My entire life hinged on that simple request made in the courtroom of the Old Bailey. All for wanting to be able to breathe in the scent of Edward one last time, I unleashed a series of unalterable events.
At London House, I found myself looking up at the massive brick structure for what I believed was the last time, and my determination faltered.
The door swung open and Jameson’s dazed face appeared at the top of the steps. His horrified expression told me he’d heard the verdict. My knees weakened as I grasped the wrought-iron fence, for I realized that, in stark contrast to the man who sired me, this man was a true father to me. His own look of stricken dismay proved it.
And as painful as healing had been, now that I was cut off from it, I saw I desired healing above anything. More than power, prestige, privilege. I wanted relationships, not dominance. I wanted the ties of love that the Dalry family possessed, the beautiful humility of Jameson. What was the carnality of Macy compared to the fire of Edward? Jesus walked the earth declaring that the Kingdom of God was at hand. One taste of that Kingdom is enough to make all else unsatisfactory.
I felt my face crumple as I looked upon Jameson. Then, knowing I couldn’t let Macy’s men see me weak, not even for a moment, I hastened up the stairs.
“What happened to Edward?” Jameson breathed. “I learned the verdict, but not the sentence.”
I stared at him, horrified, for I didn’t know either.
And with that, I was unmade.
In the short span of time it took to secure my foothold in Macy’s syndicate, I’d lost sight of the only person who mattered. And if I lost sight of that, then who was I? Surely I’d become the proverbial salt underfoot. The memory of Edward as he’d walked amongst the girls at the orphanage, the way he’d studied Jacob Turner’s plight with the deepest compassion, and how he’d glared at my father as he declared himself deaf to him until he honored me—all played through my mind, unravelling me. There were only two sides here. One that sought position and one that bound up the brokenhearted. I’d pledged myself to the wrong side before I had any awareness of what was truly at stake.
As I stepped through that doorway, the weight of all that I’d lost crushed me. I tore off my bonnet, then ripped out the pins holding my hair. The horrified expressions of my father’s staff surrounded me, but not one dared to approach. The loss was mine alone to bear. I wept as I gave the order for someone to go to the Old Bailey and learn the fate of Edward and to fetch my father, who was in great pain.
I have no memory of how I made it to my bedchamber, but I do recall the agony of entering it. Wildly I looked around the space, as I accepted the realization that there was nothing but endless days of loss ahead of me.
I screamed and screamed all the pent-up frustration of being helpless. Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I picked up the nearest object and smashed the looking glass. My grief was so wild that I tore through the drawers of my vanity for scissors, determined I would chop off my hair at the scalp. If Macy wanted me, then let him find me in ashes and sackcloth. When I was unable to find a pair, I curled in a ball on the floor, where I alternately sobbed and screamed.
Elsewhere in the house, I’m told, Isaac lifted his head, hearing my hoarse and anguished cries. His face was grieved as he softly said, “Upon my word, James, her pain rends my heart to its core.”
To the footman’s surprise, Isaac did not immediately rise. Instead he closed the book he’d been reading and bowed his head, allowing the volume to touch his forehead. He kept this prayerful repose until my shrieks quieted, and then he stood in a fluid motion.
He gestured to his correspondences. “If I’m occupied when Lord Pierson arrives home, would you please see he receives these letters straightaway? He’ll want to address them immediately. There’s also a letter from Forrester he needs to see. It’s on his desk.”
A minute later Isaac cracked open my door and slipped into my chamber. Had he entered a moment sooner, I wouldn’t have been able to endure another soul touching me, but I was spent by the time he gently placed a hand on my shoulder.
As I turned my face toward him, my anger drained, leaving me with clean grief.
My sobs quieted into a plaint over all that was lost. Not just for me, but for everyone. After all, what soul is equipped to handle what has become the human experience?
As only he could, Lord Dalry comforted Rachel as she grieved her shorn dreams and her dead children.
He held me tightly against him and wept.
I cried until exhausted and then started trying to plan out my next step, knowing that Mr. Macy would arrive any minute. I would quit this place having caused more harm than good. It was so unbearable.
“I didn’t know.” I struggled to make my thick voice legible. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry, Isaac. My understanding was marred, and I didn’t see you. I didn’t know.” Realizing I wasn’t making sense, I tried again. “Forrester put that story in the paper, not me. I thought he was going to reason with my father. And then your face! I have nightmares still about it—”
“Shh. No, don’t cry. Edward was a good choice. Be forever free from that dream. There’s nothing to forgive.”
“Promise me, promise me you’ll marry Evelyn and be happy. You must swear that; you must! When I’m at Eastbourne, I need to be able to picture a happy outcome for at least one of us. Or I can’t do this! I won’t be able to survive this. I can’t.”
Isaac shifted so we could face each other. His face was expressive but with an emotion I couldn’t read. “Think upon Evelyn, then, when you need that picture, for she is going to have her happy ending. Just wait and see.”
I nodded and squeezed my thanks into the sleeve of his coat.
Thoughts follow no direct course when under duress; they take random, senseless paths, becoming as splintered as we are. My mind switched from Isaac to the fact I still didn’t know what had happened to Edward, to the fact that any minute I’d find myself back in Macy’s care. Each facet of my being, each thought, and each emotion was shattered, fracturing me to the very essence of my soul.
“I have to pack,” I said, feeling desperate again. I scrambled from the floor and tottered to the wardrobe, where I started to claw through its contents for Edward’s shirt. “Where’s his shirt?” I began sobbing anew. “Where is it? I must find it!”
Isaac, gentle as ever, managed to collect my thoughts and emotions for me and seal them up. He shrugged off his frock coat, then held it out for me. “Come with me.”
I shook my head, for he didn’t understand. I returned to emptying the wardrobe. When my fingers finally located the roughened fabric, I held my face to it, but my nose was so swollen from crying, I couldn’t even breathe, much less smell it.
“You’re more overwrought than you realize,” Isaac whispered. “Come, allow me to read you to sleep. You need it more than you know.”
I gestured to my belongings, shaking my head, too worked up to speak.
His gaze followed the motion of my hand before it took in the strewn contents of the wardrobe, and he became riveted. The book I’d brought from Maplecroft lay amongst the items I’d tossed out. His eyes stilled with wonder and disbelief as he revealed the hidden painting. “How on earth did this get here?”
I ran my fingers through my hair, sobbing anew. “I stole it. It wasn’t Eaton’s business. He’s a liar! He’s . . . he’s . . .” Then, looking at my belongings scattered about my chamber, “I need to pack. Macy will be here soon.”
Isaac placed his coat about my shoulders. “Let the servants attend this. Come be with me instead.”
I buried my face in my hands, for it was too overwhelming to release the only thing I knew for certain I was supposed to do. “I need to pack. I have to. You don’t understand. It’s . . . it’s . . .” I hiccupped, realizing I couldn’t form a good reason for why I had to pack right that second—though the notion pounded against my brain that it was the most crucial thing in existence. Then, recognizing I wasn’t making
sense, “I’m sorry, Isaac. I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t even trust myself right now.”
“Then trust me. Listen only to my voice. Just breathe. You’re safe. Think of nothing outside this moment. I will keep you so nothing will happen to you.” He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s retire to the library.”
He held my hand, keeping my arm tucked beneath his as he led me down the staircase. More than one servant’s eyes were tinted with red, making me realize how sympathetic they were to my plight. As we made our way down the last flight, Jameson hastened across the foyer to meet us.
His gaze landed on the book in Isaac’s hand before he froze and met Isaac’s eyes with a stricken look. His mouth parted as he took a small step backwards.
“Will you see that no one disturbs us until Mr. Macy arrives?” Isaac asked him.
Jameson seemed unable to speak. His eyes were lachrymose as he gave a nod. His mouth swelled with sorrow, but then, clearing his throat, he gruffly managed, “Edward is fine. They tattooed his thumb and then arrested him again for ra—” He remembered himself in time and stamped his feet. “Er—on other charges. There’ll be another trial.”
I blinked back tears, nodding.
“Thank you, Jameson.” Isaac placed a hand on the butler’s shoulder and met his eyes before continuing toward the library.
Once inside, Isaac convinced me to drink one of my father’s sedatives mixed with wine. Apparently my father kept small packets in his desk, for he often felt anxious before important meetings. I don’t remember taking the drug, though I have a clear memory of Isaac’s thoughtful face as I handed him back the glass.
He took up Lady Josephine’s book, which he had carried into the room, and in his serene tone, he began reading. His pleasant voice filled the corners of the chamber and inspissated the atmosphere with a heavy, rich peace.
Still clutching Edward’s shirt, I eventually rested my head against Isaac’s shoulder. Though I’d intended to remain awake, I realized that Isaac had given me a stronger dose than I expected. It was as if roots of sleep grew out of me and deepened and spread through the down-feathered sofa and through Isaac’s peerless body, gripping and pulling me downward. The weight of slumber pressed upon me as I sank into the unfathomable levels of consciousness. I shut my eyes, allowing myself to finally breathe as if sleeping.
I have lived and relived this memory so many times in my life, bookmarking certain facts, that now I only remember what I’ve told myself happened. The memory is not real; it is only the memory of a memory.
Here is what I’ve told myself.
Just before I plunged into the deepest stage of slumber, Isaac stopped reading and clasped me tight.
I AWOKE TO THE SOUND of James’s garbled weeping.
The slam of heavy doors was followed by the noise of more weeping—women’s voices this time. Intuitively I knew it was the maids. The sedative became a brick wall I had to break through in order to wake. Leaden weights sat upon my thoughts and limbs, making even the simplest ideas slow.
But eventually I managed to open my eyes, and I spied the library’s magnificent ceiling. I blinked, dazed, not quite certain what I was doing there. Forcing myself to wake, I turned my face toward the door.
James crouched just inside, unable to stand. He pressed his back against the wall, covering his mouth. His face was marred. His eyes met mine, but he couldn’t speak. Behind him, I caught the refrain of weeping throughout London House.
Chills ran along my arms and legs as I managed to stand.
My head felt weighty and my legs hollow as I stumbled into the hall. There, a maid sat on the floor, sobbing into her apron, and farther down the hall, two upper maids sagged against the walls, crying and staring at me, too horrified to speak. My breath came in hard pants. Panicked, I picked up my skirts and rushed past them.
Suspecting the truth, I shook my head and begged God—not this! Not this!
Outside the smoking chamber, a stableman stood, clutching his hat. He turned at my arrival, his face stunned with disbelief and pain. It was the look Sarah wore after Mama died.
It’s not Isaac, I assured myself. It couldn’t be. God could not permit such a possibility. He isn’t allowed, I thought frantically, to give people more than they can bear.
As I raced toward the chamber, the stableman tried to take me by my arms. “Do not enter, miss.”
I violently threw off his hand.
Heart pounding, I gained the threshold. At the farthest end of the chamber, Mr. Macy lay dead, a frozen look of malice and consternation upon his face. Scattered about him were overturned chairs and tables, broken glasses, and fractured pictures, as if he’d tried to stave off the demons as they gathered to collect his soul.
I sagged against the doorframe in complete disbelief. At first my mind wouldn’t even register the combination of impossible thoughts—that Macy was dead, and that Macy was in my father’s smoking chamber. But he was dead! I clutched Mama’s locket, feeling a visceral pain that I couldn’t even label if I tried.
Only then did my ears note the soft gasp of someone weeping quietly. Turning toward it, I caught sight of Isaac’s polished black shoe. It extended into view just beyond the large sofa. My stomach plummeted.
Feeling vertigo, I stepped forward. And my world stopped.
Jameson wept as he cradled Isaac’s head.
I had thought the hour England declared me Macy’s wife, nothing worse could ever happen to me. But there is always the possibility of a deeper, more acute pain.
I gasped in horror, starting to cry, then rushed to him.
Isaac’s lifeless eyes stared up at me. In his right hand, he held a brandy snifter. A wet stain spread out over my father’s Turkish carpet. I shook my head, denying this, though I saw enough to envision what had happened. His silk cravat stirred as I dropped on my knees beside him. I laid my head on Isaac’s chest and listened, but it was silent. “No,” I pleaded in a whisper. “No.”
He couldn’t hear me, and he couldn’t respond. Death already marked his handsome face. There was nothing I could do. Nothing I could say.
“You may not leave me,” I shouted, pounding on his chest, screaming through tears. “I do not give my consent. You may not! You will live! You will not do this for me!”
“Lass.” Jameson stayed my hand. “He’s gone.”
“No!” I jerked my hand away. “No! No, he’s not!”
I laid my head upon his breast, already knowing I wouldn’t hear a heartbeat. It wasn’t Isaac anymore. It was only his body.
How dare he! I wanted to scream at him. How dare he! I wanted to beat his chest and force his heart to start pumping again. This should have been my death. How dare he decide to sacrifice his own life? I hadn’t asked him to, nor wanted him to do this. It was the cruelest, most unfair twist of the universe. He’d waited so long to win my trust and friendship. And now that he had it, he was gone.
I dug my fingers into my hair. Never again would that soothing presence walk into a room. Never again would his calm face sit across from me at the breakfast table.
I pressed my face into his chest, willing his soul to return. Yet I knew that even now he was meeting his Maker.
“Please, Isaac, please.” My voice was muffled and stretched with pain. “Please don’t leave me.”
Two magistrates arrived and stood aghast in the doorway as they took in the scene.
I gave them a desperate look, begging them to do something. They say my gaze kept travelling over Isaac’s body as I rocked—as if I were unable to comprehend what had just passed.
But I comprehended. Oh, but I comprehended.
I was escorted with Jameson to the hall, where we were ordered not to leave until our statements could be taken.
Once again, London House became the scene of an investigation. The crowd who had gathered outdoors to applaud Macy’s success in reclaiming his wife found themselves front-row spectators to another scandal.
Tears streamed down my cheeks as I
sat and watched the police file in and out of my father’s smoking chamber. I made no attempt to abate my sobs. I wanted to stop feeling. I wanted numbness. I wanted the blurry indifference that I’d walked in most of my life. But it wouldn’t come.
Within the hour my father arrived. His face had no color as he staggered toward his smoking chamber. Simmons followed. He alone glanced at me, seemingly befuddled and frightened. I shut my eyes. They’d somehow heard the news but like me had refused to believe it. I tensed, knowing this would devastate my father, for Isaac was the lifeblood of our house.
To this day I am haunted by the excruciating and inarticulate cry that issued from my father as he discovered his beloved son dead.
I saw the value of a man like Simmons during those agonizing hours that followed Isaac’s death. He alone managed the unmanageable. Macy’s estates and wealth were now mine, and Simmons handled them as he likewise managed my father’s and the Dalrys’ affairs. He made cut-and-dried decisions that the rest of us were too overwhelmed to address.
The irony was that as Macy’s wife, it was my duty to sit with his corpse that first night. I shall not, however, describe that gruesome task, except to say that my thoughts remained with Lady Dalry and Evelyn, who took the first nightly watch over Isaac’s body.
Death is profound. The absence of a soul is felt in the very fabric of our universe. Each one of us gives life or pain to others—though we often fail to recognize the life givers until they’ve departed.
But then how we languish without them.
There are certain harrowing moments one must undergo with any death, moments that force us to relive the loss and plunge us back into the landscape of darkness. The following morning, when James set down the newspapers with Isaac’s death splashed on every front page, was one. The chair across from me never felt so barren.
My father was more ashen than I’d ever seen him as he realized he couldn’t discuss the papers with his protégé. The malady came over him, forcing him back to bed.
Afterwards, I sat by the window, missing Isaac with an ache so fierce I thought I’d never recover. Gone was the velvet way with which he moved through life, and it angered me that anyone could gather outside London House in curiosity on such a tragic day. I watched the nursemaids stand chatting with their charges on their hips. Sad-faced men discussed Isaac as if they felt his loss. But had they truly loved him, they’d be home grieving, not relishing the spectacle. Isaac’s absence punctured the fabric of all that was true and right. So much good had just been removed from England—from her present and her future. And people milled about gossiping over it.
Price of Privilege Page 41
