“This isn’t about me,” she blurted out. “It’s about your infatuation with Dr. Garrick.”
Jenny had paced to the end of the room. On hearing Isabelle’s words, she whirled around to face her sister with a look of unrestrained fury.
“I am not infatuated!”
Jenny looked so much like their father in one of his rages that Isabelle rose to her feet without thinking. She dismissed the uncomfortable recognition and, sensing victory in truth, pressed her point home.
“You think you are in love with him.” Isabelle went to Jenny and placed her hands on her sister’s shoulders in a comforting manner. “Eventually, the intensity of your feelings will fade. You’ll be able to look at the situation with greater reason.”
Jenny shrugged Isabelle’s hands away. “What do you know of love?”
She glared at Isabelle, who saw more than anger in her sister’s eyes. She saw the desire to wound.
“You will never fall in love. You don’t even like men.” Jenny paused for effect, then delivered her worst blow. “You’re nothing but a gelding!”
Jenny stormed from the room before Isabelle had a chance to respond. Not that she could have. Jenny’s accusations had left her dumb with shock.
Mrs. Cooper came up behind her. “She’s upset, she didn’t really mean all those things she said.”
Isabelle nodded, hearing Mrs. Cooper’s words without absorbing their meaning. Nothing meant anything to her now. She reached for Mrs. Cooper’s hand and gripped it tightly, clinging to the woman’s good will like someone hanging onto the side of a cliff.
“I need to think what to do.” She needed help. “I need to get help.”
Isabelle headed for the front door with one thought in mind. She had to get out of that house. She had to get away and think what to do.
Mrs. Cooper followed her outside, standing on the stoop to see her off. “Please,” Isabelle said in farewell, “do your best to keep her here.”
“Of course, Miss Tate. I’ll do all I can.” Mrs. Cooper’s expression clearly betrayed her belief that there was nothing she could do to stop Jenny.
Isabelle nodded, unable to say more. Once she reached the street corner, she began to run toward Monique’s house, heedless of the stares of passersby.
* * *
Though she eventually slowed to a walk, Isabelle was still breathless when she reached Monique’s townhouse. The maid let her in and, taking one look at her, led her straight to the parlor.
As they passed by the mirror, Isabelle caught sight of herself. She stopped, startled by her own appearance. Her cheeks were red from exertion. Not only that, she had lost several hairpins while she ran, allowing her hat to slide askew. She stopped long enough to remove her hatpin and toss her hat onto the entry table. Her hair was in complete disarray, and she had forgotten her gloves when she left Mrs. Cooper.
But she was past caring about her appearance. All she wanted was to pour out her troubles to a friend, someone wiser than she who could tell her what to do. Too late, she heard the sound of a man’s voice, and it occurred to her for the first time that Monique might be entertaining company.
When Isabelle entered the parlor, Monique and her gentleman caller turned as one in her direction. Isabelle knew their expressions of astonishment mirrored her own. Monique’s caller was Dr. Garrick.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“Not at all, my dear. Richard was just leaving.” Monique looked at him pointedly. “Weren’t you Richard?”
Dr. Garrick answered her with a look of exasperation.
It was then Isabelle was struck by an uncomfortable realization. Not only had she barged in unannounced, she had intruded on an argument.
“Yes, I was,” Dr. Garrick said stiffly, after an awkward pause.
“No, don’t go!” Isabelle blushed at her own rudeness. She took some comfort in the fact that her cheeks were already red. With any luck, Dr. Garrick might attribute her high color to her physical state, and not her embarrassment. “I mean, please. Stay. I need your help.”
Dr. Garrick quickly found a side chair and placed it behind Isabelle. “Here, sit down.”
He studied her closely as she sat, then reached for her wrist to feel her pulse.
Isabelle pulled her arm away. “I’m fine, Dr. Garrick. Please don’t concern yourself.”
Monique came up beside him. She clucked her tongue, shaking her head and frowning at Isabelle. “You do not look fine.”
Isabelle had to tilt her chin up to look at them both. They were hovering over her like a pair of mother hens, concern written on their faces. Whatever differences they were having when she arrived had been for the moment set aside.
Isabelle felt like a small child caught in a misdeed who has attracted unwanted attention from the adults around her. And like a small child, she couldn’t hold back her tears.
“Jenny is leaving home.” Her voice sounded like a child’s, too. High and thin. She turned an accusing look on Dr. Garrick. “Because of you.”
“Ha!” Monique exclaimed. She put her hands on her hips and looked at Dr. Garrick triumphantly, as though Isabelle had just won their argument for her.
“Me?” Dr. Garrick’s dumfounded expression was soon replaced by a slow flush that started at his collar and spread up to his hairline. “What did she say?”
“She accused us of plotting together to send her away. She thinks she will find work in New York.” Isabelle looked at Monique in a silent plea for support before turning again to Dr. Garrick. “Please help me stop her.”
Dr. Garrick backed away from her, his hands held out from his sides in a gesture of helplessness. “What can I do? I’m not her guardian. I have no legal right to prevent her from doing anything.”
“No, but she might actually listen to you.”
“Of course she will,” Monique chimed in.
A strange mix of emotions played across Dr. Garrick’s face, eventually settling into a hard expression. Isabelle would have thought him heartless, if not for the pain in his eyes. She wondered whether he, too, had suffered cruel words from Jenny.
“I fear I could only make matters worse.”
“Please.” Isabelle was ready to fall to her knees and beg.
Dr. Garrick took a deep breath and let it out as a prolonged sigh.
“This is a delicate matter.” He looked across at Monique as he spoke, so that Isabelle couldn’t be sure whether he was speaking to her or Monique. “An extremely delicate matter.”
“Which I am sure you are more than able to handle.” Monique gave him a mocking smile followed by a smoldering sweep of her eyes. Isabelle turned her head aside, blushing furiously, when she saw where Monique’s gaze came to rest.
“More than able,” Monique repeated.
“I will do what I can,” Dr. Garrick said coldly. He fixed Monique with a look of barely contained anger, then bowed to Isabelle. “I wish I could give you a more definite assurance.”
“Thank you, Dr. Garrick.”
“I’ll let myself out,” he said, without glancing in Monique’s direction.
Monique watched him go, a smile of unmistakable affection playing at the corners of her mouth. The expression was completely at odds with the haughty, uncaring look she had given him before he turned his back. Seeing the inexplicable change in Monique, Isabelle was all the more convinced she would never understand the feelings that passed between a man and a woman.
Her sister was right, of course. She had been violated before she was yet a woman, an act that had left her feelings toward men as barren as the abortion had left her womb.
When she heard the front door close, Monique laughed. “Men!”
Isabelle started. She felt as if Monique had read her thoughts.
“Sometimes they are like small boys. You simply have to take them in hand and tell them how to behave.”
Monique laughed again, then walked purposefully to the other side of the room, where she opened the door of a p
ainted Chinese cabinet and took down a crystal decanter. She poured a generous glass of deep amber liquid, which she carried back to Isabelle and placed in her hand.
“Drink this,” she ordered. “You look like hell.”
“Thank you.” Isabelle smiled wryly. “I know I can always depend on frankness when I ask your advice.”
Monique laughed. “Even when you don’t ask.”
Isabelle took a sip from the glass and coughed. “My goodness, this is strong.”
“Armagnac. The very best brandy.” She pursed her lips and with a lift of one shoulder added, “You look to need it. Now drink.”
Isabelle obeyed. The second sip went down more smoothly, the third even more so. She began to relax, only by contrast realizing just how upset she had been.
Monique took the empty glass from Isabelle and pulled another chair next to hers. “Now tell me what is troubling you.”
“I don’t know where to begin.”
“I already understand about Jenny,” Monique said mysteriously, putting an end to that subject. “Tell me what else it is that is troubling you.”
Isabelle couldn’t bring herself to speak of Jonathan’s proposal, nor of her violation of his secret shame. Violation. That was exactly the word. In the name of trust, she had abused his. She wanted to find a way to atone for the wrong she had done him.
Isabelle remembered the sheet of paper tucked in her skirt pocket. What she had in mind did not qualify as atonement, but perhaps Jonathan might receive it as a gesture of apology. She retrieved the paper, neatly folded into quarters, unfolded it, and smoothed out the wrinkles.
“I copied this poem a few days ago, hoping you might translate it for me. Jonathan—” Isabelle corrected herself. “Mr. Nashe has read it aloud to me a number of times, and I thought it might be a nice surprise if I could recite the poem for him in English.”
“But of course.” Monique took the paper from her. Before looking at what was written there, she arched one eyebrow and said coyly, “Poetry, is it?”
Isabelle nodded mutely, aware that she was blushing.
Monique didn’t bother to read over the poem first, but launched into her translation immediately. “I am dying . . . I am dying without . . . ”
She stopped suddenly, with a frown that worried Isabelle.
“Have I made a mistake? Did I copy it wrong?”
Monique ignored her, frowning all the more as she read. “Oh, la la,” she murmured under her breath. “Mon Dieu.”
Isabelle watched in disbelief as Monique blushed a bright crimson. “What is it?”
Monique bolted to her feet, carrying the poem with her to the window. She leaned her head to one side against the glass while she read, stopping every so often to utter another oh la la. Isabelle began to think that perhaps Monique was too vain to admit she needed spectacles.
When Monique finished reading to herself, she looked up, staring at Isabelle as though seeing her for the first time. She turned abruptly, went to the cabinet, and poured a glass of Armagnac, drinking it down in one long swallow. When she had finished, she returned to her chair beside Isabelle.
“And I thought nothing could make me blush.” She cast Isabelle a sheepish look, then shrugged, though not with the same nonchalance she usually gave the gesture. “I think I . . . while I was reading, you know, I think I came.”
“Came?” Isabelle asked, with a total lack of comprehension.
Monique took Isabelle’s hand in hers. “My dear, we must have a long talk. There is much I need to explain to you.” With her free hand, she fanned herself with the sheet of paper. “However, give me a few moments to recover before I read this to you.”
“Certainly.” Isabelle didn’t quite know what to make of Monique’s behavior. She cast about in her mind for something else to say, but eventually gave up and closed her eyes, trying to recapture the sensation of mellow warmth left by the brandy. An idea came to her then out of nowhere, and she wondered why she had never thought of it before.
“Monique.” She looked shyly at her friend. “I have a favor to ask.”
“What is it, my dear?”
“I should like to meet your Mr. Galbraith.”
Monique looked shocked, but quickly covered her surprise with a teasing question. “Should I be jealous?”
“No.” Isabelle shook her head, laughing at the ridiculous suggestion that Monique should ever have occasion to be jealous of her. “I simply wanted to question him about his profession.”
“His profession? Do you wish to take to the stage?”
Isabelle blushed that Monique would think her so foolish. But for Jonathan’s sake, she overcame her embarrassment and continued. “I want him to teach me what he knows.”
“Please, my dear.” Monique leaned closer, her eyes alight with the enjoyment she always showed for any behavior that smacked of the unconventional. “Explain to me what it is you want to know.”
“It’s just an idea I had, probably a foolish one. I realize I’m asking quite a lot.”
Monique appeared to be thinking. “Tell me, does your Mr. Nashe have any more poems like this one?” She waved the sheet of notepaper in the air to illustrate.
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Isabelle said cautiously. She had yet to understand Monique’s reaction to the poetry. “He has an entire book of them.”
“Oh la la.”
Monique closed her eyes with a look on her face that reminded Isabelle of the time she had first tasted Cook’s chocolate cake. When Monique roused herself from her momentary reverie, her eyes sparkled with mischief.
“How do you say? One good deed deserves another.” She giggled. “Or perhaps it is a bad deed.”
“What do you mean?”
“If I do this favor for you, will you copy out those poems for me?” Monique grinned. “All of them.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
With a grunt of frustration, Jonathan laid his book aside. He had read the same page a dozen times and was no closer now to absorbing its meaning than when he’d first begun. The words slid past his understanding like oil poured over glass.
Of course, the mere inability to concentrate was a vast improvement over his sorry state the night before, the culmination of a day spent in dogged determination of attaining a single goal, that of drinking himself into a stupor. Sometime in the early morning hours he had passed out, stretched across his bed fully clothed, with no memory when he awoke of how he had gotten there.
The best he could say for himself was that he had not resorted to laudanum. Or worse.
Though the lesser evil, the whiskey exacted its price, one he had been paying most of the day. It was late afternoon before his headache finally dissipated and he found the energy to draw himself a bath. After a long soak and a change of clothes, he emerged with renewed energy. The leaden weight that had encased his limbs lifted, and he began to regain his normal ease of movement. The alcohol’s lingering effects gradually faded, replaced by a rather pleasurable sense of lethargy.
Jonathan contemplated the book he’d set aside. While his physical condition had improved, he could not say the same for his mental faculties. Plato’s discourses required more lucidity than he possessed at the moment.
Tante Auguste’s book of poems better suited his mood. But lately, when did it not? Because he could think only of Isabelle. She had become inextricably intertwined in his imagination with the erotic verses, most of which he knew from memory, all of which he had pictured in vivid detail, envisioning every intimacy, every seduction, every shameless act described.
He often wondered, had he lain with a woman, would his lust persist to such a heightened degree? Did most men experience a lesser ardor once their appetite was sated? Or did they become gluttons? As for himself, he was like a starving man who imagines the taste of a thousand delectable dishes while slowly dying of hunger.
Jonathan pressed his fingers to his temples. The faint drumming noise inside his head grew louder, and louder still, until he co
uld no longer account for it as the blood pulsing through his arteries. Most distinctly now, the sound originated outside his window.
Jonathan leaned across the arm of his chair and parted the curtains. A man on horseback was approaching the house.
Richard!
Dully, Jonathan tried to think why the sight was so disturbing. Then the reason came to him. The sun was setting, and Richard was riding in alone. Why? Richard always took a carriage if he was out after dark.
Today was Monday, was it not? Or had he slept for days, not hours? Could it actually be Thursday, the day for their weekly dinner?
Surely to God he hadn’t been that drunk.
Jonathan watched as Will came bounding out of the house, flapping his arms in greeting. As soon as Richard dismounted, the boy held out his hand for a coin, then took the reins and led the horse to the stables.
Before Richard could make his way inside, Isabelle darted out of the house, her expression a strange mix of eagerness and—what? Consternation? She immediately engaged Richard in an animated exchange, gesticulating vigorously, her rising color evident even in the waning light. Their conversation—at least to Jonathan’s eyes—grew heated.
Or, if events confirmed his worst fears, the more accurate word was passionate.
He kept telling himself his was an irrational emotion, a brutish possessiveness of Isabelle that he had no reason nor right to assert. And Richard was his friend. His most trusted friend.
His only friend.
But—damnation!—the sight of them together. When they turned and entered the house, he had to grip the arms of his chair to keep from leaping out of his seat and charging after them. There was little time to calm himself before footsteps approached along the hallway, followed by an energetic knock at his door.
A humiliating possibility suddenly occurred to Jonathan. The vigorous discussion between Richard and Isabelle may have concerned him. Perhaps she had complained about his advances. Perhaps they were both standing outside his door, waiting to confront him.
“Who is it?” He glanced toward his bedroom door, resisting the urge to spring from his chair and make a run for it.
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