The conversation she referred to had taken place weeks ago. It was astonishing that she should remember. Although, for his part, he had rehearsed their every exchange, afterward examining each phrase, turning her words over and over in his mind until he could recite them from memory.
Jonathan sighed in defeat. He was losing this argument—if, indeed, it was an argument.
“Please, enlighten me, Isabelle.”
As soon as he said the words, he regretted them, because he knew she would do just that. She would tear away his veil, his mask, and everything else he hid behind, and expose the naked truth.
“I want the same as you, Jonathan.”
She laid her hand on his leg, as delicately as a butterfly coming to rest. He twitched violently, his body reacting before he could stop himself.
“I want to be loved, despite my scars.” She paused, then added, “Perhaps even because of them.”
Just as he had feared. The truth was a weapon without pity. “La belle dame sans merci.”
“What does that mean?”
He groaned. She had defeated him. Utterly.
“It means you are right. It means I can never deny you anything. I can’t stop you from leaving me. Whether you go or stay, I can’t stop loving you.”
When he finished his speech, his pathetic declaration of surrender, she moved closer, leaning against him. The soft weight of her breast rested against his arm. He tried to twist away from her, but any farther and he would fall off the bed. Every muscle in his body tensed, including the one between his legs.
“I love you, too, Jonathan. If you turn toward me, if you show me your face, I will still love you.”
He couldn’t answer her. He couldn’t move. Her words had paralyzed him.
“Trust me,” she pleaded, and placed her palm against his cheek to turn his head toward her.
He caught her hand and pulled it away. “You’ve no need to doubt my trust. But I . . . ” He faltered, coward that he was, then forced himself to go on, choking out the words. “I’m not ready yet.”
“What can I do to help you?”
He let go of her hand, then realized his mistake, one that would cost him dearly, if frustration were counted as currency. She let her hand fall to his waist, nearly touching his swollen cock. He had to wonder if it was a deliberate move on her part. Surely to God, she couldn’t be that ignorant. What could she do to help? Did she really want to know the answer to that question? “Let me ask you something.”
“Yes?”
He chose to ignore the uncertainty in her voice and presumed her permission. “Are you ready?”
She didn’t answer at first, probably uncertain as to his meaning. He let her work it out for herself, knowing she had when she made a soft huffing sound, a toneless exhalation that landed somewhere between surprise and understanding.
Of course, she might have been laughing at him. He prayed she wasn’t laughing.
“Ready?” she echoed, as if buying time to consider. Her breasts moved against his chest each time she took a breath. Her heart was pounding so hard, he felt the pulse of it inside his own body.
Or perhaps it was his own heart pounding. He had risked everything by openly stating his desire. His audacity appalled him.
“I think,” she began slowly, then hesitated, no doubt searching for the kindest words with which to break his heart. Killing him with her kindness. Seconds ticked by, each one an eternity in hell.
He had been a fool to ask. “You don’t have to—”
She cut him off. “Yes. Yes, I do. I mean . . . ”
What made him think she would ever choose to be with a man, any man, much less a monster?
“Jonathan?” She whispered his name, her breath warm against his neck. “I’m ready. At least, I’m ready to try. With you.”
He closed his eyes, his relief so profound that it was all he could do to absorb the feeling.
Almost immediately, doubts crept in, and he began to wonder. How long should he wait? How much time should he give her to rescind her consent? Then she moved against him—dare he believe it?—impatiently.
“Isabelle.” He spoke with his head turned away, still unable to show his face.
“Yes?” She sounded breathless.
“Turn down the lamp.”
Chapter Forty-eight
Thursday, May 9
My dearest Jonathan,
I blush as I write the words. Am I too bold to address you thus? And yet I want to write the phrase again and again. My dearest Jonathan, my dearest Jonathan, my dearest—I miss you already.
It was almost noon by the time we arrived today. Roger helped me with my bags, then left immediately, refusing to stay for lunch. He was anxious to get back to Nellie, afraid to leave her for so much as half a day. His concern for her and the baby is touching.
Jenny did not greet me with open arms. Rather than a word of welcome or a sisterly kiss upon seeing me, she announced that nothing I nor anyone else might do could keep her from marrying Dr. Garrick. She won’t allow me to voice my objections. If I try to introduce the subject, she cuts me off at once. How can I make her come to her senses if she refuses to hear me out?
Dr. Garrick has hired a housekeeper for Jenny, since Mrs. Cooper left unexpectedly. Jenny won’t discuss her departure, only to say it is for the best. Mrs. Cooper was always dependable, a levelheaded country woman full of common sense. I suspect she may have offered her opinion concerning Jenny’s marriage plans and was rewarded for her honesty with dismissal. If that is the case, I truly regret that Jenny has proved so petty and unwilling to forgive. I hardly know the person my sister has become.
Talking her out of this marriage promises to be a daunting task, more so than I’d ever imagined. Her infatuation has blinded her to the difficulties that lie ahead. She will be forced to endure society’s disapproval, the arrogant smirks, the turned heads, the whispered remarks behind her back. And worse than those who shun her outright are the gossips, those who will invite her into their society for the sole purpose of discovering more reasons to condemn her. Dr. Garrick’s wealth and position will protect him, but Jenny has neither.
Please be patient with me, Jonathan. I have to do what I can to stop her, or spend the rest of my life regretting my failure to act. I cannot leave until I have done everything within my power to protect my sister from her misguided romantic notions.
And when I have done what I can do, I will return. Where else would I go? My home is with you now. Never doubt that I love you, because I do. I love you.
I am yours, always,
Isabelle
Friday, May 10
Dearest Jonathan,
What a day I’ve had! It is ten o’clock in the evening, and this is the first opportunity I’ve had since breakfast to retreat to the privacy of my room and write you. Jenny insisted I come with her to the dressmaker’s, and after that, to the hat maker’s, and after that to at least half the shops in town. I’ve no doubt we’ll visit the other half before the week is out. Her plan must be to exhaust me to the point that I’ll not have the strength to present an obstacle to her plans.
And what plans she and Dr. Garrick are making! After their marriage, they mean to travel abroad. Jenny says Dr. G. has promised her new gowns from the best couturiers in Paris. He has talked of renting a townhouse there for a season, or if not Paris, then perhaps London or Edinburgh—or all three! Jenny’s feet scarcely touch the ground, she is so carried away by all his promises. And she has the ridiculous notion that in Europe no one will look askance at their age difference. I hope for her sake she is right.
The three of us had dinner tonight at the Ritz Hotel. Dr. Garrick could not have been more charming, which immediately encouraged my worst suspicions. I couldn’t tell if he was sincere, or if it was an act for my benefit—or, more likely, for Jenny’s. He nearly gave away his true feelings for a brief moment when his eye fell on the brooch you gave me. The dark look that crossed his face told me he recognized it as belong
ing to your mother. Whatever thoughts he had on the matter, however, he kept to himself.
Something else I learned at dinner, the doctor is permanently closing his practice. He said he has wanted to retire for some time now, and Jenny has given him the perfect excuse to do so. I had to bite my tongue to keep from revealing my opinion of that remark!
How I wish you were here to advise me. I am at a loss what to do. Should I stay on as an unwelcome visitor, in the hope that I might convince Jenny of her folly? And how do I tell her about us? I dare not. It would appear the worst hypocrisy, as though I meant to deny her the very sort of happiness that I have found with you.
Jenny said that Roger came yesterday morning while I was out taking a walk in the park. Perhaps you are answering my first letter even now, as I write. I long to hear from you. These two days have seemed like an eternity.
As ever, with all my love,
Isabelle
Saturday, May 11
My dearest Jonathan,
I have spent the day with Monique—Miss LaValle—who has become quite a close friend. She has given me good advice in the past, and I’d hoped she might have some idea what could be done to stop my sister’s wedding. It is difficult to believe, especially given her close association with Dr. Garrick, but she is in favor of their marriage. In fact, she went on and on about it while I listened, struck dumb by her enthusiasm. Your sister is exactly what Richard needs, she told me. Jenny will renew his life, she said.
And what of Jenny? Is this what she needs? I wish you were here, to help me think through these troubling questions. I’m beginning to doubt myself, to wonder if I’ve done the right thing by coming here.
Monique eventually understood how much her opinion disturbed me. To make amends, she took me to the theater and introduced me to her friends there. I had begged the favor of her earlier, to help me plan a surprise for you. Her friends were kind and most helpful and made me promise to return tomorrow—and the next day, and the next! But I will say no more, because if you guess what I have in mind, it will no longer be a surprise. I think you will be pleased.
I had hoped to have a letter from you today, but Jenny said Roger had nothing for me when he came to fetch mine. I am beginning to fear that you are upset with me, or worse—that you have forgotten me already.
But I am simply being selfish. I know the pain it costs you to put pen to paper, and I would never want you to suffer on my account. Another week at most, and then we can dispense with letters altogether.
I miss you more than I can say. Please think of me often, as I think of you.
With all my love,
Isabelle
Wednesday, May 15
Dear Jonathan,
Forgive me for failing to write these past few days, but the most terrible thing has happened. Papa is dead.
Papa is dead. Writing the words again, reading them, I still find it difficult to comprehend.
We received the telegram on Sunday. Or rather, the telegram came to the Chief of Police here, who is a friend of Dr. Garrick’s. He immediately took the message to the doctor, who came directly here to break the news to Jenny and me.
Jenny is distraught. She was already ill, nothing more than a head cold, but now she has taken to her bed. I’ve given her scant comfort, finding so little reason to mourn our father myself. But then, I always protected her from his brutality. She never felt the force of his anger, nor suffered his beatings as I did. And Papa always called her his princess. She failed to realize that he saved his endearments for those times when I was present, making his affection do double duty. By bestowing his praises on her, he refused them to me, a subtle punishment she was too young to understand.
Our father’s death occurred under shameful circumstances. He had traveled to Chicago, the first Jenny and I heard of it. He found a card game in some low life dive there and managed to win a good deal of money. The other players accused him of cheating, a fight broke out, one of the men had a knife, and the end of it was, the blade found its way into my father’s neck. The knife severed his artery. They said he bled to death before anyone knew what had happened.
Richard has arranged for Papa’s body to be returned. I suppose we will have some sort of service by the end of the week, or the beginning of the next. We are hoping Jenny will be on her feet by then. For now, we are nursing her like an invalid. Richard refuses to leave her alone at night. He ignores my protests and sleeps in the armchair beside her bed. His untiring devotion has shamed me for ever doubting that he loves Jenny.
And yet, she is so young. Too young. I am more confused than ever. Because of their difference in age, I doubted the possibility that Richard and Jenny could love one another, at least in any lasting way. However, I am forced to admit that many would consider your wealth, judge me for my poverty, and doubt my love for you. But I don’t care what others think, as long as you know my love is true. Nothing else matters to me.
I miss you. Please write, if only to make an ink splotch on the page. Let me know you miss me, too. Your continued silence is troubling.
Yours,
Isabelle
Chapter Forty-nine
May 26, 1895. Simonne’s birthday. She would have been forty nine.
Garrick had decided that he couldn’t let the day pass without mending the rift between himself and Jonathan. Even Isabelle had come around—albeit reluctantly—to the idea of his and Jenny’s marriage. Though he felt Jonathan owed him an apology for the things he’d said, ugly words engendered by a son’s need to protect his mother’s memory, Garrick took it upon himself to be the bigger man.
He owed Jonathan that much. He had wronged the boy in ways that Jonathan never suspected, thank God.
At the crest of the final hill, Garrick reined his horse to a halt, looking out across the broad valley to contemplate the declining ruin that was Nashe House. One wing was reduced to rubble, while the remaining stonework needed cleaning. And the gardens had run wild, overgrown by nearly a decade’s worth of weeds.
The place could have been the jewel of the region, a mansion to put the Vanderbilts and DuPonts to shame. Why hadn’t he encouraged Jonathan to take an interest in its upkeep? Was it his own deep seated resentment of Cornelius? Allowing Jonathan to neglect his inheritance was simply one more way he had failed him.
Forgive me, Simonne, Garrick whispered under his breath as he nudged his horse forward with a gentle heel tap. The time for dwelling on past regrets, he told himself, was over. Now was a time to look ahead, not back. Jenny offered him a new chance at life, one he’d be a fool not to embrace.
And for the first time, he felt a glimmer of hope that Jonathan, too, might have a chance at happiness—or if not happiness, then at least a certain contentment in Isabelle’s companionship, however platonic.
The house was quiet when Garrick arrived. He dismounted and tied his horse to the hitching post near the front entrance, thinking it was a bit of good luck that Simonne’s birthday fell on a Sunday this year. With the servants at church, he wouldn’t have to worry about keeping up a pretense of good cheer, when his true mood was quite the opposite.
Garrick glanced overhead before entering the house. A blanket of gray cloud as dismal as his mood covered the sky. Bittersweet memories attended Simonne’s birthday, memories that might have been a comfort had they not been followed by an anniversary of a different kind. Because the very next day marked the day of her death.
The onset of her illness had been innocuous enough, a late spring cold, nothing that raised his concern. But the cold lingered on, settling into her lungs, and gradually developed into pneumonia. He had done all he could do, all that medical science could do, but in the end, it was not enough. She had died in the early morning hours while he and Jonathan sat on opposite sides of the bed, listening to the wet rattle in her lungs as she struggled to draw breath. They kept their deathwatch in grim silence, looking on helplessly as she faded from existence.
Garrick climbed the stairs to the second floor,
carrying a burden of guilt that weighed more heavily on him with each step. He had lost Simonne. He wasn’t about to lose Jonathan as well.
Outside Jonathan’s room, Garrick drew a deep breath, bracing himself for what lay ahead. He rapped on the door, at the same time announcing his presence. “It’s Richard,” he called out. “It’s your—”
He stopped himself just in time. Good God, what was he thinking? The words had slipped out so easily.
The mistake rattled Garrick. All his previous doubts returned, stronger now for having been ignored. Coming here had been the wrong thing to do, he told himself. Today was the least likely of days to expect Jonathan’s forgiveness.
Then the door opened slowly. Cautiously, as if Jonathan feared to see him.
Garrick couldn’t at first absorb the full import of what he saw. Jonathan stood blocking the entrance with no word of greeting, simply staring with eyes that showed no sign of welcome nor—more disturbingly—of recognition. Jonathan normally dressed with impeccable care, as if he hoped a fastidious attention to the details of his apparel might in some way compensate for the ghastliness of his features. Today, however, he appeared to have slept in his clothes. His shirt was wrinkled and only half buttoned, his collar askew, as though he had violently ripped off his cravat, while his suspender braces hung uselessly from his waist.
This was a ghost who stood before him, Garrick thought, not a living man. The unscarred half of his face had turned an unnatural pallor, the skin drawn painfully tight over his cheekbones. It was as though his flesh had begun to ossify, as though his cloth mask had been replaced by a plaster of Paris death mask.
Still without expression, Jonathan stepped back, letting his arms fall to his sides with a heaviness that looked more like a gesture of defeat than invitation. Before Garrick knew what he was doing, he had stepped forward and wrapped his arms around the boy.
A Bed of Thorns and Roses Page 42
