Time After Time (289 page)

Gerald was still an albatross of shame around his neck. As darkness blissfully brought him temporary release, he determined to find the man in London. He might never escape the torment over Isabelle, but at least he could free himself of that blot on his conscience.

Chapter Twenty-one

Bessie opened the door for Isabelle, admitting her to the rambling farmhouse she’d taken near the small cottage the two had previously inhabited. The home was modest, but more spacious than anything Isabelle ever thought she would have for herself. She handed off her shawl and gloves and rubbed her hands together. “So chilly out. You can feel winter coming in the air.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bessie replied. “How was the committee meeting?”

Isabelle groaned. “Getting the ladies’ auxiliary to settle on a charity to receive the proceeds of the Harvest Ball is like pulling hen’s teeth. I nearly went mad listening to the bickering. When they’d narrowed it down to five, I thought it would come to blows. I finally said I’d give a thousand pounds to each if we could just pull the name of one out of a hat and conclude the meeting.”

Bessie gasped. “Five thousand pounds! You’re too loose with your money, ma’am,” she chided. The servant clucked her tongue and shook her head.

Isabelle smiled ruefully. She understood Bessie’s apprehension. When she’d lived with Isabelle before, she’d known her as Jocelyn Smith, and they’d been destitute. Isabelle had returned to the village with her true name and the unwanted burden of Marshall’s money. Alexander had been quite firm on that point: take the money or marry. And since Isabelle had decided she would never marry, she took Marshall’s guilt money. The least she could do was use it to help the less fortunate.

Bessie handed off Isabelle’s outerwear to a passing maid. She’d taken to her new position of housekeeper like a duck to water. She kept the house running smoothly, leaving Isabelle with plenty of time to do as she pleased. Too much time, truth be told.

“The post is on your desk,” Bessie said. She followed Isabelle to the sitting room where Isabelle did her writing. “There’s calling cards, too.”

Isabelle dropped into the elegantly curved wingback chair behind her oak desk. She pulled a penknife from the drawer and opened the envelopes.

The first one contained an invitation to Lady Chirken’s birthday fête. The second, an invitation to join the Ladies’ Society for the Improvement of Our Fallen Sisters, which, if Isabelle read between the delicately composed lines correctly, sought to provide assistance and training in new occupations to prostitutes. The next was a letter from Lily.

Isabelle scanned the lines in her friend’s neat hand. “Ah!” she said. “Mrs. and Miss Bachman will be here in three weeks, Bessie. Please make a note to have rooms prepared.”

She pulled the contents from the final envelope. When she unfolded the paper, a newspaper clipping fluttered to the desk. Isabelle sighed. “Still?”

The note was from someone she’d never met, asking would she please autograph and return the enclosed clipping.

Isabelle turned over the piece of newsprint, barely paying attention to the bold words: DK. MONTHWAITE SAVED IN HEROIC RESCUE, and the smaller words below, “Former wife preserves life of the duke and his sister; family calls her a heroine!”

In the weeks following Marshall’s shooting, clippings identical to this one had poured into the Bachmans’ London home and Fairfax Hall. She’d signed papers until her hand cramped and spent a small fortune on return postage.

Everyone seemed to want a piece of the cast-off wife who had saved her former husband and sister-in-law from a love-crazed murderess. Isabelle was touted as a heroine. Doors that had slammed in her face years ago were opened once again. She received invitations to parties, balls, charity events — and callers. People actually came to her door, seeking her company.

Inevitably, though, conversation turned to Marshall. People wanted to hear about the shooting or talk about his public apology. After a couple weeks, she’d had enough. Isabelle quit the Bachmans’ home and returned to Fairfax Hall, and from there, traveled to the only place she’d ever escaped public scrutiny.

She scrawled her name across the newspaper clipping and stuffed it into an envelope. Then she picked up the five calling cards from the silver salver Bessie had brought her. She didn’t recognize a single name. Isabelle tossed them back into the tray and made a disgusted sound.

The village was not the haven it once had been. As bothersome as she found signing newspaper clippings for autograph collectors, this was worse. She’d become an attraction. Perfect strangers invaded her home, hoping for an audience with the famous heroine.

If she was home, she simply refused to see the visitors. Then guilt nagged at her for disappointing people. She solved that problem by keeping herself busy. She threw herself into local charity work, traveling to schools and orphanages. She’d even been to Newgate and donated sewing supplies for the female prisoners.

Isabelle was tired. It would all blow over soon enough, but meantime, she wished people would just leave her alone. Most of all, she wished they’d stop talking about Marshall.

“What was that?” She squinted at Bessie.

“I said, ma’am, the painter came by to look at the nursery. He’d like to begin soon as possible, so he can finish before the weather turns.”

Isabelle nodded. “Yes, all right. Good. He may start whenever he’d like.”

Bessie wrung her hands at her waist.

Isabelle looked up from her papers. “Is there something else?”

“Begging your pardon. It prob’ly ain’t my concern, but I was wondering why you’re fixing up the nursery so nice.” The older woman pulled her head backward so that the loose skin bunched around her cheeks and chin.

Isabelle tapped her fingernail against the desk. She closed her eyes. The old daydream came at once, a vision of holding a baby in her arms, rocking and singing while the little one cooed. But it wasn’t her baby. Not anymore. The hollow ache in her chest bloomed into a staggering pain of loss. Isabelle wrenched her eyes open.

“I’ll have nephews and nieces one of these days,” she said quietly. “I’d like to be ready when they come to visit.”

Bessie exhaled. “Oh, right. Nephews and nieces. Of course, ma’am. And might I say,” she rushed, “it’ll be a beautiful nursery. You have the nicest taste in colors, I always say.”

“You always say that, do you?” Isabelle shook her head.

The mental picture came again: her baby, and Marshall kissing them both.

She pushed back from the desk. “Has Cook started dinner yet?” she asked as she walked briskly, trying to outpace the visions.

Bessie struggled to keep up. “I don’t believe so, ma’am.”

“Good.”

Isabelle strode to the kitchen where her cook, a portly man, was about to decapitate a feathered pigeon.

“Stop!” Isabelle ordered. The man let out a high-pitched shriek and his knife clattered to the board.

Isabelle shooed him with a flick of her wrists. “Out you go, then. I’ll see to myself tonight.”

“Are you sure, ma’am?” Cook asked. “I was just about to braise — ”

“That sounds excellent,” Isabelle said, tying an apron around her waist. “I’ll do it myself. Thank you.”

The man grumbled as Isabelle evicted him from the kitchen. Then, as she did from time to time, she stood in the center of the room with her hands on her hips and took stock of her surroundings. It was a good kitchen. Perhaps not as fine as another she had cooked in, but it was clean and well-provisioned for a modest country household.

She stirred together wine and stock for the braising liquid and put the pot on to heat. Then she peeled several onions and began methodically chopping them.

As she sliced into a vegetable, the first tear slipped down her cheek. She liked to chop onions. When she worked with them, no one asked why she was crying.

• • •

“ … am prepared to offer a considerable sum for your services as translator, as I realize this has arisen at the last possible moment. The urgency of your immediate response cannot be overstated. Gratefully yours,
et cetera
.”

Marshall blew out his cheeks while Perkins finished jotting down the dictation. He looked out the window over Grosvenor Square. Crisp, dry leaves crunched under boots and hooves in the street below. The air was turning cold. In a few weeks, winter would fall upon England.

Brazil, though, would be a tropical paradise — warm and damp, teeming with undiscovered plant life. He’d wanted to do this for years, to really sink his teeth into some meaty botanical work. He was
excited, he told himself as he stared dully out the window. There was nothing for him here. Brazil offered an opportunity to lose himself in his work. And he needed to lose himself in something, before he was lost forever.

“I’ll send this right away, Your Grace,” Perkins said.

“Tell the courier to wait for the reply,” Marshall ordered.

He ran a hand down the side of his face. His cheekbone was more prominent beneath his palm than it had been a few months ago. Back when she might have loved him. Before she despised him, at any rate.

Perkins’ papers rustled as the secretary prepared Marshall’s letter. “One more thing.” Marshall turned. “Please send Mr. Gerald in. I’d like to finalize his list of provisions for the horses.”

“Of course.” Perkins bent his neck before stepping from the study.

When the secretary had gone, Marshall glumly eyed the stack of paperwork awaiting his attention.

It was no easy task for a nobleman of Marshall’s position to leave the country for six months. He’d wanted the expedition to last a year, but the howls of protest from his family brought an end to that notion. Grant would have the assistance of Marshall’s various solicitors, bailiffs, stewards, and men of business to keep the Monthwaite estates and investments running smoothly. Still, his brother expressed apprehension at taking the reins from Marshall for even half a year.

He plunked into his chair and began going through his work with only part of his attention on it. Another part toyed with the idea that had taken hold of him some weeks ago. What if he never came back? Accidents at sea were not unheard of. They could encounter a French war vessel. There were diseases in South America, too, like yellow fever. As heir apparent, Grant would have to take over the dukedom permanently if something happened to Marshall. He was a smart, capable young man. He would adapt.

Grant would adapt, too, if he simply didn’t come back for a year, Marshall thought petulantly. Or never. He could send word once he was there. No one could force him to return. And the work he could accomplish! Ignoring the other work demanding his notice, he jotted down a few notes as to what he could say to explain a permanent leave of absence.

“Oh, there you are,” Naomi said breezily as she strolled in, as though Marshall hadn’t been chained to his desk for the last month.

Marshall flipped his notes over. “What is it?” he asked without looking at her.

“Nothing, really.” There was a soft rustling of fabric as she settled into the chair across the desk. “I’d like to spend some time with my brother before he sails to the other side of the world.”

Marshall cleared his throat and very carefully affixed his signature to a purchase order. “I don’t have any time to give you just now.”

She took no notice of his dismissal. “It’s such a shame you won’t be here for Christmas. It’s always such a jolly time watching you and Grant try to out-eat each other. Now poor Grant shall have to dispatch the lion’s share of the goose all by himself. I fear his stomach will burst, and then where will that leave Mama and I? Oh, well,” she sighed, “I don’t suppose that’s any of your concern, now is it?”

Marshall pressed his lips together and resolutely kept his eyes on his work. If he ignored her, she would leave.

Several minutes of silence passed. Marshall became engrossed in a report of Hamhurst’s autumnal crop yield, and truthfully forgot his sister was still in the study.

“I wonder if Isabelle will prepare Christmas dinner herself or if she’ll have a cook do it.”

Marshall startled at Naomi’s voice. He slapped his hand against the desk. “Are you still here? I told you I have work to do.”

Naomi shrugged. She held her hand out at arm’s length, examining her manicure. “I haven’t prevented you from working, have I?”

Marshall made an annoyed sound at the back of his throat and attempted to put his mind back on the report.

Naomi hummed tunelessly.

Marshall closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. He reminded himself how grateful he was Naomi had not been harmed when she was abducted. When he remembered that harrowing trial, it sapped the worst of his temper.

“I had a letter from Miss Bachman today,” Naomi announced.

Marshall’s guts twisted at the name of Isabelle’s friend. In what marked the greatest display of cowardice he had ever exhibited, he’d refused to see Lily Bachman when she’d come looking for him a week after Isabelle left. At that point, he could barely hold himself together. He didn’t have the fortitude to withstand another of Miss Bachman’s withering diatribes, no matter how much he undoubtedly deserved it.

“Oh?” he said in a neutral tone. “I trust she is well?”

“I believe so, yes. She tells me she’s going to visit Isabelle this week.”

Heat crawled over his shoulders and neck. Why wouldn’t she go away and leave him alone? “How about that,” he said noncommittally.

“She related an amusing anecdote,” Naomi said. “It seems Isabelle found herself trapped in the middle of a squabbling committee of ladies who could not decide on a cause for their charity event. So Isabelle promised a thousand pounds to each of five causes, just to make the women be quiet and end the meeting.” Naomi let out a silvery laugh.

Marshall felt like the air had been punched from him. “Did she really?” he managed to drawl.

“Isn’t that just like Isabelle?” Naomi shook her head from side to side. “Generous as the day is long, but won’t put up with anyone’s nonsense.” She laughed again. “It reminds me of the time she — ”