Chapter 10

“Wherein forgiveness and understanding brings peace.”

Isabella stared down at the tray of cakes and beamed. The tops were golden, the buttery scent filling the kitchen. With growing excitement, she reached for one, pulling it in half even though it was hot still and burned her fingers. Light as a summer cloud, the cake broke in two with a fragrant burst of steam, and Isabella gave a little crow of delight. She couldn’t wait to send them into Henry.

She’d not seen him for three weeks now, but he had at least eaten every cake she’d sent in for him, via Jack. Some of them had been near to inedible, but even when he touched nothing else, he always ate her cakes. Did that mean he’d forgiven her? She wanted to know. With frustration, she realised that it would be hours before Jack returned from town. With a huff which was part exhaustion and part irritation, she sat herself down at the kitchen table and ate the cake she’d examined, and sighed with pleasure. It was delicious.

She was approaching her eighth month now and felt fat and heavy, not to mention unattractive. Doing her hair without looking in the mirror was something she’d become adept at. The plump face that looked back at her seemed foreign and made her wonder if she would lose her looks and her figure now. Such punishment as she felt her body to be enduring would leave scars, damage. She had never felt unattractive when Henry looked at her, though. He found such joy and wonder in the child she carried that it made her feel rather special. The yearning to see that warmth and wonder in his eyes again only made her feel more alone.

April was here, and the weather full of spring promise, the landscape as fecund and full of life as Isabella. She found an odd kinship with the ewes and their new-born lambs who gambolled over the lush green fields, full of the joy of living. From her position at the table, Isabella could see blue skies and bright white clouds scudding in a crisp breeze. A sudden longing to be out in the woods with Henry hit her square in the chest and she cursed herself for a fool. Her emotions were all off kilter, no doubt the nearness of her due date turning her into a watering pot.

She wondered if Henry would have eaten the breakfast Jack had taken in before he left, and knew the answer. Which meant Henry would eat nothing before dinnertime when Jack returned. The thought troubled her. That she could creep into the room, set down the tray of cakes, and then leave with Henry none the wiser, seemed a distinct possibility. She would be careful not to make a sound and not try to speak to him. Seeing him and reassuring herself that he was well was hard to resist.

Isabella hauled herself to her feet and arranged a pile of the little cakes onto a china plate before hurrying from the kitchen.

Her nerve almost failed her as she wondered if Henry might notice her and lose his temper. Jack would be furious with her, and the idea Henry might be angry with her was enough to make her quail. Some stubborn sense of determination would not quit, however, and so she reached for the door handle, turning it with care so as not to make a sound.

Once inside the door, Isabella held her breath. Henry was standing at a large canvas, and though he moved little, there was a sense of urgency, of intense activity that blazed around him. From here she could not see the canvas, and as curious as she was, she didn’t dare move to take a peek. Instead she looked about for the breakfast tray, and then forgot about it at once. The contents of the room took her gaze.

That this had once been a grand ballroom was obvious, the sheer scale and opulence of the space, the marble pillars and gilded plaster mouldings quite breath taking. Yet nothing could hold a candle to the hundreds of canvases stacked about the room.

There were dozens of Jack, and of Henry’s father. The spot she had visited with Henry, overlooking the river, also appeared over and again. The same scene appeared in every season, from lush spring green to stark snow and ice. There were others that disturbed her, and she covered her mouth with her hand to stop herself from crying out. Dead creatures, their rotten flesh seething with maggots, flies gathered at their glassy eyes, sat side by side with paintings of flowers and fruit. Bright pink dog roses called out to her, the paint vibrant and summery, their jaunty, joyful faces turned to a warm blue sky. The sight of it made her heart sing, remembering the warmth of a summer sun, their scent strong in her memory, though she’d only seen them in his work.

Isabella remembered what Jack had said then, that this was how Henry saw the world, with such vivid clarity. With regret, she realised she could not stay and look longer for fear of disturbing his work. Though she had long since accepted the genius of his talent, it was only now she understood. Henry was the painting, and the paintings were Henry. This was his mind at work, detailing what he saw, finding order and understanding in a world that often overwhelmed him. She blinked back tears at the idea that others might not understand him. The tales of the Bear of Barcham Wood had reached her ears, and she’d considered him mad and dangerous. A man who ought to be locked up. Now she felt no fear of him at all, but she feared for him.

Too afraid to stay any longer, she searched for the breakfast tray, finding it on a table halfway across the room, and untouched. She swallowed and sucked in a breath before moving forward to fetch it.

There wasn’t a great deal of room on the table top. Something covered every available surface of the room, paints and painting supplies, jars stuffed with brushes of every shape and size, canvases leaned against the tables, smaller ones stacked in towering piles. With difficulty, Isabella moved things about to find enough room for the plate of cakes, and then reached for the tray. As she moved, her elbow touched the edge of a small canvas, balanced against a jug full of brushes, and it clattered to the floor.

Isabella froze, her heart leaping to her throat as she sucked in a breath. Horrified, she turned, daring to look, to find Henry had turned to stare at her.

He was silent, blinking at her as though he’d just woken from a deep sleep. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, his beard grown thick once more.

Henry said nothing, just stared at her. Isabella found herself torn between apologising and running from the room without a word. She was too afraid to do either, and so the two of them stood frozen. She watched as Henry frowned and then rubbed a hand over his face. He looked back at her, a little surprised, but not displeased.

“Hello.”

As her heart was beating in her throat, it took Isabella several tries to reply to him.

“H-Hello, Henry,” she stammered. She licked her lips and then gestured to the plate she’d brought. “Jack’s gone to town and I … I thought you might be hungry, so I b-brought you some cakes. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she added in a rush. Her palms were sweaty, and she wiped them on the front of her dress, watching him for any signs of distress or anger.

Henry smiled.

“I like your cakes,” he said.

“Oh.” Isabella let out a breath of relief, pleased by his words. She watched as he set down his palette and brush and walked towards her to inspect her offering

“I’m so glad,” she said, and then hesitated, wondering if this was just the calm before the storm. “Henry,” she began, unsure of whether this was a good time. “I’m … I’m sorry I upset you.”

Henry paused, his hand hovering over the cakes. He didn’t look up at her, but shrugged, a guarded, rather troubled expression crossing his face.

“It’s true,” he said, his voice soft.

Isabella frowned, wondering what he meant, but wanting to take the sadness from his face. Henry ought to never be sad. The thought came from nowhere, but the truth of it settled in her heart.

“What’s true, Henry?” she asked, her voice soft as she moved closer to him. He took the plate of cakes and moved away from her. There was a bed, she noticed now, pushed against one wall. He settled himself there to eat the cakes, and she knew he wouldn’t answer unless she pressed him.

With a mixture of trepidation and determination, Isabella followed him, sitting at his side. At first, the impropriety of the situation alarmed her until she remembered they were married. That thought was both alarming and reassuring at once, and she wasn’t sure which bothered her most. Henry, however, was unhappy, and the sight of it tugged at her heart.

“Henry,” she said, getting no reaction from him. Taking a breath and her courage in her hands, she reached out as she’d seen Jack do, and put her hand to his face. His beard was soft beneath her touch as she forced him to turn to her.

“What’s true?” she asked again, keeping the words gentle.

Henry glanced at her, such sorrow in his eyes that her heart ached now. He looked down, unwilling to hold her gaze. “I …” he began, and then faltered. “I am ridiculous.”

Isabella had given out many insults in her days, some of them designed to cut to the quick. She spoke without care for the results, without bothering to consider the effect of her barbed comments. That she had said such a thing to Henry, though … She wanted to cut out her own tongue.

“Oh, Henry,” she said, blinking back tears now. “It isn’t true. Not at all. That was a wicked and terrible thing to say, and I’ve regretted it every second since.”

He looked up at her then, doubt shining in his eyes, and she placed her other hand upon his cheek, cradling his face between them both.

“Look at me,” she said, needing him to see the truth in her words. “I didn’t mean it. I was cross because I’m spoilt, and I wanted my own way. It’s me that’s ridiculous, Henry. Not you.”

She watched him, watched the worry leave his eyes, a tentative smile at his lips.

“You’re lovely, Isabella,” he said, his voice quiet. “I like you, very much.”

Isabella sucked in a breath, torn as her heart sang and her mind told her she was being idiotic. This could lead to no good, for either of them. Henry didn’t know what he was saying. Not in the way a husband would say it. She was a fool to believe otherwise.

“I like you, too, Henry.”

He beamed at her, such pleasure in his eyes she could not help but laugh.

“Now eat your cakes,” she said, a scolding tone to her voice as she tried to break the intimacy of the moment. “You must eat, you know. Jack and I have been so worried for you.”

He popped one whole cake into his mouth and turned to give her a quizzical look whilst he chewed.

“You have?” he asked, once he had devoured the cake.

“Of course,” she said, tutting at him. “You lock yourself in here for weeks on end, not seeing a soul, not sleeping, not eating. It’s bad for you. You’ll make yourself ill.”

He took another cake and chewed it. “These are good,” he mumbled with his mouth full before reaching for another. “It’s not been weeks,” he added, shaking his head as Isabella frowned at him.

“How long do you think it’s been, then?” she demanded, curious now.

He shrugged. “A few days,” he said, before popping another cake in his mouth and chewing with a contented expression.

“Henry!” Isabella exclaimed. “You’ve been shut in here for nineteen days.”

Henry turned to look at her, his expression wary. “I have?”

“You have,” she agreed, her voice stern as she reached out and tugged at his beard. “And you’ve not washed or shaved like you promised.”

Anxiety glittered in his eyes and Isabella was contrite at once. “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” she said, stroking his cheek until the fear left his expression. “I’m just worried for you, that’s all. I didn’t mean to scold you.”

Henry raised his hand, covering hers as he turned his face into her palm, closing his eyes.

Isabella tried to squash the feeling that rose in her chest at the sight of her big, handsome, troubled husband, leaning into her caress. “You’re tired, Henry,” she whispered, wishing she could persuade him to rest. He looked grey with exhaustion. “Won’t you sleep for a while, please?”

He opened his eyes, glancing back at his painting and frowning.

“For me,” she added, wondering if that would mean anything to him.

His eyes flew back to hers, a considering look in his eyes.

“If you stay,” he said.

Isabella sat back, trying to remove her hand from his cheek, but Henry wouldn’t let her go. He lowered it from his face, but held it still, his thumb caressing her palm now.

“Stay while I sleep … please,” he said.

Isabella opened her mouth to refuse him, but the look in his eyes was irresistible. My word, even unshaven and unwashed, he was beautiful.

“Lay down, then,” she instructed, her tone business-like. There was no harm in watching over him whilst he slept if it would make him rest.

Henry stuffed the last cake in his mouth and set the plate down before reaching to pull off his boots. Isabella watched as he crawled up the bed and collapsed against the pillow with a sigh. She suspected he’d only just realised how tired he was. For a moment, she thought he’d fallen asleep the moment his head had touched the pillow, but then those dark eyes opened again, and he patted the spot beside him.

“Stay with me. You promised,” he added.

“I did not promise,” she retorted, amused that he would put words in her mouth.

“You’re going to stay, you said …” he began, sitting up again.

“All right, all right,” Isabella assured him, wondering what on earth she was doing. “But you stay on your side.”

Henry huffed a little, but appeared too tired to argue. “Be here when I wake up,” he mumbled, the words slurring as his eyes closed again.

Isabella settled herself beside him, feeling a smile curve over her mouth. “I promise.”

He gave a contented sigh and fell asleep in seconds.

She watched him for a long time, staring at him, listening to the steady sound of his breathing, watching the rise and fall of his broad chest. His hair, dirty and unkempt as it was, still showed a rich dark brown. His eyelashes, too, so thick he’d be the envy of every woman who would give their right arm for such luxuriant lashes. He looked peaceful in sleep, contented, his heavy limbs relaxed, one hand reaching across the bed, as if he held it out to her.

Isabella didn’t know what motivated her, why she did it, but she took his hand, entwining her fingers with his, and slept at his side.