Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance)

by Carolyn Jewel

  “You want to keep my father’s money,” she accused levelly, her gaze on him steady because she knew it bothered him when she looked at him calmly.

  “How could you think such a thing? My dear child, I have only your best interests at heart!” Here he sighed again and, as if it pained him greatly, said, “Very well, then, we will have to let one of the servants go. The extra work will be very hard on Mrs. Samuels; she’s a frail woman. I expect you will have to help her out.”

  “Yes, Mr. Samuels.”

  “Run along now. Go to your room. And tell Miss Forbes I wish to see her.” Isobel paused at the door at these last words. When she turned to look at him, the expression on her face said the hateful words in her heart.

  “Insufferable little brat,” he snorted when she was gone. He brushed futilely at the white dust on his favorite velvet breeches. He never did get around to telling the lawyers Isobel claimed to have been born in Boston.

  Isobel sat on Miss Forbes’s bed, eyes fixed on the wall where a print titled “Royal Sport” was still hanging. It had not yet been packed away. Miss Forbes had caught Isobel staring at it once and had told her that although it seemed an odd thing for a woman to have on her wall, it was the only thing of value she possessed. Miss Forbes’s father had brought it with him to the colonies in 1760 and it was the only thing, besides his debts, that she had inherited from him. It occurred to Isobel that every man in the drawing had a look of greed on his face. She wondered if the artist could have known Carter Samuels.

  Miss Forbes’s trunk was in the middle of the floor. It was open and Isobel could see that there were already neatly folded clothes in it. Two weeks ago, Miss Forbes’s leaving had seemed a long way off. Now, instead of counting the days they had left together, Isobel was counting the hours. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like when the room was empty and the walls were bare.

  Miss Forbes came in, and looked a little surprised to see Isobel sitting on her bed. “What are you doing in here, all alone?”

  Isobel quickly pressed the tips of her fingers over her eyes. “I don’t want you to go!” she cried when she thought she could speak, in spite of the catch in her throat.

  “I also wish I wasn’t going, Isobel.” She sat down on the bed and put her arms around the girl. “But, there’s nothing to be done about it.” She took out her handkerchief and with it dabbed at Isobel’s face. “I shall miss you and your fortepiano.” They sat together for several minutes that Isobel wished with all her heart she could keep from passing. “You mustn’t cry about me, Isobel,” said Miss Forbes.

  III

  After Miss Forbes was let go, Isobel took on more and more of the housekeeping duties until she was practically running the household. There was virtually nothing for Mrs. Samuels to do except complain that Isobel did not know the meaning of the word “economy.” Isobel oversaw the servants, planned the meals, and generally succeeded in adhering to the pitifully small budget provided by Mr. Samuels. She got up at half past five, worked until the afternoon, went to Mr. Archer’s for her music lessons or practiced the forte-piano, had dinner, and went to sleep. The weeks passed with comforting dullness. She stayed away from Mr. Samuels and fat Miss Emily and occasionally endured one of Mrs. Samuels’s tirades. Sometimes a servant would quit and she would look about for another one.

  The only change in the routine of Isobel’s days occurred when she was fifteen, and soon it became more or less a part of the monotony. At first she was convinced the bleeding meant she was dying, and when she finally confided her fears to the only person whom she might call a friend, she began to cry when the cook laughed at her.

  “Die? You aren’t going to die!” Mrs. Morris wiped her eyes and put a hand on Isobel’s shoulder and then handed her kerchief to her. “Did no one ever tell you? It means you’re a woman now, little darling!”

  That night, Isobel examined her face in the mirror to see if she did, indeed, look like a woman. She thought she looked the same as always: very much like her mother and not at all like her father. Neither did she feel different. If this meant she was a woman, she thought it nothing more or less than an inconvenience. Isobel’s whole life was so centered around her music that she was the only one who did not notice her figure was no longer girlish. She merely altered her clothing and thought to herself she might yet grow as tall as her father. Still, if anyone had bothered to ask her if she was happy, she would have said she was. She had all her body needed: food, a place to sleep, three dresses, a pair of leather shoes to keep out the mud and snow, and a woolen cloak that was warm during the fall and spring and very nearly warm enough during the winter. And she had all her soul required: her music.

  It was some time before Mr. Archer commented on the gradual change in her—the ugly dresses and the plain boots that looked as if they might split at the sides at the least pressure—and soon he became concerned by her increasing thinness and pallor. His eventual questions about the Samuelses and her obviously worsening appearance were invariably met with stubborn silence, and he stopped questioning her. It was enough that his most able pupil—for all she was only a girl—was improving every day. He relieved his conscience by telling himself Miss Rowland had the constitution of a great artist, and if she was thin, it was no wonder what with all her nervous energy. Anyway, his bill was always promptly paid.

  Isobel began staying at Mr. Archer’s later and later, not just for the extra practice, but because by doing so she missed the dreadful dinners with the Samuelses. The food that could be bought on the sum Mr. Samuels saw fit to allow was not typically the best to be had, and in spite of Mrs. Morris’s culinary skill, it tasted like it. And by staying away, she was almost entirely able to avoid the British soldiers who were frequent guests. Mrs. Morris would generally set something aside for Isobel to eat when she got back from her lessons. They would talk companionably while she ate, though this usually meant she listened to Mrs. Morris tell her why she should leave the Samuelses. Although Mrs. Morris was some twenty years older than Isobel, she, like no other, understood Isobel’s misery when she talked about the Samuelses.

  Mrs. Morris repeatedly said she would help Isobel find good paying work as a lady’s maid or, with her ability to read and write, as a governess. “Why stay here and let Samuels have your work for free? If you got a position, in a year or two you might save enough to go to England to find your mother’s family!” What she did not say was how unlikely she thought it was that Isobel would see even a penny of her father’s money.

  “But I could never leave America!” she said.

  “Why not?” Mrs. Morris persisted.

  “When I’m twenty-one I’m going back to Boston to study music with Mr. Standifer.”

  “But right now you’re no better than a slave for Mr. Samuels,” was Mrs. Morris’s invariable response. “And anyway,” she continued once, “why couldn’t you study music in England? There’s nothing for you in Boston; you said yourself the house was sold.”

  “Boston is my home, Mrs. Morris!” One day she would be a very wealthy young lady, and when that time came, there was nothing that could stop her from doing whatever she wanted.

  On the afternoons when she did not go to Mr. Archer’s, and when she had spare time after practicing, she sometimes sought out Philip. Mr. Samuels had engaged a tutor for him, his son’s education apparently being one of the few things about which he did not think to economize. Isobel usually found him in the library drawing swirls on the paper he was supposed to be using to copy Latin declensions. She was always careful to make some small noise to alert him that she was coming in so he could turn the sheets over. She would ask him about his studies, and though he answered her only because otherwise she wouldn’t go away, Philip discovered it made him feel important to have her hanging on his every word. It had the added benefit of making him remember his lessons, something he attributed to a natural intelligence, since it never occurred to him that his recitations to his cousin might be helping him remember
the information.

  It amused Philip to have Isobel dote on him. She sometimes saved him desserts and sneaked them to his room after dinner. She never asked him to share, which was a fortunate thing, because he never thought to do so, and if she had, he would have laughed at her for the presumption. Occasionally, he rewarded her devotion by allowing her to borrow one of his books. It was thus that Philip discovered Isobel’s proficiency at mathematics. He had given her a text on algebra because it was sure to confound her and lead to his explaining the impossibility of the female mind grasping the complexities of mathematics, a moment to which he looked forward. The day she returned the book, he decided it would be amusing to make her try to solve a problem before starting his speech. As it turned out, she solved it, as well as all the other problems he gave her. Initially, he was put out, but it occurred to him there was a silver lining to this cloud. He took to having her do his exercises for him, and she regarded him with all the adoration of a little sister.

  IV

  Isobel was all of seventeen when she realized she was in love with Philip Samuels. Philip had much to recommend him; he was young, and he was handsome, with thickly lashed brown eyes that sometimes looked soulful. His hair was saved from being mousy because of its reddish tint. He was taller than Isobel by only a few inches, but he was powerfully built. Most important, he was the only person besides Mrs. Morris who ever listened to her.

  At Mr. Samuels’s insistence, Philip had enrolled in law school. Consequently, he was often out, but when he was home he would talk with her as he had in times past and, now and again, he would lend her a book. Isobel attributed his shortness with her to the stress of his law studies. His frequent demands for money from his father were due, she knew, to his desire to better himself. Philip was discerning enough to perceive a man was judged first by his appearance. She looked forward to his homecomings with all the impatience of a girl deeply in love.

  It was as little a thing as failing to firmly shut the door to her tiny room one night when she was in her bath that changed everything. The warmth of the water made her drowsy, and as she scrubbed herself she indulged in her favorite fantasy that there was a maid standing ready to wash her back if she so much as lifted a finger in her direction. Squeezing her eyes shut to keep out the harsh foam, she poured water over her head until the last of the soap was gone. She stepped out of the bath, leaning over to let the water from her wet hair fall into the tub, and groped for her comb on the table. Drops of water hit the bare wooden floor as she worked the tangles out of her hair. She was combing out a stubborn snarl when she felt an almost imperceptible swirl of air pulling at the dampness of her skin. It was an odd sensation that moved over her arms and back in waves of prickly tension. She told herself she was imagining things and refused to give in to the temptation to look behind her. Finally, though, she pulled her hair away from her face and twisted around to look.

  “Good evening, Isobel.”

  “Philip!” She snatched up the towel draped over the chair. Her mortification was so acute that she spoke only when he made no move to leave her to her embarrassment. “What do you want?”

  “I came to get Euclid.”

  The book he had let her borrow more than a month ago was on her table, and as she reached over to hand it to him, she held the towel tightly around her. She didn’t at all like the look on his face as he took the book from her shaking hand. “If you were a gentleman, Mr. Philip, you would have knocked!” she said, hardly able to believe she could utter the criticism.

  “If you were a lady,” he said slowly, “your door would have been shut.” He tapped the book against his open palm and looked at her for a long moment before turning to leave, closing the door firmly behind him.

  Philip walked back to his room with a strange excitement boiling in him. As he’d said, he had come to get his book. The sound of water sloshing in the tub told him his cousin must be in her bath, and he suddenly found himself curious to see what she looked like without those hideous clothes she wore. She had just stepped out of the tub when he pushed open the door. He saw water glistening on her pale skin and darkening the wooden floor under dainty feet and long elegant legs. He was instantly hard when she bent at the waist to grope for a comb. He’d damned near taken her right then, but he knew what a prim little thing she was. A little finesse would be necessary with her. She might be skinny, but she was surprisingly well shaped. “Surprisingly well shaped,” he mused as he dressed to go out. He felt a tingle of arousal in his belly at the thought of those long legs wrapped around him, hips moving in unison with his. He had got only a glimpse of her breasts, but they had looked to be generous. His cousin worshipped him, he knew, and he did not think for even a minute it would be difficult to get her to turn that adoration into something more physically rewarding.

  V

  Isobel might have convinced herself the humiliating episode was forgotten, except Philip now stared at her in an unsettling manner. Or at least she thought he did. She did not know if his gaze disturbed her because of what had happened or whether he really did look at her differently. She told herself her carelessness had brought this on her. He was right; a lady would have made sure the door was firmly shut. It was unfair to blame Philip because he had unwittingly embarrassed her; it was not his fault she left the door ajar. She dismissed the persistent thought that he had been standing in the doorway for some time, and convinced herself that it was she who was really to blame.

  One day, when Isobel was in the study settling the household accounts, Philip entered the room so quietly his greeting startled her.

  “Ah, here you are!”

  It was a moment before her heart stopped its wild pounding. “Good afternoon, Mr. Philip. Is there something you need?” She dismissed the uncomfortable feeling that whatever he was thinking was not at all proper, still unable to believe a base thought could enter his mind.

  “I’ve brought you a book.” This was evidently true; there was a book tucked under his arm.

  “You have?” He sounded amiable enough and she relaxed at this obvious sign of his high regard for her. “What is it?” She took the heavy volume he held out to her. It was a leather-bound edition of Aristotle. “Philip, it’s beautiful! It must have cost you a fortune.”

  “I thought you might like to have it.”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “You’re very pretty when you smile, Isobel.” He rested his hand on her shoulder. Though she did not want to spoil this return to normal relations, she shook off his hand. “I’ll be extremely interested to hear your thoughts on it.” He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall above the desk where she sat. “Well, I’d better be going!”

  * * *

  When Isobel got back from Mr. Archer’s later that evening, she went directly to her room and sat down at her desk, her head nearly bursting with music. She immediately pulled out her pen and ink and began to lose herself in the exhilaration of seeing her music captured on paper. Mr. Archer did not know she had started composing on her own, and she intended to surprise him with a piece for fortepiano, flute, and continuo. She spent all of her free time on the fortepiano at home so he would not suspect her surprise.

  It was ten o’clock before she put down her pen and shook her hand. The copy of Aristotle lay on the desk, and, knowing she would be unable to sleep right away, she tossed it onto the bed. When she was settled under the covers with the candle moved to the bed table, she held the book to her nose, closing her eyes and breathing in the smell of the leather. When she opened it she was surprised to see a folded sheet of paper fall from the pages. She immediately recognized Philip’s cramped writing. The short letter read:

  My sweet Isobel,

  I know I take the chance of offending you by this desperate letter, but I beg of you, read through to the end and you will see I have no choice but to take such a risk. I am sick with love for you. I cannot think, I cannot eat, I cannot attend to my studies, I offend my friends with my despondency. I have been unable to think
of anything but you since—but, I expect you know to what I cannot refer. I begin to fear I am in grave danger from this fever threatening to consume me with a greater violence for every day that passes without a salve for the ravage it causes me. If you have any feeling for me at all, you will consent to meet me so I may tell you how I have been suffering for love of you.

  Tomorrow evening, number 16 Acton Street. I will wait all day and all night for you.

  Isobel read the letter twice over before she could begin to think calmly. He loved her! She read the letter for a fourth time before thinking that if he was so terribly in love with her, he ought never have written such a letter asking her to compromise herself. It bothered her enough that the next day she showed it to Mrs. Morris.

  “Don’t you dare think of going!” she gasped. “If he loves you, he will declare himself like a gentleman. You’re a lady, and he must treat you like one!”

  “But, if he loves me, he will not compromise me!” Isobel took back the letter.

  Mrs. Morris shook her head. Master Philip was a young man obsessed with bedding every wench in sight, though she could not bring herself to tell Isobel so. “Listen to me,” she said, “a gentleman does not ask a lady to meet him alone. You know this. That letter is nothing but an insult. Do you not know in your heart that it would be wrong to meet him?”

  “But he says he loves me!”

  “No, Isobel, he does not say he loves you. Read it again. He says he hopes you will disgrace yourself. Will you damn yourself to hell for such a man? Will you do what you know is wrong? There is no greater sin than that, Isobel.”

  “Mrs. Morris, if you can read this letter and tell me Philip does not love me, I will not go.”

  “He will love you all the more if you prove to him you will not do what you know to be a sin.”