Chapter 11

“Wherein a taste of happiness.”

Jack worried when he returned to find no sign of Isabella. That she’d left them already was a thought he found burrowed into his heart and wouldn’t let go. How ever would he break the news to Henry?

Yet it made no sense to him. Isabella was just weeks away from having her baby, she wouldn’t leave now. He’d believed her happy here, contented, at least. He didn’t doubt she wished life had dealt her a different hand, but in the circumstances, she didn’t seem miserable.

Then he discovered the cakes. These were perfect golden queen cakes. Well, well, the girl had taught herself how to cook. Jack felt a sudden rush of pride for her. She’d not given up, like he might have believed of a hoity-toity girl of her class. He took one and bit into it, savouring the delicate flavour of rose water and almonds, the juicy burst of the currents against the fluffy sponge. Heaven.

All at once, he knew where she’d gone. Oh, good Lord.

It was quiet outside Henry’s studio. Jack didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. He might find the whole place wrecked and Henry gone. With a deal of trepidation, he opened the door, and eased his way in.

It was dark, the evening having set in. The fires had long since burned out, as no one had attended them, but as far as he could see, nothing was out of place. There were no smashed bottles or canvases flung hither and yon.

With no expectation of finding him, Jack turned towards the bed and froze. Henry was there all right, and so was Isabella. Torn between curiosity and mortification, Jack moved a little closer. They were sleeping side by side, chaste as nuns, but Jack noted their hands linked, the fingers curled around each other.

“Well, I’m blowed,” he murmured, shaking his head and not knowing quite what to make of it. That Henry had feelings for the girl was clear enough, though Jack wondered if he understood what they meant. Not that Henry was too stupid to understand, only that he’d missed the period where young men found out about the fairer sex, isolated as he was. He was naïve in matters of the heart. Though he knew well enough, the mechanics of what happened between men and women. You couldn’t be that interested in nature and animals and not pick up a few clues.

He wondered if Isabella understood what she was playing with. If she thought to treat Henry like a child, or a brother, Jack suspected she’d be in for a shock.

Either way, there was little he could do about it. This hand would have to play out, and Jack would have to pick up the pieces if things didn’t turn out as he hoped.

***

Isabella woke to the flickering of candlelight and blinked, disorientated. Her nose cold, the air chill, though the rest of her felt warm under a thick layer of blankets. She smothered a yawn and hauled her heavy body upright. With a start, she realised she was sleeping in Henry’s bed, and as it was now dark out, she’d been there for hours. He must have put the blankets over her when he’d woken up.

Henry was painting again. The canvas blocked her view of him, but she could see his shadow cast from the blaze of candles around him. The desire to look at his work was tantalising, but she wouldn’t. Not until he invited her. She’d learned her lesson there. What was he painting, though? He’d sketched her with such fascination for so long, she’d assumed he was painting her, but for all she knew, it could be another of the disturbing pictures of dead things, or a still life. She had no idea. There was also the lingering sense of anxiety she might not like what she saw. The first drawings he’d done of her had showed her a side of herself she’d not liked at all. She wanted to leave that girl behind. At least that would be one good thing to come of her fall from grace.

As she considered her words, she wondered what she was thinking. There was more than one good thing to come out of her disgrace. She smoothed her hands over her stomach, still startled by just how large she’d grown. Jack had arranged a doctor to come and see her whilst Henry had shut himself away, and he’d assured her that it was a normal, healthy pregnancy. His manner, however, had been unpleasant. She knew he must know all the gossip about her, must know her circumstances. A man like that attending her during the birth filled her with horror and fear. She didn’t trust him. Jack said he was the best accoucheur in the area, though, and the nearest to them here. There weren’t a lot of choices open to her.

Isabella tugged one blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. The fires had been lit, but the heat hadn’t touched the cavernous space. With a surge of embarrassment, she realised that Jack had been in here, as Henry would never have thought to have lit them once he’d begun work again.

Emboldened by the fact he hadn’t lost his temper on discovering her in his studio, Isabella crept closer to the canvas. She peaked around the side, careful only to look at Henry, and not at his work. To her surprise, she found that he wasn’t painting, only staring at the picture with a critical eye. It took a moment for him to realise she was there, but when he did, the pleased smile he gave her stole her breath.

“You stayed,” he said, the words infused with such genuine happiness that Isabella experienced the strangest sense of belonging. No one had ever been so happy to have her company, just for the pleasure of being with her.

“I promised,” she said, and then caught her breath as her stomach tightened. For a moment it was like her body had turned to rock, the sensation frightening and painful.
Isabella cried out, reaching out to grasp for something to steady her and finding Henry, his strong arms supporting her.

She looked up, finding him watching her, quiet and calm, no sense of concern or fear in his eyes. It gave her courage.

“It will pass,” he said, the words so certain and reassuring that Isabella didn’t doubt him. Sure enough, the pain receded, and her stomach relaxed.

“How did you know?” she asked, staring at him, clutching at his arm even though the pain had gone. “How do you know it isn’t starting now?” The terror of that thought had her gasping for breath again.

“I’ve been reading about it,” he said, looking a little guarded now. “And I’ve watched animals, cats and mice, horses, they often seem to have pains long before the birth. It’s normal. Like practising.”

Isabella stared at him, unsure how she felt at being compared to a horse, but he was serious, sincere. She’d seen how single-minded he was first-hand, the intensity with which he studied. If Henry said this was a normal, then she believed him.

“Do you feel better now?” he asked, concern in his eyes, such warmth that Isabella could only stare at him for a moment before she found her tongue again.

“Yes,” she said, only now realising how intimate their position. One hand grasped his arm, the muscle hard and heavy beneath her fingers, the other rested on his chest. The steady beat of his heart thudded beneath her palm, the heat of him fierce through his shirt. It was only now she realised he’d washed and shaved, the clean scent of soap lingering. There was no sickly cologne, which she often found cloying and overpowering. He smelled clean, with a faint touch of linseed oil and paint, a familiar combination she now recognised as distinctly him.

Henry held her gaze for a moment, and then he knelt before her, reaching out a hand to her stomach. He paused, his hand suspended before she smiled at him and nodded her permission. Isabella fought the rising tide of emotion that swelled inside at her the sight of him, knelt before her, his touch so gentle.

“Hello,” he said, and Isabella choked back something between a laugh and a sob. She tried to think of a single other man of her acquaintance who would have gotten to his knees and spoken to her unborn child. She couldn’t think of one. That she might have missed this by refusing Henry’s offer for one of those she’d had in mind for potential husbands made her feel ill.

He moved closer and rested his head against her stomach, both hands holding the child. Isabella smiled as the baby responded, stretching out in its increasingly confined surroundings, pushing at Henry’s hands.

Henry looked up at her, his eyes sparkling with delight. “She’s saying hello.”

Isabella swallowed hard, emotion pushing at her chest, filling her heart.

“It might be a boy,” she replied, the words rather thick now, though she was smiling still.

Henry gave her a look filled with mischief and put his head back to her stomach. “No,” he said a moment later, his tone serious. “She says she’s a girl.”

Isabella laughed. It filled her with joy and wonder, and hope, and as the sound echoed around the grand space that had once been a ballroom, a new and incredible thought occurred to her.

She was happy.

The thought stopped her in her tracks, her laughter dying, though the sense of peace and contentment remained. She looked down to find Henry watching her, his eyes filled with adoration. It was humbling, to be on the receiving end of that look, and she knew she must treat him with care.

Before she could consider what to do about it, Henry got to his feet.

“Close your eyes,” he demanded, sounding excited and nervous at the same time. Isabella went to ask why, but he seemed to grow anxious now, and so she did as he asked, not wanting to upset him. She felt his hand take hers, the other hand at her waist as he guided her where he wanted her. “You can open them now,” he whispered.

Isabella opened her eyes, about to laugh and demand what game he was playing, but the painting was before her and she could not find the words.

The emotions that had seemed to fill her chest just moments before seemed too powerful to contain now. She gasped, her hand going to her mouth as she tried to take it in. Tears gathered and spilled over and she sensed rather than felt Henry’s distress as he noticed. She reached out, taking his hand and bringing it to her lips.

“Oh, Henry,” she said, laughing and crying now. “I … I don’t know what to say, how to thank you … I’m overwhelmed.”

Henry hesitated, his expression still anxious. “You … you like it?” he queried, and she realised her laughter and tears were confusing him. He couldn’t read what she was feeling.

“I love it,” she said, holding his hand between both of hers, holding him tight so he didn’t run away from her in his confusion. “It’s so beautiful.”

He relaxed then, reaching out with his free hand and wiping her tears away. “I don’t like to see you cry,” he said, his voice rough.

“People sometimes cry when they’re happy,” she said, smiling at him now as he took a step closer. As she said the words, Isabella realised it was true, but she had never done it herself before.

“You’re happy?” The intensity of his expression told her how much her answer meant to him.

Isabella nodded, holding his gaze so he could see the truth. “I am. You made me happy.”

The smile that broke over his face was devastating, crumbling any remaining defences she had erected against this strange and wonderful man. He glanced at the painting before turning back to her.

“You think it’s beautiful?”

Isabella nodded, finding her throat growing tight. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Henry’s smile was the most disarming she’d ever known, and when he moved closer and whispered in her ear, “That’s because you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Isabella knew she was lost.