Chapter Six

 

After Arabelle’s bath, Edith brushed her hair by the heat of the fire until it shone, then twisted it up in a simple chignon with a pearl comb. Arabelle dressed in a soft blue velvet gown and was left to rest by the fire before growing fidgety and heading downstairs.

The door to Isaac’s room opened just as she passed, and Isaac’s valet exited.

“Pardon me, Miss Hyatt.” He bowed before the partially open door.

“Is Mr. Linfield downstairs?”

“He is just coming out, Miss.” With another bow, he left toward the servant’s staircase.

Arabelle stared at the open door, barely breathing as she waited for Isaac to appear. But he did not. With a glance up and down the hall, she pushed the door open and stepped into the room.

Isaac stood with his back to her, his sleeve rolled up as he harnessed his wooden hand to his bare forearm. The sight of the stump shocked her into a stupor.

“Close the door, will you, James? I’ve had to redo this.”

Shaking herself into some lucidity, she closed the door. Not knowing if she should speak, but not wanting to deceive him, she timidly cleared her throat.

He turned at the sound, jerking his sleeve down to his wrist. “What are you doing here?” He shot a glance to the closed door. “Where is James?”

She lifted her chin, ignoring the anger in his voice. “He said you would be right out.”

“He was correct. You shouldn’t be in here.”

“Why?”

“Because of basic propriety, for starters, Miss Hyatt. And out of respect for my privacy.”

She felt her cheeks warm and lowered her head, overcome with remorse. “Of course. I’m sorry. I only wished to—I’ll go.” She turned, and as she did, her elbow brushed against the low-boy, knocking a bottle and hairbrush to the ground.

“Oh no,” she said, diving for the items as he did.

The resounding crack at her forehead was followed by Isaac’s grunt. They both rocked backward, landing on the floor.

“Oof,” said Isaac, peering at her as he rubbed his temple. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, wanting to be swallowed into the carpet. “That’s twice today you’ve fallen on my account.”

“Yes,” he said, picking up the unharmed bottle. “Fewer lives were at stake this time, though.”

“And we’re not soaked through.”

He shook his head, laughing silently, then rubbed his hand over his face. “I find myself at a complete loss.”

“Because I’m a country girl with horrible manners?”

“No. Because I should offer you assistance to your feet, but I can’t get to my own.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed, and rose on all fours. She crawled to his cane and handed it to him.

He took it in silence, then got his footing and hoisted himself up. He set the cologne down, then offered her his hand.

After he pulled her up, he let go quickly and stepped away, buttoning up his sleeve at his wrist. For the first time since she entered, she got a good look at him. He appeared to have bathed, brushed his wet hair, and shaved. “You look well,” she said quietly. “You smell of oranges and clove soap.”

“Better than river water?”

“On some occasions,” she said, trying to clear her head.

The corner of his mouth lifted.

“Are you angry?” she asked.

“Only a little,” he said. “Does your head hurt?”

“Not much.”

He returned to straightening his sleeve. “You smell of lemon and flowers.”

“It’s called Lily of the Valley. Jane took me to Floris on Jermyn Street during my season and helped me choose.” It had been one of the highlights of her stay.

“You two were close?” he asked, pulling on his jacket.

“Yes. She didn’t judge my wildness and had a way of making me want to be a lady. And you would have loved her sense of humor. I suppose being married to George required one.” She smiled.

But he frowned. “I’m sorry I didn’t have the opportunity to meet her. George wrote of her, of course. He was enraptured from the moment they met.”

“Indeed. They were wonderful together. And Eleanor won’t know either of them.”

“Yes, she will. We’ll tell her all we know.” He straightened the brush and bottle and moved to the door.

“We?” she asked.

He stopped in his movement. “You’ll tell her. I’ll share what I can when I’m here.”

“Here?” She shook her head. “Mr. Linfield, we have lost Hybrigge.” Emotions welled up in her eyes, and she blinked them back. “I have lost us Hybrigge. Where is it you think you’ll find us?”

He glanced at the door and stepped toward her. “Listen here. You didn’t lose Hybrigge. Nobody in this house would ever accuse you of that. You were perfectly right in your estimations of Forbes out there on the river today. He showed his colors and you—” He gently chucked her chin. “You stood up for your niece’s entire future like you were her mother. Nobody will fault you for that.”

“Mr. Forbes will,” she whispered. “Her entire future is now in peril.”

“Abby,” he said, “do not cry. I cannot stand to have you cry.” He drew closer. “You’ll get through this. You all will.”

She drew in a deep breath, determined to make him proud. “I suppose I must believe you, musn’t I?”

He gazed at her. “Yes.”

“What more can be done?” she asked.

He dropped his head, his shoulders rounding as he thought. Their heads were so very close together that if she leaned forward, her nose might have nuzzled his hair.

He lifted his head suddenly, and she drew back inches. “I’ll talk to Forbes again,” he said. “See if he’ll reconsider breaking the entailment or allow you and your family to reside here.” He frowned. “I don’t understand why he wants to sell the place.”

“Sell?” Panic widened her eyes. “Why would he sell Hybrigge?”

“I don’t know.” He held her shoulder. “You must not give up hope. You are still young and beautiful, and you may have another season again. Perhaps I can find a sponsor for you. Hewitt Forbes is not your only chance at a future, Abby.”

“And who would offer for me . . . and Eleanor?”

He dropped his head again.

“You think me beautiful?” she added.

He looked at her once more, his expression unreadable. She swallowed, aware of how very near he was. “Two years ago, before my first season, you wrote George a letter. You wrote and said . . . you wrote—” Her courage was failing her, but the interest in his eyes encouraged her. “You told George to keep an eye on me, to keep me close, that it was a good thing you were away at war, because if you were home you would be fighting all the other men for my first dances, and even my last.”

His gaze narrowed. “He read that to you?”

“It amused him.”

He swallowed. “It was a silly thing to write.”

“Yes, it was. I never forgot how silly it was, and that you were the one who wrote it.”

His gaze over her deepened. The space between them seemed to shrink, though neither moved. The thought of that space disappearing entirely gave rise to feelings she’d only read about in books, and her heart beat with a rhythm new to her.

“Abby,” he whispered, his hand moving from her shoulder to her cheek.

“Yes?” she replied, welcoming the shiver his touch brought.

Then he stepped away, dropping his hand.

She recovered her breathing and persisted. “You said that had you known your future, you would have danced every quadrille. Had you imagined some of those dances with me?”

He turned completely away from her. “Don’t do this, Abby.”

“Do what? Am I ridiculous? Is there not something between us? Or are you tired of me following at your feet, as if I were ten years old and you cannot get away fast enough?”

He turned sharply. “My feet? Abby, I am half. You have seen for yourself only a fraction of my inadequacy—”

“I have seen nothing of your inadequacy—only that you will do everything you can for those you care about—those you might love—”

“Miss Hyatt,” he shouted.

The entire house seemed to still in Arabelle’s ears, and tears blurred her vision. She would not cry.

He collected himself and his shoulders slumped. “I ought never raise my voice to a lady, or a friend,” he murmured. “And yet I have. I shall leave in the morning and conduct my business in town.”

“But tomorrow is Christmas Day, sir,” she said, fighting humiliation.

“Then I shall leave the next.”

She nodded, unable to manage anything more.

He went to the door and opened it, looking both ways. He then motioned to her, and she willed her feet to move quickly past him and turned, standing modestly outside his door.

She fought to catch his eye, unwilling to leave things as they were. She knew he sensed it.

“Abby,” he said, his voice almost sad. “I cannot offer you anything.”

She swallowed back her tears. “Cannot, or will not?”

He continued to avert his gaze, his jaw clenched.

“You know,” she said, “a friend recently told me that it is not what happens to us, but what we do afterward that determines our course. I wonder if he truly believes that, or if they were just words.”

His response came a moment of silence later. “I shall see you downstairs, Miss Hyatt.”

She made herself curtsy, then continued down to the library to sit at George’s desk and gather herself before going to Mama and assuring her that she was well and that everything was going to be all right.

It would be the biggest pretend of her life.

* * *

Mama dabbed at tears, but drew herself taller in her chair. “Perhaps I should write to Mr. Forbes.”

“To what end, Mama? Surely you don’t hope that he will renew his offer?”

“No,” she said, glancing at Eleanor, who played with blocks on the drawing room rug. “No, I saw for myself how little he thought of either of you there on the bank—oh if I only hadn’t have let go of Eleanor’s hand—no, we would have no idea of his true nature, then, would we?” She sighed. “This is so very vexing. I am vexed. But I will not be now. It is Christmas Eve, and this little one,” she nodded to Eleanor, “is beginning to give me that look of concern that one so young should not have.”

Arabelle smiled and went to Eleanor, plopping down to help build a tower before the child knocked it down with glee.

Eleanor’s hand reached toward the ceiling. “Tall tower. High, Abibelle.”

“Yes, I’ll build it very tall.”

“I do have some interesting and happy news,” Mama said, glancing at the doors. She lowered her voice. “It is about Mr. Linfield.”

Arabelle’s tower toppled.

“I crash it. Not you crash it.”

“Mr. Linfield?” Arabelle also glanced toward the doors. He’d not yet come down as promised. Quickly she began to build another tower. “What do you know?”

“I’ve had a letter from his mother. Naturally, I’d expressed our gratitude for his presence, my concern for his future, and a wish that we could do something for him in return for his kindness. His mother hoped to ease my concern.”

Arabelle stopped building. “And has she?”

Mama nodded. “Mr. Forbes revealed that Mr. Linfield—Major Linfield—had saved his commander’s life and was a war hero, but there is more.”

“Tall, Abibelle.”

Arabelle resumed building. “Oh?”

“Yes. It turns out that his colonel, Sir Dorset Upton, is a childless widower, with no entailment—brilliant man—who felt so indebted to the major for saving his life with loss of his own limbs that he has granted the major a substantial living and made him bailiff over his lands until his return from war. Major Linfield is to be under the tutelage of Sir Upton’s steward once he leaves Hybrigge. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Arabelle stared, a knot turning in her chest. “Wonderful.”

“It’s unusual, of course, for a gentleman to be given a working position—”

“He is a younger son,” Arabelle said, still dazed. “Isaac has worked his whole life on his father’s farm.”

“Yes. It’s quite perfect.”

Arabelle stared out the window, her breathing stalled.

The door opened, and her tower toppled once more.

“I crash it, Abibelle, not you crash it.”

“You build the tower, Linny. Then you can crash it.”

“Happy Christmas, ladies,” Isaac said.

“Happy Christmas, Major,” Mama said, and rose to curtsy.

Arabelle had pulled her legs beneath her to rise when Isaac was there, his hand extended to help her up.

“I seem to be constantly finding you aground, Miss Hyatt.”

“Yes,” she said, equally flustered and determined to appear serene. She took his hand and stood, smoothing her gown. “Life has been funny that way. The currents change, and you find yourself run into the rocks wondering how in the world you thought you could float in the first place.”

He gave her a perplexed look and lifted her hand, bowing over it and placing a kiss there. “You were meant to fly, I believe, Miss Hyatt.”

She remembered herself and curtsied. “And what of you, Major?”

His brow rose at her address, and he let go of her hand.

“I hear congratulations are in order. Mama has just told me of the circumstances awarded you by Colonel Upton.” She kept pushing the words out. “A bailiff with your own living. How wonderful for you. Your own set of wings.”

He looked to Mama and back at Arabelle. “Thank you. It’s new. I’m still uncertain of it all.”

“Uncertain, or just modest?” Mama asked with a smile.

He turned to her. “Humbled, ma’am. Forgive my surprise. I’ve not yet accepted.”

“Your mother wrote to me.”

“Ah.” He glanced at Arabelle. “That accounts for it.”

“Why would you not accept the living?” Arabelle asked.

“I’m sure the major has his reasons, and they are none of our business.”

Isaac lifted his hand. “It’s a reasonable question.” He turned to Arabelle, whose heart pounded against her chest in a bothersome manner. “The living comes with stipulations I’m not sure I could live up to,” he said, meeting her gaze. “It will take some consideration.”

“Mister? Play. Play blocks. Build tower high.”

He looked down at Eleanor and a half-built stack of blocks. “Yes, I see. How very high.”

“I see,” Arabelle said, and he looked up at her. “Some things take consideration, while others need almost no thought at all.”

“Abby,” he said as she brushed past him.

“Mama, forgive me, I am tired after all.”

“But we have yet to light the Yule log,” Mama said, half bewildered as Arabelle exited the room. “Arabelle, wait.”

She turned, surprised to find Isaac stopped not far behind her. “What is it, Mama?” she asked.

Mama pointed upward. “The kissing bough. Mistletoe.” Her brow rose. “It’s for luck.”

Then, to Arabelle’s horror, Mama looked to Isaac. “You must admit, Major, we could use all the luck we can get.”

He shifted nervously. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Well,” she said. “Get to it.”

“Det to it,” Eleanor piped up, then toppled her tower with a crash.

He looked to Arabelle. “With your permission?”

She must’ve nodded, because he stepped closer, his cane in one hand, his gaze on the ground.

He reached her, thankfully blocking Mama from her sight.

“Why are you doing this?” she whispered.

“Tradition,” he whispered back, setting his cane against the wall.

“Not this. I mean, yes this. You were very clear upstairs, and I thought I understood, but now I learn that you have some means, some purpose before you and you didn’t tell me, and—”

“Abby.”

“What?”

In the instant he caressed her face, her eyes closed, then his lips were upon hers, a brief touch, and then again, softer and less brief, and when she pressed back he met her, matching her desire, surpassing it.

Until he released her, stepping back, blinking.

She regained her breath as he reached for his cane.

“Why did you do that?” she whispered.

“Tradition,” he said, sounding strained. “For luck.”

“A peck on the cheek would have sufficed.”

“You need more luck than that, I think.”

“Bravo, Major,” Mama called from her chair.

“Bavo, mister,” Eleanor parroted.

“Now both of you get back in here,” Mama said, “and I’ll hear no more talk of retiring early. We need to celebrate while we have something to celebrate. Oh, how dreadful that sounded.”

“No more blocks.” Eleanor toppled her tower and walked to Arabelle. “Tories.”

“You’d like a story?” Arabelle asked, welcoming the distraction since she’d been ordered to stay. Eleanor took her hand, and then Isaac’s, and led them both to the window seat. Arabelle took a deep breath, to no avail. Her pulse still raced, and the nearness of him muddled her brain.

The next hour was spent reading stories and playing games with Eleanor, avoiding eye contact with Isaac while her thoughts kept returning to that kiss. Finally, with Eleanor asleep on Isaac’s arm and Mama snoring softly across the room, Arabelle found an excuse to leave.

She reached for Eleanor. “I’ll take her upstairs,” she said, hushed.

“Miss Hyatt—”

“So which is it?” she asked. “Abby, or Miss Hyatt? You seem to use either depending upon your need.”

“I beg your pardon?” he whispered, glancing at Eleanor.

“Abby, touch,” she said. “Abby, save your life. Abby, kiss. But then, Miss Hyatt, do not think it. Miss Hyatt, there is nothing for it. Miss Hyatt, I have nothing to offer you.”

He blinked at her.

“Nothing to offer me,” she continued. “Nothing.”

“Miss Hyatt, please, you don’t—”

“Understand? I think I do. I think when you said you had nothing to offer me, what you meant was that you are afraid.” She hoisted Eleanor against her shoulder, pressing a tear to the little girl’s pinafore. “But think nothing of it. It was a silly thing to hope for. A young girl’s dream. You are very much like Mr. Forbes, you know?”

Alarm crossed his expression.

“You would put your boots before a life, sir.”

She turned and left the drawing room, and this time, he didn’t follow.