“Oh, don’t.” She angled her knees, about to rise. “I can’t just sit here. I have to—”
“Stay where you are.” Steady as any downstairs maid, he stooped to gather the shards into the dustpan. “I’d make you tea, only I don’t know where you keep it.”
“I’m out of real tea.” She kept her eyes trained on her hands, folded once more in her lap. “It’s a luxury. Biggles makes all manner of substitutes. But—”
“What do you need for this medicine of yours?”
“Peppermint and, and …” Her mind went blank. Beyond an image of a jovial, gray-headed matron and a sprig of green, oblong leaves, nothing else would surface. Goodness, when was the last time Isabelle had ever felt so useless—besides when Jack had first come into the world and she had no idea how to care for him? And Biggles had helped her then, too. “I can’t remember.”
Upperton looked at her sharply. “Have you eaten anything today?”
She had to think about that. “I may have nibbled at something or other at the manor.”
“Let’s see what’s in here, then.” The basket. She’d forgotten.
He pulled back the checkered cloth and withdrew a pot of jam—peach, perhaps, or apricot. She hadn’t savored the sweet tang of apricot jam on her tongue in forever. Another pot contained some sort of dark preserves, possibly blackberry. A golden loaf of bread and a crock of butter followed, along with a wedge of cheese wrapped in brown paper. Next came a gritty brown tablet, also wrapped.
“Chocolate.” She forced the word past the lump that had risen to her throat. Heavens, that was for Jack. Julia had remembered her mentioning her boy never had such. Her generosity pierced Isabelle’s heart. “How shall I ever thank them?”
“Now this might come in handy.” Upperton produced a bottle of burgundy from the basket’s bottom. With a knife, he uncorked the bottle and located two mismatched teacups. Fine burgundy in teacups. She wanted to melt into the floor. He was surely used to crystal goblets.
The rich red liquid swirled into the stoneware. Her father would be horrified.
“I’ll take this over tea any day.” He kept his tone light, as if her world hadn’t just come crashing down about her ears since yesterday. Not that he was making light of the circumstances. Rather, he was trying to set her at ease, trying to stave off the paralyzing sense of panic that wanted to strangle her.
He set a cup before her. “Drink it down.”
The wine’s fumes burned her nostrils. This was good burgundy, heady and strong, not the watered down claret normally served to young ladies, or the swill she purchased from the inn on the rare occasions when she could afford it. She took a tentative sip. Rich flavor overwhelmed her tongue with dryness, and the wine burned a path to her stomach.
Gasping, she set the cup aside. “I’m out of the habit.”
He grinned at her before taking a healthy swig. “Very nice. Don’t stop now. The second swallow is easier.”
At his prompt, she took another sip, feeling her courage burgeon alongside the growing warmth in her belly. “It will go to my head if I’m not careful.”
“And after a sleepless night.” He tore into the loaf of bread, and set a piece in front of her. “You’ll need to keep up your strength.”
As she reached for the butter, more to please Upperton than to appease a nonexistent appetite, her glance fell on another parcel. What else could Julia and Sophia possibly have sent her? She reached for it, and undid the paper wrapping. A selection of dried fruit spilled onto the table—apple, figs, currants, raisins, golden rounds of apricot.
“Dried apricot.” The very thing. Bolstered by the wine, she bolted from her seat.
Fingers trembling, she wrapped up the package and strode out the door. The village streets lay quiet in the lengthening shadows as she made her way back to the vicarage. If Upperton followed, he held back. Thank heavens. She didn’t wish to explain the association to Mrs. Weston.
Isabelle knocked, and the door opened presently.
“My goodness.” Even though the light was fading, Mrs. Weston hadn’t changed out of her day dress.
“Is Peter the same then?”
“I’m afraid so.” Mrs. Weston’s gaze lit on the parcel in Isabelle’s hands. Her eyes gleamed with hope. “Have you brought me the infusion already?”
“Biggles …” She didn’t wish to explain Biggles any more than she wanted to explain Upperton. “Biggles is in no condition at the moment.”
“Oh dear. Is she ill, as well?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Isabelle clipped the words, hoping her tone would forestall any further questions. “But I did bring you this.” She thrust the packet at Mrs. Weston. “If you can coax Peter to eat some, he ought to be feeling better tomorrow sometime.”
Mrs. Weston opened the paper. “I don’t know. He can be so difficult when he gets this way.”
“Tell him it’s a new kind of sweet.”
“But that …” Mrs. Weston advanced a step and lowered her voice. “That would be untruthful.”
“Not entirely. Dried apricots are sweet. So is the apple.”
The vicar’s wife still hesitated.
“Take them. They’ll do your boy more good than the infusions.” Or any infusion Isabelle might concoct under the circumstances. They’ll do your boy more good than mine, was what she wanted to say.
No, she must chase away those thoughts. It would help no one if she broke into a fresh spate of sobs on Mrs. Weston’s doorstep. “I must go.”
She turned, but not before she caught a sidelong glimpse of Mrs. Weston’s narrowed eyes. Splendid. The vicar’s wife had seen Upperton. Let the speculation and rumors begin. No doubt such would begin circulating by morning.
Isabelle straightened her back and marched toward the street. She had nothing to be ashamed of.
“I think she spotted me.” Upperton pushed himself away from the gate to the vicarage and offered his elbow.
She stared at it, pointedly. “And how will acting as my suitor improve the situation?”
He cast a glance over his shoulder. “She’s watching—still in the doorway.”
“Of course she is.” The busybody. “She’ll watch until she sees me admit you to my house.”
“Then shouldn’t we make it worth her while to watch?”
If it hadn’t been for the audience, Isabelle would have stopped cold in the street. He couldn’t have just insinuated …
“Or would you rather we confound her by taking a stroll?”
A stroll. As if they were old friends. As if he were, indeed, courting her. How long she’d foregone such simple, ordinary pleasures. She’d be tempted if she hadn’t passed a sleepless night and harrowing day—and if she weren’t so worried. “I do not think that’s the best idea.”
“No? I think it is a capital suggestion. You need a distraction from today’s events. However,” he added before she could protest, “I might suggest other means of distraction.”
An unexpected—and certainly inappropriate—rush of heat uncurled in her belly. But he couldn’t possibly be hinting at anything untoward. Not under the present circumstances.
He wants you for his mistress. Isabelle pushed the irritating reminder aside. Now was no time to entertain such propositions, even when they hadn’t been repeated.
“Distraction?” There. She’d managed one word in a neutral tone. Trying for more would be pushing matters.
“Nothing indecent, mind you,” he said quickly. “Do you enjoy card games?”
Cards? Nothing but cards? She nearly laughed. “I have in the past.”
“Excellent.” He pushed her door open and steered her into the kitchen. “But I’m going to insist you eat something first. You need to keep up your strength.”
“Yes, because now we’ll need to find Biggles, as well as Jack.” For the life of her, she couldn’t have said how she kept her voice steady. She sank to the bench and contemplated the hunk of bread. It ought to have tempted her, but she suspecte
d the firm crust would only turn to sawdust in her mouth.
He pushed the butter crock at her, along with the knife he’d used to open the wine. “You …” He paused, as if he didn’t like what he was about to suggest. “You don’t find it odd that Biggles disappeared at nearly the same time Jack did?”
She paused in the midst of buttering her bread. “What makes you ask something like that?”
His cheeks colored. “Your pardon. I’ve barely met the woman, you see.”
“You don’t understand.” She couldn’t keep the hard edge from her tone. “Biggles would never be involved in anything of the sort. She saved my life when I discovered I was expecting Jack. I owe her.”
He cut a wedge of cheese and set it on her plate. “Saved your life?”
“When my family turned me out. I disgraced them, you see. I couldn’t be allowed to remain and taint their good name.” Her throat swelled shut and cut off her words. The memories of her desperation loomed large in her mind at the prospect of being alone once again.
“If they turned you loose with no resources, how did you find your way here?”
She swallowed. “That’s just it. I didn’t find my way. Biggles brought me here. She’d been turned out, too. Left with no references. She took pity on me and brought me with her.”
More than that, Biggles had helped her smuggle her collection of ball gowns out of the house. An act of thievery, if they’d been caught. Thank the heavens they hadn’t because the proceeds from the sale of those gowns had allowed them to feed and clothe themselves over the years.
“She possessed the means to buy a house when she worked in London as a servant?”
“This place belonged to her sister. She took us both in. But she’s gone now. Biggles couldn’t save her.” Isabelle closed her eyes against the memory. That, too, had been a black time with Jack a new baby and deadly sickness running through the village. “If Biggles hadn’t brought me here, I’d have had to sell myself long since.”
She closed her mouth on the other half of that statement—that she might yet have to if she meant to survive.
Upperton could well draw that conclusion himself. Indeed he had, if the firmness about his jaw and the line between his brows were any indication. “You shouldn’t remain alone.”
“I’ve no choice.” Her voice caught on the last word. Her son and a woman who’d looked after her like a mother—indeed, who’d shown her more love than her actual family—gone in the space of a day.
She stared at the untouched bread before her, as if the sight might stop the burning at the backs of her eyes.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
GEORGE POPPED the last of the cheese into his mouth and pushed his plate away. Isabelle had managed to choke down a bit of bread and butter. Now she tore apart the remains of the crust, her movements sharp and abrupt like a nervous wren. Her gaze darted to the window.
Outside, the sun had fully set, ending another languid late August evening. The bright blue sky was fast fading to a deep black.
“Hadn’t you ought to return to your house party?” she asked quietly. Her tone belied a certain tension, an expectation that he’d depart. Indeed, propriety demanded it, but he knew she didn’t want to remain alone.
“I won’t leave you by yourself to brood.” Unthinkable, the idea of allowing her to pass the long hours of the night with nothing to ponder but her solitude. “And I’ve promised you a distraction. I wish I might do more.”
“You’ve done all you can,” she whispered. “Involving your friends in the search. I could not ask for better.”
“Revelstoke would have involved himself without my intervention. You had only to go to him.” George rose and lit a branch of candles before reaching into his pocket. He still carried the pack of cards Leach had left behind at the inn. Casually, he pulled a few off the end of the pack and stuffed them in the middle. “Tell me. What do you like to play?”
“I haven’t played cards in years. I’m sure I’ve forgotten how.”
“What rot.” He slapped the pack against the table to align the cards. “You don’t forget how to play. What’s your game?”
“Whist.” With a forefinger, she traced the rim of her teacup. “But I don’t know that we should.”
He knew her son was ever on her mind, but with night coming on there was nothing left for them to do but wait for the long hours to pass before searching again. “It’s better than dwelling.”
She lifted her cup halfway to her lips before setting it down without drinking. The stoneware rattled in its saucer. “We can’t play with only the two of us.”
He leaned back, stretching his legs beneath the table. “If we used half the pack, we could.”
“What?” She frowned. “Take out two suits? That would take the challenge away.”
The challenge, yes. He smiled. Now he’d piqued her curiosity. Perhaps he could convince her to push her worries to the back of her mind for a little while.
Awareness of her on a very basic level crackled to life in the air between them. Not awareness of her as a woman so much as awareness of kindred thought. He agreed—he recognized that the more difficult a thing was to obtain, the more valuable in the end, whether a simple matter of a card game or something more complicated.
Like a difficult passage of music that took hours of practice until the notes became a part of his fingers. Until his fingers reproduced them without prompting from his brain.
Or like a woman.
He gave himself a mental shake. And where had that idea come from? He needed to consider its origin and banish it to the farthest ends of the realm, for that sort of thinking could only lead to trouble.
“And you claim you’ve forgotten how to play,” he said. If she thought in those terms, she’d probably laid a wager or two in her lifetime.
“We’d need all four suits for a proper game.”
He refilled his teacup with wine and took a sip. “We could deal four hands and only play two.”
“Or we could choose our cards.”
“How is that fair? If I play the gentleman and allow you to choose first, you’ll take all the high cards for yourself.”
“Not if we alternate.” She held out her hand. “Give me the cards.” She placed the pack between them. “I choose a card of the first two, then you choose, and so on until we each have a hand.”
“You’ll know what other cards aren’t in play.”
“So will you, and they won’t be the same cards.” She blinked and blinked again. “But if you really want, we can do it this way. I take the first card, and if I like it, I keep it and lay the next one aside without looking. If I dislike the first card, I can take the second, but then I must keep it, even if it’s worse.”
“That would work. How would you determine trumps?”
“Last card is trumps, just like real whist.”
He grinned, caught up in the novelty of inventing a new game. “What shall we play for? Forfeits?”
“Forfeits?” Naturally her eyes narrowed. Experience had taught her to distrust. If he wanted answers to his questions, he would have to ease into the matter. “What sort of forfeits?”
“Nothing scandalous. Not unless you prefer higher stakes,” he couldn’t resist adding.
“I do not.”
“I’d never ask for more than you’re willing to pay. For every point, you must answer a question with the truth.”
“And for every point I win?”
He allowed himself a rakish smile. If she believed him to be after kisses and such, she might be less suspicious of his true purpose. “You may name your price, and I shall be happy to pay whatever you demand.”
She smiled in turn, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. That impish gleam in her eye promised all manner of mischief.
One after the other, they drew cards. Her method of determining the hand proved devilishly clever. He might well build himself a long suit only to have another turn up as trump. Or he might hold a king with no way to tell if she h
ad the ace or it lay in the pile of discards. He might attempt to count cards and remember the honors that had been played, but such strategies were hampered with half the pack an unknown quantity.
As play progressed, Isabelle showed herself quite adept. In a true game with the play deep and her as his partner, he might easily win enough to cover Summersby’s markers plus a nice cushion for himself—enough to set Isabelle and Jack up in a nice area of London, enough to acquire her a servant or two. Enough that she might live the way she was meant to.
Isabelle slapped a trump on his last card. Blast it, she’d already closed her book, which meant …
“I win the point.” She sounded all too pleased with herself.
“Imagine, once you remember how to play.”
She rested her hand on her chin and contemplated him for a long moment, until he shifted his weight on the bench. “Well? Do your worst and have done.”
“I want to hear you play the piano again.”
Damn it, anything but that. His music might drive him, but it wasn’t a talent he shared with anybody. And he couldn’t refuse. He had said she could claim anything. “How shall I play with no instrument to hand?”
“You may repay me another time.” On the other hand, that implied she might meet him again at Shoreford. Given her reception earlier, she’d have to plan another midnight rendezvous.
With a grin, he passed her the cards. They composed new hands for another round. He watched her carefully as the game progressed. She’d begun to make elementary errors, leading a ten to his ace. By the final card, her fingers were shaky.
George took the last trick. “Two points. That means you answer two questions.”
“Very well.” Head bowed, she folded her hands before her.
“Tell me …” He couldn’t jump right in with Redditch. “Tell me about something that makes you smile.”
“Oh.” For a moment, she looked lost.
Perhaps that much was true. In the past two days, she’d lost her son, lost her support. And every day, she struggled. Struggled for acceptance as much as she struggled to live. Earlier, he’d seen the reaction of the other villagers the moment they realized who he was searching for. Their expressions had hardened, and they’d eyed him with speculation, the same as the butler this morning.
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