She moved away from his lips, trailing her fingers along the ridge of his cheekbone toward his ears. His arousal quickly subsided at the knowledge of what she would find there—or worse, what she would not. The cartilage in his ear had been mutilated by the flames. A misshapen protuberance was all that remained, resembling the rubbery fungus that grew on trees. Jew’s ear, that was the common nomenclature. Hirneola auricula judae. More appropriately found growing from the bark of a tree than from a human head.
He tried to concentrate on the feel of her fingers running through his hair, but could only imagine her disgust at the bald expanse she was finding on the opposite side of his head. She followed the arch of his brow on one side. Flames had seared the hair follicles on the other, leaving a barren ridge covered only in scars.
When she had searched his scalp and discovered the boundaries of his hairline, she let her fingers drift down. He began to pray that the ordeal had ended, that she had tired of humiliating him, but it was not to be. She spread her palms over his cheeks and held his face between her hands, as if he were made of clay and she, the potter, could mold the unformed, lumpish mass into the shape she wanted.
He grew increasingly uncomfortable while he listened to the mantle clock tick away the seconds. God, would she never release him from her trap? She couldn’t know the effect she was having on him. Her innocence kept her from guessing the sexual heat generated by her prolonged touch.
“Have you seen enough?” he asked gruffly. He was ready to end her game.
“Yes,” she said after a long pause, seeming to wake from a dream. “I have.”
She withdrew her hands from beneath his mask, then leaned nearer, reaching around his neck to re do the ties. He caught her wrists and pushed her arms away.
“I’ll do it myself.” He had had enough of that particular variety of torture.
She leaned back, waiting for him to finish the task.
“There,” he said, to let her know when he was done.
Isabelle raised her arms and patted her head with her fingers, searching for the knot that fastened her blindfold. Her breasts lifted enticingly, and Jonathan took the opportunity to study their shape beneath her bodice. After the ordeal to which she had just subjected him, he had no qualms about ogling her. One could consider it a reparation of sorts.
“It’s too tight,” she said, and he wanted to agree, to relieve her of the confining bodice. She twisted around, offering her back. “Will you undo me?”
He swallowed hard. She was indeed the innocent, with no idea of the double entendre of her words. Had she never been corrupted by a single lustful thought?
“Yes, of course.” He leaned closer to untie the blindfold, letting his fingers sink into her hair while he pretended to struggle with the knot. She had been free enough with her fingers, after all, exploring his deepest shame.
He discovered her intrusion had been liberating, in that his resulting anger freed him from his former scruples. He had nothing left to lose.
“You have a strand of hair caught in the knot.” He lied shamelessly, using the excuse to pull out one of her hairpins. He stroked the long curl he’d freed, then let it fall against her neck. “I’m afraid I’ve loosened one of your hairpins.”
He smoothed the lock of hair aside, lightly brushing his fingertips along her neck as if by accident. She shivered at his touch. A frisson of disgust, no doubt.
He untied the knot before she grew suspicious of his game of subtle revenge. He was not de Sade, not by nature vindictive. If he were honest with himself, he would have to admit that his anger was a shield. He feared looking into her eyes, feared seeing the revulsion there. Because now she no longer needed to imagine, she knew for a certainty the horror that lay beneath his mask.
When he pulled away the blindfold, she turned to face him. The cloth had left an indentation on the delicate skin beneath her right eye. He studied it, telling himself to mark her imperfections so he would not have to contemplate his own.
“Thank you,” she said, with a sincerity that added to the damage already done.
He stared back at her incredulously. What could he say?
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
He had to laugh. Her lack of understanding was so profound it was ludicrous.
“Truthfully? Other than being trapped beneath a burning bedpost, with the smell of my own roasting flesh filling my nostrils?” He laughed again. “With that one exception, I would have to say it was the worst experience of my life.”
He was pleased to turn the tables on her for once. For once it was he who had left her speechless. He got to his feet.
“If you will excuse me, I need to have a strong drink. Alone.”
Jonathan left without waiting for her reply, going out the door that led directly to his rooms. As he mounted the stairs, he decided that he would ask her again to marry him—if she remained until the morrow.
If she could still bear to be in the same house with him.
If he could find the courage to be in the same room with her.
If.
Chapter Thirty seven
Isabelle shut herself in her room for the rest of the day, unable to face the others’ knowing looks and conspiratorial nudges when they returned. She avoided Jonathan, too, staying away from the library that evening, afraid that whatever she might do or say to him was certain to be wrong.
She had meant to prove to him that his scars didn’t matter to her, that his money didn’t matter, that only he mattered. What she meant for reassurance had instead turned out to be the worst experience of his life. She had made a complete mess of everything.
If only he knew. His proposal had been one of the worst experiences of her life. Offering to buy her companionship.
He couldn’t possibly know that she had already been bought, that she was soiled goods, useless, fit only for the refuse heap. She would sooner die than have him know her sordid past.
And yet she had made him give up his own secret. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Now she wondered what in heaven’s name she had been thinking.
Justice demanded that she offer her own secret in return. She knew she should. To be fair, she must. But, God help her, she could not.
It was all too confusing.
Isabelle spent a sleepless night turning the same problems over and over in her mind and, for all her effort, failing to arrive at any answers. She rose early, having decided it was better to take action than to brood endlessly. She had a plan of sorts and a restless energy that refused to be contained.
“Lordy, you look like a ghost, Miss Iz,” Will called out from the breakfast table when she entered the kitchen.
Cook stopped ladling porridge into Will’s bowl, holding the spoon in mid air. “You do look awful pea ked,” she said, pronouncing the last word with two syllables. By now Nellie, Roger, and Joe had all stopped eating, and were staring at her with open concern.
“Ow!” Will exclaimed when the gob of porridge fell off Cook’s spoon, sending a splash of milk onto his shirtfront.
“A headache. I didn’t sleep well,” Isabelle mumbled, glad that the mishap distracted the others from her half lie.
Nellie jumped up and found a bowl for Isabelle. Cook began ladling porridge into it, ignoring Isabelle’s insistence that she had no appetite.
“You and Master Jonathan together don’t eat enough to keep a bird alive.”
Cook referred to Jonathan the way she must have when he was young. Isabelle wondered if she still thought of him as the handsome boy in the portrait.
“I was wondering,” Isabelle said, changing the subject. “That is, if you don’t mind, Roger. Would you drive me into town this morning?”
Roger had just taken a large spoonful of porridge. Rather than speak with his mouth full, he nodded vigorously. Nellie shot him a reproving look, then spoke up to cover what she obviously thought was his lack of manners.
“He’ll be glad to take you, Miss. Anytime you want.”
/> Roger, who had swallowed by now, spoke for himself. “Sure enough. What time would you be wanting me to fetch you back?”
“I won’t want to keep you long.” Isabelle wondered if she would have time for a brief visit with Monique after she saw Jenny. She needed her friend’s advice. “I don’t want to be a bother.”
“No bother, Miss.”
“I’ve got plenty of places I need him to go for me,” Cook said over top of Roger. “You take as long as you like.”
“There’ll be hell to pay.” Joe slurped his coffee loudly.
“Mind your own business, Joe. That’s his affair.”
Joe laughed slyly at Cook’s sharp warning. “Right.”
Isabelle guessed from their exchange that Joe was somehow referring to Jonathan. She had begun to suspect that his senility was mostly an act, a convenient excuse for him to say whatever he pleased.
“Thank you.” With a nod toward Roger, Isabelle got to her feet. “I’ll gather my things and be ready whenever you want to leave.”
She was only a few steps out the door when Nellie caught up to her. “Begging your pardon, Miss.”
Nellie wore such a worried look that it occurred to Isabelle she might be jealous.
“You don’t plan to leave us, do you, Miss?”
The question gave her pause. “What makes you think that, Nellie?” she asked, avoiding an answer. Because, truth be told, she didn’t know the answer.
“It’s just—it’s none of my business, Miss—but you said you was to be gathering your things, like you planned on moving out.” Blushing, Nellie went on to confess, “I was worried.”
“I’m not planning to leave.” Shamed by Nellie’s candor, and her own lack of it, Isabelle felt obliged to add, “Not today.”
“Oh, thank the good Lord. We need you here, Miss.”
“Need me? Why? I’m little use to anyone here.”
“No, Miss, don’t you ever think that.” Nellie shook her head, frowning. “Things have been ever so much better around here since you came.”
“Things?” Nellie had emphasized the word in an odd manner, leaving Isabelle to wonder just what things she meant. “I’m happy to help however I can.”
Nellie’s expression brightened. Far more, Isabelle thought, than her simple offer warranted.
“Oh please, Miss. I need your help.”
“What is it?”
“I need you to speak to the master for me.”
Isabelle was about to say that, after yesterday, she was the last person Mr. Nashe would listen to. Before she could think of a way to explain, Nellie’s eyes filled with tears.
“I don’t want to lose my job here, Miss.”
“I can’t imagine why that would happen.”
Nellie’s tears spilled onto her cheeks, huge drops that appeared to be the prelude to a deluge. Wanting to comfort her, Isabelle ended by promising more than she probably should have. Because, for all she knew, she might be more in danger of losing her job than Nellie.
“Of course I’ll speak to Mr. Nashe in your favor. What do you want me to say?”
Nellie shook her head, barely able to speak. She screwed her face into a pitiful expression, fighting to keep her tears from turning into uncontrollable sobs.
“I’m sorry, Miss, I get so upset these days. It’s just . . . it’s just . . . ” She bit her lip, unable to hold back a sob. “I can’t talk about it now.”
Nellie abruptly turned on her heel and ran down the hall, past the kitchen and into the garden. Isabelle watched her go, shaken by the poor woman’s agitation. As much as she wanted to help her, she had no idea what to do.
Even had she known what to do, Nellie was wrong about her. She was useless. She couldn’t help Nellie. She couldn’t help Jonathan. She couldn’t even help herself.
* * *
Unlike Nellie, Roger seemed on top of the world as he drove the buggy into town. Nothing daunted him, even the constant danger of getting mired in the deep puddles left by the previous day’s drenching rain. When he wasn’t whistling, he was wearing a huge grin, as though remembering a particularly funny joke.
The more Isabelle thought about how upset Nellie had been, the more suspicious she became of Roger’s cheery mood. If he loved Nellie, how could he be so completely oblivious to her plight?
Unless he was the cause.
By the time they reached her house, Isabelle had so convinced herself of Roger’s culpability that she could barely bring herself to offer a civil farewell. They arranged to meet later at the park near Monique’s house, then Roger snapped the reins and drove off, whistling a cheerful tune, as oblivious of Isabelle’s cold politeness as he was of Nellie’s unhappiness.
Men, Isabelle thought with disgust as she rapped on the front door. Were there any who truly cared about a woman? Any who cared more about what they gave than what they got?
Mrs. Cooper opened the door. Seeing Isabelle, she let out an exclamation of surprise. “Miss Tate, you don’t know how glad I am to see you.”
Isabelle was about to return a greeting when Mrs. Cooper launched into a rambling speech, at the same time urging her inside.
“I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come. It’s a miracle, praise the good Lord. I haven’t been able to get an ounce of sense from the girl, she’s already packed her bags, and—oh my Lord, she’ll get herself killed, that’s what, she doesn’t know what she’s doing, she’s too young.” Mrs. Cooper paused to draw breath, then finished with one final plea. “Miss Tate, you have to stop your sister from making a terrible mistake.”
They were in the parlor now, swept along by the force of Mrs. Cooper’s agitation. “Please,” Isabelle said, trying to remain calm, “sit down and explain what this is all about.”
She sat down herself and proceeded to remove her gloves. Mrs. Cooper had not given her time to do so in the hallway, and now Isabelle found she needed something to occupy her hands to keep them from trembling.
Mrs. Cooper nodded, somewhat calmer now that she’d unburdened herself. Rather than take her seat, however, she crossed the room to a table the family used as a desk for letter writing and there retrieved a sheet of folded newsprint.
“Just look at this.” Mrs. Cooper thrust the paper into Isabelle’s hands, then fell onto the sofa with a loud sigh of relief, as though the weight of what it contained had taxed her strength to the limit.
After the way Mrs. Cooper had practically shoved the newspaper in her face, Isabelle was almost afraid to look at it. Mrs. Cooper’s behavior disturbed her. In fact, her entire performance was troubling. Isabelle had come to know her as a practical, level headed country woman, and certainly not one given to drama.
“There. There,” Mrs. Cooper said impatiently, pointing to the center of the page where a small paragraph of fine print had been circled in dark ink.
Isabelle read aloud. “Wanted for immediate hire: young ladies of good character to provide stenographic services. We place with reputable firms. Best pay. Training offered.”
“They’ll be wanting more than stenographic services,” Mrs. Cooper said. “Mark my words.”
Isabelle read the last few lines to herself, frowning. “This address is in New York.”
“You sound concerned, Isabelle. Isn’t New York far enough removed?” Jenny had entered the room unnoticed by either Isabelle or Mrs. Cooper.
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Cooper murmured under her breath.
“New York? Jenny, what in the world is this all about?”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you and Dr. Garrick, but I haven’t got the train fare to go as far as San Francisco.”
Mrs. Cooper could contain herself no longer. “I’ve tried to warn her, Miss Tate, what happens to young girls alone in big cities. Just look what that evil man did in Chicago. Killed so many he built a special furnace to get rid of their bodies.” She shook her head, then added ominously, “And that was after everything else he did to them.”
“What do you mean, disappoint
us?” When Jenny glared at her, refusing to answer, Isabelle looked to Mrs. Cooper for an answer. “And what does Dr. Garrick have to do with this?”
Jenny snatched the paper out of Isabelle’s hands. Mrs. Cooper gasped at the violence of her action.
“Don’t pretend you haven’t plotted behind my back to get rid of me. At least Richard had the honesty to tell me to my face that he wants me to leave.”
Isabelle’s hand instinctively went to her mouth to hold back an unthinking answer. It was a superfluous gesture, however; she was too stunned to speak. Finally, she managed to ask in disbelief, “Richard?”
Jenny colored a bright pink when she realized what she had revealed in the heat of the moment.
“I can’t believe he . . . ” Isabelle trailed off.
Jenny seized the advantage of Isabelle’s hesitation to go on the attack. “Can you even begin to imagine how it feels to be the object of your martyrdom? The means to your sainthood? You’ve sacrificed for me all your life. It was inevitable that you would come to resent me.”
Isabelle couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I wanted you to have a better life than mine—because I care for you, Jenny. Everything I do is for you.”
“Exactly! That is my burden, to know that I am yours. When I leave, you will finally have to live your own life, instead of living mine.”
Isabelle had heard how men in the heat of combat might receive a serious, even a mortal wound, and fight on, aware of the pain but, at the same time, removed from it. Jenny’s words sliced through her in a similar fashion. Somewhere, deep inside, she began to bleed, but she pushed aside the hurt, determined to win this battle for Jenny’s sake.
“I cannot permit you to make such a foolish—”
Jenny cut her off. “I don’t need your permission.”
“You are underage.”
Jenny threw the newspaper across the room, eliciting another gasp from Mrs. Cooper. “I am sick to the death of being told what—or whom—I am too young for!”
The scales fell from Isabelle’s eyes. She had been blind to the real cause of Jenny’s anger. Like the man in the Bible who was blind from birth, her astonishment at this newfound vision overwhelmed her normal restraint.
A Bed of Thorns and Roses Page 31
