you ever find the right woman, you will.”
There is no woman for me, Jonathan thought, refusing to answer Richard’s sentimental drivel. It was demeaning to argue the point. Because however long he lived, he would die as chaste as a nun.
Chapter Twenty one
Garrick set out on foot, glad of the chance to reflect. He had rescheduled most of his appointments in order to get away by noon, an increasingly rare occurrence on Saturdays. At a time in his life when he longed for less occupation, his practice had burgeoned, leaving him little opportunity to preface his deeds with contemplation.
That, he told himself, was the reason, or at least the comforting lie he had fabricated to explain his incredible obtuseness. Why had it taken him until now to comprehend the catastrophic outcome of his own foolishness? Why hadn’t he foreseen the inevitable?
Jonathan lived as a hermit, had done so for so long that it was easy to forget he must long for human companionship. That he must have physical longings as well. The boy was showing signs of having formed an attachment to Miss Tate. The infatuation was, of course, futile and could only result in heartbreak.
To make matters worse, he had ended their last conversation with an insipid platitude they both knew to be false. When you find the right woman. When! God have mercy, those words haunted him.
Even had Jonathan reached adulthood unmarred, as handsome as his youthful features promised, it would have been near impossible for him to find a woman blind to his wealth, one who would love him as he deserved, for himself. And now? Only a saint could look past his hideous scars to see the kind, gentle soul beneath. Christ, even with all his years of medical experience, it was all he could do to bear the sight.
He needed a woman’s perspective to guide him through the mess he’d created. A wise woman, Garrick told himself as the jeweler’s shop came into view. But first he must buy her an appeasement for his long absence. It had been more than a month now.
“Dr. Garrick!” The shop’s owner greeted him with an effusive smile. He was, after all, one of the man’s best customers.
Garrick approached the counter, an answering smile on his face. He enjoyed doing business with someone who had come to understand his preferences so well.
“What may I do for you today, sir?”
Garrick cast a careless eye over the merchandise inside the glass case, knowing the man invariably chose for him with perfect taste. “A gift. Something substantial, but understated.”
“For Miss LaValle?” he ventured, already knowing the answer.
Garrick nodded.
“I think I have just the item.”
Of course, Garrick thought. He always did.
The jeweler pulled a key from his vest pocket and stooped to open one of the locked drawers, where he retrieved a velvet lined tray. Rising once more, he slid the tray onto the counter with the reverent theatricality of a priest performing mass. Garrick drew in an appreciative breath, pleased with the selection, yet appalled at what it would cost him.
Ah well, it was only money. Though he would never be able to boast Jonathan’s wealth—who could?—ne
ither would he ever have to concern himself with a lack of it.
“Exquisite,” he murmured, studying the pair of square cut emerald earrings and thinking such was the price of penance.
“They will complement the color of her eyes nicely.”
“Indeed.”
“I’m certain she will have nothing to compare with them.”
It was an unnecessary assurance. Monique sent all her patrons to this man. No doubt his records contained an impressive inventory of the jewels she had acquired from them.
Garrick looked up, smiling as he met the man’s eyes. “I’ll take them.”
“Excellent!” The man bobbed his head in approval, as though the selection had been Garrick’s all along. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll fetch an appropriate presentation box from the back of the shop.”
He left the room, leaving Garrick to ponder the reasons he had deprived himself of Monique’s company these past few weeks. He wasn’t seeking an excuse to give her—part of their understanding was the honesty between them. Rather, he sought to explain his behavior to himself, the strange hesitation that held him back when he normally would have been eager to call on her. He feared it was a symptom of a deeper malaise, a manifestation of the ennui that had lately crept into every area of his life.
There was a tapping at the shop window behind him, and Garrick turned to discover its source. On the other side of the glass, Jenny Tate waved at him while Mrs. Cooper stood a short distance back.
Garrick let out a short exclamation of surprised laughter. Jenny reciprocated with child like delight, beaming back at him. Her innocent joy warmed him through and through. His dark mood lifted, scuttled by her bright demeanor.
She exchanged a word with Mrs. Cooper, who frowned and shook her head. When Jenny headed for the shop entrance, Mrs. Cooper shrugged and sent Garrick a look that plainly said I tried to stop her.
“Dr. Garrick!” Jenny entered the shop, carelessly leaving the door ajar so the bell hanging from the lintel failed to sound its alert. She sailed toward Garrick, capturing him in the beacon of her smile. “Mrs. Cooper tells me it’s improper, but I couldn’t pass by without speaking to you.”
A Bed of Thorns and Roses Page 14
