Mark of Distinction (Price of Privilege) (51 page)

I woke one night, sobbing, the images of Edward receding.

As I had every night that week, I started to collect myself by lighting a candle. Sometimes, if I turned onto my side and stared long enough at the flickering light, sleep would overtake me. But then, all at once, I realized I couldn’t do this anymore. Even if I fell asleep, I would only repeat the dream.

I wanted freedom. But how?

As I cast a desperate look about my bedchamber, I felt the nagging sensation that perhaps my freedom lay in surrender.

But surrender to what?

I kicked the covers off my feet, frustrated, eyeing Edward’s charred Bible.

I’ve looked there,
I silently screamed to God. I even believed the solution was there. But what was that to me? I couldn’t make sense of it. There was no one to explain.

Yet even that thought rang false in my mind. For I’d not forgotten the way Isaac watched me read, patiently waiting for me to approach him.

Before I could change my mind, I grabbed my shawl, stole from my bed, and pattered down the hall.

When I reached his door, however, I couldn’t knock. How could I disturb his sleep in the middle of the night with questions I didn’t have the words to ask? Instead I leaned against the wood, wishing I could go back in time.

The door opened. Isaac, clad in a nightshirt, fastened on a pair of trousers as he gave me a questioning look.

I shrugged, telling him I didn’t know why I was there either.

He sighed, then took my arm and led me to the staircase that was farthest from my father’s chamber. “Sit,” he said, and when I obeyed, he took the step above me and wrapped me in his arms.

“I killed Eramus,” I whispered. “I killed him by going to Macy.”

“Did you go to Macy with the intent to have him killed?”

“No.”

“Then you didn’t kill Eramus. You’re not responsible for what Macy does.”

It was the first conversation we’d had since the attack and the calmest I’d felt since that night.

“I can’t take you not speaking to me anymore,” I said. “It’s more than I can bear. Why do you act as though I’m not in the room?”

Isaac said nothing.

“Is it because . . . because I still love Edward?”

“No.” His voice was pained. Isaac shifted me closer against him, though somehow there wasn’t anything provocative in it.

“Then why?”

He rested his chin against the crown of my head, so that I felt him speak. He paused for a long moment as if wrestling with his thoughts. “I failed to protect you from Eramus. I believed I was capable but risked your life.” I felt his throat tighten before anger coated his voice. “And if I can’t keep you safe from the
likes of him, then how . . . how dare I presume . . .” He clutched me tight.

I said nothing, realizing how precarious my footing was. This was Isaac exposed.

“You should have seen your father’s face,” Isaac eventually continued, “when I had to confess that I knew Eramus was dangerous, that I exposed you, that I lost control of the situation.”

I sighed, scarcely able to imagine how difficult it must have been for Isaac. He’d performed so flawlessly for so long that somewhere along the way he’d forgotten which part of him was real.

I rested my head against him, wondering if he even knew where his true feelings began and where duty and honor ended. He loved me sincerely—there was no doubt of that. But what I couldn’t decide was whether it was because he thought we suited each other or because it was his nature to love. Who could tell if he followed duty or ardor? He might have loved anyone with equal devotion; it just happened to fall to me.

“Why are you here?” he eventually asked.

I allowed the back of my head to sag against his chest as I recalled my struggle. “I don’t know. It feels foolish now.”

“Tell me anyway. I could use something foolish.”

I felt my cheeks warm as I pondered how to talk to Isaac about what I’d experienced. More than once I opened my mouth to speak before finally asking, “Have you ever . . . have you ever felt God?”

“Yes.”

His frank answer stunned me. For a second, I wanted to be offended that he was so certain, so sure. But then, with a chuckle, I realized I felt the same way.

“Does this have anything to do with why you’ve been searching Scripture?”

It was all the invitation I needed. My words did not flow eloquently that night, but in the darkness of that stairway in
London House, I haltingly poured out my devastation and sorrow at Isaac’s feet. I told him about what I’d experienced at Eastbourne, what I hoped to achieve by seeking my father’s aid, and the time I’d finally prayed and then feared the depth of what I’d touched.

Each word cost, for they exposed years of hurt, potentially giving Isaac mastery over my forming beliefs. I tried to guard myself, waiting for him to begin defining what I should believe and then urge me to obey God by obeying my father and marrying him.

As I finished, I stole a glance at him and found his lips twisted.

“You dare to smile,” I accused.

He sobered, looking rueful. “I meant no harm. It’s just that you’re asking me to assign meaning to loss, one of the most hindering aspects of faith.” He waited several moments as if gathering his thoughts. “When considering surrender, I suppose, the primary question to ask is whether or not a person actually knows what’s best for herself.”

I stiffened at the ludicrousness of that thought.

“For example,” Isaac continued, “most, given the chance, would choose discovering they’d been left a vast fortune over suffering a crippling disease. Yet I’ve seen the former cause utter ruination and grief, and the latter drastically bring healing to someone’s relationships and outlook on life. Which is truly the blessing and which the curse?”

I sat stock-still in his arms, desiring to be open to new ideas, but still wanting to think through his argument.

“You’re on the right path; I can say that much. It is no easy decision to lay down your life, especially without assurance of what that will entail. You fear being further broken, but consider that in the hands of Jesus, a broken loaf can feed thousands, while intact it will feed only one.”

I hid my pain, feeling as though we were discussing my willingness to give up Edward.

“Maybe,” Isaac continued, “he has a mighty plan. And maybe the reason he’s not softened your approach is because he knows how difficult your steps toward him are, and it ravishes his heart that you proceed anyway.”

I couldn’t help but give a disbelieving laugh at the image of Julia Elliston captivating God. I shook my head, imagining how quickly my former vicar would rebuff that notion. “I don’t think so, Isaac.”

“Not many choose to die, and I know better than anyone how dear your former life is to you. If you hand over that, do you really believe such a sacrifice would go unnoticed?”

The idea of love won me. I could never follow the God of my vicar’s making, but this—this made me yearn. The thought of a God who waited patiently, hand outstretched, eagerly anticipating me . . . that thought undid me. Perhaps it was because of Isaac too. His daily care and tender ministrations set another example, painted another image.

I would liken my first step toward faith like stepping up to the edge of the cliff, spreading arms wide, and falling backwards in trust that God wouldn’t let me fall. I’d never felt so frightened, yet drawn. Like Abraham placing his son on the altar, I knew the conditions under which I approached. I had to release all.

That night I surrendered. I accepted that I could lay down the heavy weight of my burden in exchange for rest. The price was costly, but once exchanged, I found a deep well of peace that could coexist with grief. My only witness was Isaac, who laughed outright, a husky laugh that contained the very air of a father laying eyes on his newborn child.

The following morning as Miss Moray spread a rose-colored gown over my bed, I opened my vanity drawer and pulled out Edward’s watch. Morning light caught its engravings as I considered it. It is one thing to decide to mentally take a step of
faith, but quite another to live it out physically. I fisted the timepiece, knowing that no matter what transpired, Edward alone would be the longing of my heart. A glance in the mirror told me I appeared as frightened as I felt. Swallowing, I placed the watch back inside the vanity.

Isaac immediately noted the absence of Edward’s pin as I slid into my chair. One unguarded look in his eyes gave me a glimpse of his soul, but his own brand of diplomacy quickly took over. He returned to his breakfast as if making an unspoken pledge that he wouldn’t rush me. To anyone else he would have appeared leisurely, but I noted how he couldn’t stop smiling.

I attempted to return his smile but suddenly felt shy and anxious to move the attention from me. My father, buried behind the
Times
of London, did not acknowledge me, so I gave Isaac a meaningful look, asking what in the papers occupied him. Still grinning, he shrugged.

When the morning correspondences arrived, a glint of purple—a royal envelope—peeked through amongst the ivory. With a growl, my father tore it open and scanned the contents.

“Write an acceptance this morning.” He handed it to me. “You and Isaac shall attend.”

Isaac lifted his eyebrows as he sipped his tea.

I held the invitation between my fingers, disliking that after so long, our first outing would be a court function. They were particularly nerve-racking, as the price of error was high.

I handed the purple page to Isaac. “It’s a costume ball.”

His face fell as he read it for himself. “I hate these. Every female asks me if I know who she is, and I never do. The horrid feeling intensifies with each wrong guess. Two years ago, I started a feud between two rivals.” He handed the page back. “At least this year they know my heart is taken. Maybe that will help.”

“Let’s disguise ourselves,” I suggested. “Make it impossible to guess who we are.”

“No.” My father’s voice grumbled from behind the headlines. “Neither of you have been in the papers for weeks.” He folded and lowered his paper before sagging against his chair, studying us. “Which means we need costumes London will talk about.”

Isaac shot me a look of alarm before placidly buttering a scone.

My father nodded thoughtfully as though he weighed different ideas in his mind, eventually deciding on, “Tristan and Isolde. I’ll arrange for the costumes.”

“A tragedy, sir? Really?” Isaac protested. “Haven’t we had enough of those lately?”

Instead of answering, my father stood and glowered. Isaac, however, didn’t lower his chin or look askance. He stared back.

My father merely grabbed his stack of newspapers and left the chamber.

A fortnight later, I stood before my mirror at evenfall, looking over the medieval-styled dress. It was red and fastened across the chest with a band of material that connected to a blue cape trimmed with cross-stitched Celtic lions. The dress’s trim was stitched with thistles. A wispy veil, cut in the front and attached to my head with a gold circlet, fell down my back.

Another girl, from another era, stared back at me, making me think I would have fared well as a chieftain’s daughter, centuries prior. The garb suited me.

Isaac paced at the bottom of the stairs in the foyer, giving me a chance to view him privately. Alone, he wasn’t self-possessed. His normally placid face was filled with anxiety, and he chewed his thumbnail. His costume was thinly hammered armor that a smith had taken time to ornament. The silver plates weren’t bulky and were connected with some stretchable fabric that allowed him to bend elbows, knees, and waist. It broadened his shoulders and made his legs appear muscular. I frowned,
considering how handsomely my father had paid for our costumes.

“Sir Tristan.” I leaned over the third-story balusters. “I thought you died. How glad I am to see you live!”

He looked up with a warm gaze, and had I not seen him a moment ago, I would have believed he was truly in full control of his emotions. “Let us hope we will have a better ending than that.” He bowed deeply. “You look beautiful. Come down.”

When I reached him, I spun to show him my costume.