“It was not my intent to demean your person.”
Jonathan backed away from her, into the wall. He looked ready to jump over the edge onto the rocks below. Isabelle approached him cautiously, wondering if she had the strength to pull him back from self destruction were he to try anything so foolish.
Instead, he turned aside when she reached him. Resting his elbows against the wall, Jonathan buried his face in his hands. He radiated a quiet despair, blacker and more powerful than any Isabelle had ever encountered, including her own. Seeing him like that, she forgot her own humiliation and anger. She wanted to comfort him, but didn’t know how.
“Will you please explain yourself to me?” Isabelle started to pull his hands away from his face, but thought better of her action. She had no wish, as he phrased it, to demean his person. “Please.”
Jonathan lowered his hands cautiously. Wanting him to see her expression, to understand that it held no condemnation, Isabelle turned to the side and leaned her shoulder against the wall so she might face him. Difficult as it was, she quelled the urge to press him further for an answer. In truth, she didn’t expect one. Having an intimate acquaintance with her own shame, she recognized it well enough in another. Some things were simply too painful to share.
“I killed a woman here,” he said, barely above a whisper.
His words sent a thrill of fear coursing through her that set her heart racing. Though the impulse lasted barely an instant, she had the mad desire to run from him. Yet even had she tried, she could not have moved. The shock of his confession kept her rooted to the spot.
They stood mere inches apart, their bodies almost touching. This belated realization of his nearness sent another jolt of fear through her, fear mingled with another feeling she couldn’t name, a feeling that drew her to him even as it repelled her.
Eventually, her heart slowed its pace, and the wild confusion of her emotions subsided. When she was once again capable of thought, the knowledge formed in her, whether by dint of reason or intuition, she didn’t know nor care, but she knew with greater certainty than she had ever known anything in her life.
“You aren’t capable of killing anyone.”
Jonathan drew in a heavy breath that flattened the mask beneath his nostrils, until Isabelle imagined she could just discern the shape of his mouth. He let his breath out before she could convince herself that she had actually seen anything.
“Perhaps not,” he admitted, then added ominously, “At least, not deliberately.”
“Then it was an accident.”
Jonathan clenched his fists, then splayed his fingers against the wall and studied them, exposing them to her scrutiny as well. If he meant to put her off in that way, Isabelle thought, he was sorely mistaken.
“It was an accident,” she repeated.
“Yes.” He stared at his hands as if he couldn’t bear to look her in the eye. His voice was a flat monotone. “My mother had not been long dead. I came here often, always at night in order to escape detection.”
When he stopped, Isabelle intuitively kept her silence. She knew the story was too painful for him to tell all at once.
“Though I planned to, I hadn’t yet bothered to dismiss my mother’s servants.” He inhaled sharply, releasing his breath in a deep sigh before adding in a voice filled with regret, “My procrastination cost everyone dearly.”
“You could not have known at the time.”
“I’m not seeking vindication,” Jonathan said sharply. He pressed his fingers into the wall as though he expected it to yield like soft clay.
Isabelle waited, afraid her well intentioned comment might stop him from telling the rest of his story. After a long pause, he continued.
“What I didn’t know at the time was that one of the young kitchen maids came here at night to meet her lover.” Jonathan laughed without humor. “He was an older man from the village. Married, so they sought to keep their rendezvous clandestine.”
He paused and, as before, inhaled deeply, letting his breath out slowly before going on. “I was inside the tomb. When I came out, she was sitting, just here, perched on the wall, waiting for her lover. It was a full moon, everything was visible. I saw her first, but before I could duck back out of sight, she saw me.”
Jonathan bowed his head against the wall, seeming to pray for strength to go on.
“I wasn’t wearing my mask,” he explained. “The horror was too much for her. She screamed, it was a scream to curdle the blood, and then she toppled backward.”
“Oh my god,” Isabelle murmured under her breath. “My god.”
“I ran to her, but it was too late.” Jonathan kept his head bowed, anguish evident in his voice. “The fall broke her neck.”
Isabelle struggled to think of something she could say to comfort Jonathan, but the words that came to mind seemed inadequate. She well knew that some wounds went too deep ever to heal.
“I’m a monster, nothing but a monster. I was the one who should have died that night.”
Isabelle began to cry. No longer caring that Jonathan might resist her comfort, she covered his hand with hers and gently pried his fingers away from the wall.
“You are not a monster.” She squeezed his hand, then brought his palm to her cheek. When Jonathan felt her tears, he looked up. Isabelle held his gaze, as tightly as she held his hand. “You will never be a monster to me.”
He started to avert his gaze, but she squeezed his hand in a silent demand that forced him to look her in the eye.
“I want you to see my face and judge my sincerity when I tell you this, Jonathan. I mean it with all my heart when I say that, to me, you are beautiful.”
Isabelle knew Jonathan didn’t believe her. She knew, too, she could never convince him, for the simple reason that she couldn’t tell him the reason. She could never explain why, in the deepest part of her being, all men appeared hideous to her. All men terrified her.
All but him.
Chapter Thirty two
Knowledge was a curse, Garrick decided, leaning forward to lower the shade where the setting sun shone through the carriage window. Seated across from him, Isabelle slept peacefully, exhausted by Monique’s relentless quest to augment the dressmaker’s creations. They are necessities, Monique had said when he expressed amazement at the small mountain of boxes stacked in her entry hall. Poor Roger had suffered a devil of a time loading and securing all the packages for their return to Nashe House.
Garrick settled back against the seat, angling his body to gain the room to stretch his legs. His aging joints predicted the weather as well as any barometer. In a couple of days they would have rain; he could feel it in his bones. His knees, especially, tended to protest if forced to remain in a cramped position for any length of time.
When he had made himself as comfortable as possible, Garrick allowed himself to study Isabelle with a forthright interest normally constrained by the rules of polite society. In sleep, he noticed, her features lost their perpetual strain. The years that hardship had artificially added to her appearance melted away, restoring the youth and freshness so brutally stolen from her years before. Garrick couldn’t help thinking of Jenny, her innocence and beauty yet preserved. He knew Isabelle was to thank for that. Despite adversity, despite Alfred Tate’s profligacy, she had managed to protect Jenny.
It was time she had some help with the job.
The carriage hit a pothole and jolted Isabelle awake, at the same time throwing her to one side. Garrick tried to move his legs out of the way, but lacked the quickness, and made matters worse by tangling his feet in Isabelle’s skirts.
“Désolé.” He said it without thinking, probably reverting to French, he realized, because his thoughts so often turned to Simonne during his trips in this carriage. Garrick laughed at himself and pulled his legs out of the way, repeating his apology in English. “I beg your pardon.”
He looked over at Isabelle, who was clinging to the hanging strap with both hands, pale as a cadaver. The look
of terror on her face passed in an instant, but in that time, Garrick saw plainly what she usually succeeded in disguising. She does not like men, Monique had said, but Monique didn’t know the half of it. God knew, Isabelle had good reason not to like men, but her feelings went beyond dislike or even hatred. She was terrified of men.
“Sorry.” Garrick apologized a second time, pressing his legs against the seat to give Isabelle more room.
He wondered what courage it took for her to be here with him, alone in the carriage. She had no reason to trust him or any other man after what she had suffered. At times, the fact of his gender shamed him. Mankind would some day be called into account for its crimes against the fairer sex.
“I must have fallen asleep.” Isabelle’s wan smile did little to dispel her look of uneasiness.
Garrick answered with a nod, grateful for the social conventions that prevented them from acknowledging their mutual awkwardness.
“I’ve no doubt you’re tired. Monique can set quite a pace when she has her mind fixed on acquiring the latest fashion.”
“She is kind to offer her guidance. I must confess, it is a subject on which I am woefully ignorant.”
“Monique has a generous nature.” Garrick relaxed, seeing that Isabelle had begun to regain her composure. “And I am certain she enjoyed every minute of your shopping expedition.”
“I wish Jenny had agreed to join us.”
Isabelle said this with a wistfulness that made Garrick feel somehow to blame. Nevertheless, he was relieved that she had provided an opening for him to introduce the subject that had lately occupied his mind.
“Speaking of Jenny,” he began.
The waning light made it difficult to read Isabelle’s expression. Garrick had no idea how she might react to his suggestion. He decided to proceed anyway and simply hope for the best.
“Mrs. Cooper has proved to be a conscientious companion for her, but I can’t help thinking Jenny needs the company of young ladies her own age.”
“I’m afraid she has little opportunity to enjoy such.”
The remorse in Isabelle’s quiet statement spurred Garrick to reveal his plan without further ado. “Jenny would no doubt enjoy attending a young ladies’ academy.”
“I’ve often thought so myself, but—”
“Good, we agree.” Garrick interrupted before Isabelle could voice her objections. “I am familiar with an excellent establishment I can wholeheartedly recommend.”
“I could never afford, Dr. Garrick, to—”
“Hear me out, Miss Tate.”
After interrupting her a second time, Garrick waited for Isabelle’s permission to continue. The task of persuading her would have been so much simpler if he were able to reveal Alfred Tate’s reprehensible threats.
Isabelle nodded. “Of course, Dr. Garrick. Do go on.”
“My mother and sister both attended the school. So you see, it is a part of my family’s tradition. And after my sister’s death . . . ”
Garrick paused to take a breath, stumbling over the emotion in spite of himself. After all these years, the fact of his sister’s death still had the ability to catch him unawares, striking him at the most unexpected moments with the same shocked disbelief he’d experienced the first time he heard the news.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
Garrick inclined his head, acknowledging her condolence before he continued.
“I established an endowment in my sister’s memory which provides the means for a deserving American girl to attend. Jenny is obviously deserving, and were I to recommend her, she could begin in September, when instruction recommences after the summer holidays.”
Isabelle stared down at her hands, which lay folded in her lap. “You are very kind to give so much thought to my sister’s welfare.”
Garrick watched her stroke her thumb across the scar on her left palm, a nervous gesture that she must have adopted in lieu of her old habit of fingering her frayed sleeve cuff. He waited patiently, giving Isabelle time to consider, satisfied that she would be hard put to find any real objection to his plan.
She looked up suddenly, her eyes wide with alarm. “You said a deserving American girl. Where is this school?”
Ah, well. He had been prepared for this one objection. There was no way around it.
“Switzerland.”
Garrick watched her expression cloud. It occurred to him that Isabelle had lived her life in pursuit of Jenny’s happiness. Without Jenny, she would be forced to confront the problem of her own.
“Switzerland,” Isabelle repeated. “Switzerland is so far from home.”
Of course, that was exactly the idea, though he couldn’t say so. “She will benefit from a new setting.”
“So far from everything she has known.” Isabelle went on as if speaking to herself. “And the expense, over and above her tuition.”
“Leave that to me.”
Isabelle shook her head. “There is a limit to the generosity we could accept and remain in good conscience.”
Garrick feared he had pushed her too far. He nodded, conveying his understanding of her dilemma. There would be time later to convince her. For now, it was enough to have introduced the idea.
“This is a decision not to be taken lightly. All I ask is that you entertain the possibility. We can discuss the details further after you’ve had time to think about it.” Garrick considered playing his best card. Perhaps he was taking unfair advantage, but in the end, he was not above laying down his ace. “After you’ve had time to think what such an opportunity would mean for Jenny’s welfare. For her future happiness.”
* * *
Jonathan stood at his window, cautiously parting the curtain to peer down at Isabelle and Richard alighting from the carriage. To think, he had stood just so the week past, experiencing precisely the same feelings. Jealousy of Richard, and his time alone with Isabelle during the ride from town. Jealousy, even, of Roger, who called over his shoulder cheerfully as he unloaded the carriage.
Nellie hurried out to meet them, laughing as she greeted Isabelle, unable to hide her excitement at seeing the piles of boxes. Isabelle, too, looked happy, and he hated her happiness more than any lover she might have had, because it was a happiness she had found apart from him.
He had been insane the week before, insane to think he had the will to send her away. Watching her now, fear seized him, the fear of losing something he’d never possessed. How could he live if she were to leave?
He longed for her. He burned for her, and yet he could never have her.
Better to burn with her near than try to carry on in her absence. He had lied to himself the week before. Now he accepted the truth. He could never allow her to leave.
Never.
Chapter Thirty three
“Do come in.” Jenny ushered Isabelle into the parlor as though she were a stranger in her own home. Instead of welcoming Isabelle to take a seat beside her on the sofa, Jenny gestured her toward the armchair usually reserved for guests. Isabelle took her seat, settling her skirt around her with excessive care before she looked across at Jenny.
“Lovely weather today.” She glanced out the window at the sky, where gray clouds hovered ominously.
Jenny followed her gaze. “Indeed.”
They stared at one another uncomfortably. In the past, they would have laughed at Isabelle’s mistake. Today, such openness seemed impossible.
“You’ve heard nothing from Father, then?”
“Not a word.” Jenny shrugged, pretending an indifference Isabelle knew to be a lie.
Because Jenny had never borne the brunt of their father’s anger, she retained an affection for him that Isabelle could no longer claim to feel. After years of suffering his drunken rants and, worse, his cold disapproval when sober, Isabelle’s feelings toward him had grown as barren as her womb. At the moment, seeing the pain their father’s abandonment caused Jenny, she considered it a wonder she didn’t despise the man.
Mrs. Co
oper appeared in the doorway, carrying a large tray. “I expect you’ll be wanting some tea,” she announced cautiously before entering the room.
As Mrs. Cooper put the tray down, Isabelle smiled at the older woman with genuine gratitude. More than refreshment, she needed this welcome interruption to the strained conversation with her sister.
“Thank you, Mrs. Cooper. I’ll pour,” Jenny said officiously, springing out of her seat before anyone could object.
Jenny was as glad of the interruption as she, Isabelle realized, and eager to assert herself in her new role as the lady of the house.
“I imagine the two of you have a lot to talk about.” Mrs. Cooper began to move toward the door. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“No, Mrs. Cooper, stay.” Isabelle winced at the unintentional sharpness in her voice. She went on to explain, careful to speak more gently. “I have something to discuss with my sister which may affect you as well.”
“No sugar, no milk.” When Jenny held the cup and saucer under her nose, Isabelle looked up with a smile. “It is still the way you like it, is it not?”
Isabelle’s smile faded. Jenny’s seemingly polite question contained a hidden barb, the implication that she had changed while at Nashe House.
“And you, Mrs. Cooper?”
Jenny turned away from Isabelle as she spoke. Pointedly so, Isabelle thought, regretting now that she had abandoned her earlier attempts at letter writing. Her sister’s resentment went deeper than she had imagined. A letter would have given her time to consider the idea in private.
Jenny handed a cup of tea to Mrs. Cooper, then set about pouring one for herself, her deliberate lack of haste another silent rebuke. Isabelle began to think that perhaps she deserved the come uppance. Perhaps she had changed. She smoothed a wrinkle from her taffeta skirt. Wearing one of her new dresses had been a mistake. Jenny must believe that she was putting on airs, paying a visit for the sole purpose of showing off her new finery.
Isabelle studied the clear amber liquid in her cup. A few tea leaves had settled at the bottom, unfurled into an odd shape that resembled a human profile.
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