When I could take it no longer, I left my window seat and confronted the place where I could grieve in earnest. I found in Isaac’s snuggery traces of his presence. I covered my heart as I took in the familiar scent of this chamber.
He has to be alive, my spirit cried. There over the back of the chair was his favorite jacket, for heaven’s sake. How could he not be coming back? How was it possible he wasn’t about to cross under that doorframe with his benign expression that hid the vast greatness of his soul?
I picked up the coat, wanting to scream my agony into it, but my throat was already raw from the previous day. Instead I took in his chamber—the notes in his handwriting, the portraits of his family. I’d done this before. I knew this path. Right now I could remember him vividly. I knew who he was. I knew him. But he would fade as surely as the scent on his clothing would.
It is a blessed relief that memories and raw emotions fade, for which one of us could ever survive every wound remaining open? But at that moment the mercy felt more like a horror. I didn’t want to forget all but the fragments of Isaac. I didn’t want to see him dissipate in the haze of time that swallows the mundane remembrances as well as the painful. I wanted to retain everything.
I crumpled his jacket against my chest, wishing I might never leave this spot. For here I still knew him and still retained every memory. And when I left, he’d be truly gone.
I hadn’t heard Jameson enter the chamber, but as he slowly placed a hand on my shoulder, I turned my tear-streaked face toward him.
Grief and compassion lined his writhen face.
For a moment I felt comfort. Had he not also lost Isaac? Did he not consider Lord Dalry amongst the brood of hurting fledglings that he’d gathered beneath his protective care? Yet another part of me wished to give Jameson a cold shoulder. For he was elderly and soon to pass, and I dreaded to suffer any more losses. I swiped the heel of my hand over my eyes, shaking my head. “I can’t do this,” I finally said, my voice thick and ugly. “I can’t do this anymore.”
Jameson considered my comment a moment, then said, “Isaac believed you could, and so do I.”
I clutched Isaac’s coat tighter but acknowledged Jameson with my gaze. “How could he have done this to me?” My voice broke. “I didn’t want him to die for me. If I had to choose, I’d rather have him alive, even if it meant my being with Macy right now.”
“It was his gift to you, lass.”
I’d cried so much, it hurt even to tear up. “It wasn’t his decision to make.”
“He prayed long and hard over it,” Jameson said.
I glanced at him, sensing that Jameson knew far more than he was telling me. My breathing stilled. “Please tell me you didn’t know.”
The haunted look Jameson gave me made my blood run cold. He gave a slight nod. “I knew. About a week before the trial, Mr. Whitney sent a request for books from your father’s library in the middle of the night. He needed so many that when Dalry found I was still awake, he recruited my help. On our way, as our carriage waited for a flock of sheep to pass, someone opened the door and joined us in the carriage.”
Jameson’s face looked dour. “The man kept his face hidden. He was tall, though—so much so, he had to bend to keep his head from mashing against the top of the carriage. He was so stealthy, not even Hudson realized a passenger had climbed in with us.”
Stress needled my stomach as the name of John Greenham arose. He’d killed Mama for Mr. Macy. The idea that he might have had something to do with Isaac’s death made him all the more loathsome. “What did he say?”
Jameson shook his head. “Not a word. He handed Dalry a note with a vial, then, after giving me a look that chilled me, exited the carriage. That night, Dalry came to my office. I knew something in that note had changed him, because he sat for ten minutes, looking disturbed, before speaking.”
I shut my eyes, hugging Isaac’s coat.
“He showed me the vial and said if we lost the case, he had the means to kill Macy. According to the letter, Macy wouldn’t touch any food or drink unless the person offering it partook first, making it difficult to poison him.” Jameson met my eyes. “Master Isaac was advised to give the vial to you. Macy apparently trusted the food in his own household.”
My blood ran cold.
“Master Isaac had already rejected that option. He didn’t want you to risk being hanged for murder; neither did he desire you to live with something like that on your conscience. He also feared what would happen if Macy found it on your personage.” Jameson’s countenance broke and he removed a handkerchief to wipe his nose, taking a minute before continuing. “He wanted to know if I thought it was a mortal sin to poison Macy together with himself.”
“Jameson.” My voice came out strained. “What did you tell him?”
“I didn’t know.” Jameson spread his hands. “How could I answer a question like that? How could I say yes or no? Edward is the one with training. Rather than leaving him burdened with such thoughts, I tried to steer him to a better frame of mind. I recommended he lay a fleece before the Lord. I suggested he pray that if he were allowed to do it, then Mr. Macy would come here to London House after the trial, so he’d be less suspicious if Isaac invited him to drinks. But then, fearing that Macy might not be able to resist the opportunity to gloat his victory over your father, I suggested that Isaac also pray for a very clear, unmistakable sign.”
I covered my mouth, recalling Lady Josephine’s book.
Jameson’s eyes grew red and glassy.
“You knew,” I whispered, remembering the way Jameson had gasped and stepped backwards. “Didn’t you? When we came downstairs and you saw the book in his hands?”
Though he blinked hard, his face screwed with pain. “Yes, but there was also a chance it wasn’t that poetry book. Yesterday when he came home from court, there was a letter awaiting him from Mr. Forrester.”
Afterwards, I learned that Forrester had located Ben Dalry.
Mr. Greenham hadn’t sent him on a wild-goose chase after all. Years prior, Ben had disappeared while helping Mr. Forrester transport a witness—a prostitute who was ready to testify against Macy. Apparently I wasn’t the first person whom Greenham had taken pity on. Instead of killing the pair, as ordered, Greenham had forced them aboard a ship heading toward America. Papers had been forged stating that he was an indentured servant. So great was her fear of Macy, the prostitute had been more than willing to go along with the story rather than return to England. When Forrester failed to checkmate Macy with his Gypsy heritage, Mr. Greenham sent him another means of destroying his foe.
Had Isaac taken the reappearance of Ben as a sign? It was possible, for right after he read Forrester’s letter, Isaac had pondered a bit, then sat down and penned a series of letters to his loved ones.
Later I also learned that my father’s associates prevented his being at London House while Macy collected me. Whether Isaac had orchestrated that too, I do not know. Thus, when Macy arrived, it was Isaac who greeted him, and Isaac who showed him where I slumbered in the library. Only James witnessed what unfolded next. I’m told that Macy knelt beside me, and with great care he scrutinized every inch of me as if making certain I’d not been harmed in any way. Then, with an expression of kindness, he gently kissed my brow and thanked Isaac for calming me. He spoke of how difficult the past months had been for him.
Even with his prior knowledge of Mr. Macy, James’s gut was wrenched with sympathy. He likely thought Isaac felt the same emotion, because Isaac in turn invited Macy to partake of cigars and drinks and discuss other ways to ease my transition. As they tapped their way down the hall to the smoking room, Isaac offered his hopes that this entire affair hadn’t forever marred his chances of one day becoming prime minister, that he deeply regretted the fissure that this entire scandal had created between him and Macy’s cronies.
Isaac played his role so flawlessly that even Macy, who guarded himself every waking moment, thought himself safe.
I ache t
o think of Isaac’s final performance. Of course Macy fell for it. He viewed life as a power struggle for wealth and prestige. It would have made perfect sense to him that Isaac would scramble to ingratiate himself to the winning side. Isaac was irresistible bait. Here was a chance to not only steal Lord Pierson’s daughter, but his protégé as well.
Jameson’s hands shook too much for him to dare remain in the chamber; thus he passed the tray to James, then took a place outside in the hall and waited with tears streaming down his cheeks. Throughout the years, I’ve wondered what thoughts and emotions coursed through Isaac’s head as, smiling, he lifted his glass in a toast to Macy and then took the first sip. James tells me that Isaac confessed many frustrations about Roy as they drank, which I believe he did as bait to keep Macy indulging in conversation and partaking of his laced drink. Isaac manifested no signs of being poisoned until well into the third drink, when it was too late for Macy as well.
“He wasn’t afraid.” Jameson’s voice came out strained. “It was the bravest death I’ve ever had the honor to witness. Right at the end, he wore the same expression as that painting on the book. He kept saying that you were finally free now. That he’d accomplished it.”
I collapsed to the seat, wishing Isaac had consulted me. For I never would have allowed any of it.
With stiff movements, Jameson removed a letter with Isaac’s seal from his waistcoat and placed it in my hands. “I’ll leave you alone to read it, but if you want company afterwards, I’ll be in my office.”
Some things are sacred, and what Isaac wrote will remain sealed, for I’ve never spoken of it to anyone—not even to Edward, who had his own letter, which he read later beneath the ancient oak at Maplecroft. There he sat and pondered Isaac’s last words to him for hours afterwards.
For the sake of this narrative, however, I will reveal two things Isaac wrote. For without them, I might be misunderstood.
Isaac wrote to me about my father. He said that it is man’s way, not God’s, to limit how long it should take someone to change. He urged me to not grow weary. For he still believed that someday I would reap a harvest there.
He also communicated that he needed me. For that morning at the courthouse, he had deposited into me all the stories and memories that would best comfort those who’d grieve him most. He bade me not weep, for if I didn’t step forward and take this mantle, no one else would, and those dearest to him would be left lost and broken.
I STOOD OUTSIDE my father’s bedchamber with Isaac’s words burning within my heart, though his last letter to me was safely tucked away. For several minutes I could only stare at the ceiling, waiting until my need to cry had passed.
Then, determined to honor Isaac, I gathered my courage and faced the thick door. As I placed my fingers on the handle, I felt the same sensation I had standing before Mr. Macy’s bedchamber. What, I wondered, would it reveal?
An oil lamp was keyed low, washing the room in the weakest possible light. I paused, amazed by the intricacies of the chamber. It was every bit as regal as my father. The gloom made it difficult to see the dark wood ceilings, but I could tell they were cunningly crafted. The silhouette of a massive brass chandelier stood guard over the chamber. The carpentry along the walls looked as though it belonged in a castle, with the wardrobe serving as its gate.
A groan on my right forced me to step into the masculine room. I grew aware of the pleasant scent of pipe smoke. I gave a weak smile, uncertain why it touched me to learn that my father smoked a pipe before bed. I pictured him in a quilted robe, allowing smoke to curl about his head while he pondered.
His bed was at least twelve feet in height with steps leading to it. In the flickering shadows, he looked delirious with pain. Thoughts of Mama crowded my mind, and how he’d abandoned her, leaving us penniless. The cold manner he constantly showed toward me. I splayed my hands over my stomach, tempted to leave, yet knowing that Isaac would have proceeded.
I was uncertain whether my father knew of my presence. He held his eyes as he moaned. Pity struck my heart, for as horrific as Isaac’s death was to me, the agony must be tenfold for the man before me. He’d just lost the only person in whom he’d invested his life. Whereas I at least had others.
Half-afraid, I crept to him and knelt on the top step, the folds of my dress puffing around me.
“Papa?” I whispered.
With one hand he reached, and I gave him my hand.
His pain was so great, he clamped his fingers over mine. I closed my eyes, hating pain of any sort. I pressed his hand to my forehead and felt his strained knuckles. A lullaby that Mama used to sing came to mind. This was ridiculous. It hurt him to speak, to open his eyes. I couldn’t sing to him. Yet his hand tightened over mine, and I knew another knife of pain had split his head.
How can I sing for him? I thought wildly. He’d abandoned me, left me with a cruel stepfather and then a murderous husband. My throat ached. He’d tried to force me to marry someone besides Edward. He’d ranted, yelled, and raved, making my life miserable.
Like a small child, my father sank back into his pillow. His face was grey as he moaned.
I bent my head, realizing that this, too, was part of my healing—accepting the unacceptable. He wouldn’t love me, but it didn’t bar me from loving him. A vicar’s wife would forgive. And a Dalry sister would sing.
So I did, trying to keep my words susurrant. As I crooned the lullaby, my voice warbled. Yet I sang words that bade him to hush, that said I was there to protect him and love him. Words Mama used to rock me to sleep with. Words he didn’t deserve. And all the while, I kept in mind that I hadn’t deserved Isaac’s love and protection either.
My father’s breathing grew shallower and his face relaxed. Eventually, even his clamping fingers loosened. With a gentle hand, I stroked his brow. For a moment I saw all the potential in him that Isaac had. My father was Lord Pierson. He’d risked his reputation, his career, his lifework trying to protect me. Within him were the seeds, even the shoots, of greatness. Already he was benevolent. He fed orphans, gifted large sums of money to charities. He was influential, but not without a heart. Maybe not noble . . . but maybe, just maybe, if enough people saw what he was meant to be and breathed that truth into him . . .
The mattress sank beneath my hands as I stood, then tipped forward and kissed his brow, something I’d never be allowed to do if he were awake.
I left the bedchamber free of my father. I no longer needed his love. I’d found my own.
I never learned whether my father was conscious of my presence that afternoon. But the following day at the breakfast table, after being stabbed by another headline with Isaac’s name, he unexpectedly took my hand and just held it.
Isaac’s request for me to resist tears was far more challenging than releasing my father from the debt he owed me. Whereas before I would have sat and lamented my loss, all I could think was that I owed Isaac anything he desired. He had given his very life so that I would know freedom.
When the Dalrys came to me, I wondered how he could have asked something so cruel. He knew me. He knew I had no other vent than tears. What did one even do with oneself if not allowed that luxury? For to lie down in a heap and give up did indeed seem like a luxury.
But as Lady Dalry and Kate arrived, my heart broke.
Kate was inconsolable. She’d not calmed since his death, and not even Lady Dalry could soothe her pain. I found myself compelled to go and wrap my arms about her. “Did you know,” I whispered softly, pulling her close, “that you were Isaac’s first memory?”
She sniffled and gave me a strange look.
“His very first memory is of the day you were born. Your mother had tried to hide that she was in labor,” I continued, trying to ignore the discomfort of having more than one set of eyes upon me, “but Isaac was so excited to meet you, he sat up all night waiting. When he heard you cry, he hurried from his bed so he could be the first to hold you.”
Kate’s sobs softened enough to listen.
Kate’s eyes were swollen as she faced Lady Dalry. “Is that true, Mama?”
Lady Dalry laughed and cried as she slipped an arm about my waist and pulled me close. Her voice was laced with pain, but she likewise forged on. “Yes. And when he woke, he wouldn’t even touch breakfast until he saw for himself you were safe in your cradle. Not even Ben could convince him to come outside and play. He would guard you from being snatched by faeries—an idea the midwife gave him when he refused to hand you over. She teased that a fay was planning to snatch you away and give us a changeling in your stead.”
Kate forgot her tears. “He believed that?”
My heart eased, as I knew my actions would have gained Isaac’s approval.
When Evelyn Greenley arrived, our eyes met and we clasped hands before tightly clinging to each other. We drew immeasurable strength from one another. Because Ben had been found, she was as jolted and on as strange a ground as I was. We both had been engaged to Isaac while in love with another, which left a strange mingling feeling. There was a relief to have another who understood emotions that had no label. Like twin sisters in sorrow, grace, and mercy, we spoke words of comfort and lightened each other’s burdens.
Price of Privilege Page 42
