Chapter 7

“Wherein Henry plans for the future.”

“Henry, I’m telling you, it isn’t decent. I won’t do it.” Jack gave Henry his list back and folded his arms, aware of Henry’s determined gaze watching him. “No.” Henry stared, silent, but displeased. Jack huffed and shook his head. “You can’t expect me to ask for such things,” Jack wheedled, knowing he would not win this. Henry had made his mind up, and he’d not let it go now.

Henry slid the piece of paper with the lists of items he wanted from town back across the table and Jack groaned. Going into a book shop was bad enough, the snooty devil that ran it always treated him like dirt. Having to order every available medical text on pregnancy and childbirth was the outside of enough. There was no way around it, though. Henry would get back at him if he didn’t do as he asked. As he was showing signs of joining the world again, Jack couldn’t risk sending him into a month of silence as he fumed at being thwarted. It gave him an opportunity, though.

Jack let out a breath and sat back in his chair, regarding Henry now, eyes narrowed.

“I tell you what, Henry. If I do this for you, you give something in return.”

Henry’s shoulders stiffened, a wary expression clouding his face.

“Isabella is a lady,” Jack began, wondering how best to proceed. “Life here is very different for her, difficult, too. You’re her husband now, and it’s your duty to make her happy. You remember, when your father spoke about your mother, about their life together?”

Henry nodded, a slight frown at his brow as he considered Jack’s words.

“She won’t want to live like we do, Henry.”

Henry’s frown deepened. He shifted in his chair and stared down at his hands on the table-top, avoiding Jack’s eyes now. To be honest, Jack wasn’t sure why he was interceding on Isabella’s behalf except … he hoped. He still didn’t trust her an inch. That she was plotting to run away the minute a better opportunity presented itself was more than likely. Yet the way she’d acted with Henry a time or two, instinctively, and with no fear, it made him wonder. If Jack could make things comfortable for her, more like what she was used to, and if she could see the man Henry really was …

“I think you need to start by giving her some of the things she wants,” Jack said, praying that the woman wouldn’t prove him a fool. “Let her have her room decorated, and the parlour, too. Give her a place that’s clean and pretty, where she can be comfortable.”

Henry’s hands clenched as he shook his head. “No people.”

Jack sighed. “Look, you’re usually out all day anyway, they could come and work while you’re not here. You’d be none the wiser. I’d make sure they’re gone before you get home.”

Henry shook his head, still avoiding Jack’s eye.

“Don’t you want her to be happy, Henry? Don’t you want her to stay?”

Henry looked up then, fear in his eyes, such anxiety visible that Jack worried all the more. “I married her, she has to stay now.”

Jack shrugged, hoping he was doing the right thing. If he upset the man too much, there’d be hell to pay. “She might not,” he said, his voice cautious. “If she’s unhappy. Women can leave, even married ones, they can run away, especially if their husbands don’t treat them well.”

Jack watched the play of emotions across Henry’s face. It was strange how some days he was so shuttered up, and others he’d give himself away, his heart an open book. He stared at the table, at his big fists clenched one beside the other.

“While I’m not here?” he asked, the words careful. He glanced up at Jack, who gave him an encouraging smile.

“You wouldn’t see them. I’ll make sure.”

Henry chewed at his lip, mulling this over. “I want to draw her,” he muttered, and Jack realised what he was getting at. Their conversations were often a kind of short-hand, with Jack filling in the gaps as best he could. Knowing Henry like he did, he usually understood.

“Yes, that’s a problem,” Jack replied, rubbing his chin as he considered. “She’ll not be able to stay out all day like you do, even if she goes with you. Not in her condition.” Jack pondered the problem. “Well, we’ll get the decorators to work short days. It’ll likely cost twice as much, but that hardly matters to you, does it?” He wondered if Isabella had guessed just how wealthy Henry was. He certainly wasn’t going to volunteer the information. “You’ll have to make sure she keeps warm, though. Look after her, make sure she rests. Take blankets and light a fire for her, eh?”

Jack watched as Henry nodded, his face grave. “I’ll look after her, and the baby,” he said, the words serious.

“Good lad,” Jack said, giving a sigh of relief. “One more thing, though,” he added, remembering his conversation with Isabella. “You didn’t ought to let yourself into her room whenever you like.”

Henry’s expression turned mutinous in a second and he folded his massive arms. “We’re married.” The words were succinct, and Jack shot him an anxious glance. “That’s true,” he said, treading this dangerous path with care. “But you wouldn’t like it if she disturbed you while you were working.”

To his astonishment, Henry frowned at that and then shook his head. “Wouldn’t mind.”

Jack gaped. He knew exactly how much Henry minded being interrupted while he worked. He stared, bewildered, so much so that Henry shifted, uncomfortable under his astonished scrutiny.

“I like her,” Henry added, sounding defiant as he sat up straighter, folding his arms tighter still.

“Well!” Jack said, rather indignant. “I like that. And what about me?”

Henry looked startled by the tone of Jack’s voice, not understanding his annoyance at being usurped. “I like you, too, Jack,” he said, giving Jack the impression he’d bolt from the room if he didn’t moderate his tone. “But I like to look at her. She’s pretty.”

Jack stared for a moment and then burst out laughing, finding himself laughing harder at the relief in Henry’s face.

“Well, I can’t fault you there, lad,” he admitted, amused now. “She’s easier on the eye than my ugly mug, I grant you that.”

Henry looked puzzled and then got to his feet. He paused and then turned back to Jack. “Not ugly at all, Jack,” he said, shaking his head and looking perplexed. “You have a good face. Honest and strong. Kind. It shows in your eyes.”

Jack felt a lump in his throat as Henry left, and laughed a little quieter. The fellow was disarming without even trying. He wondered if Isabella could resist the real Henry if he allowed her to see him for real.

***

Isabella was unimpressed at the thought of spending hours of the next day outside.

The weather had improved, and the sun shone, at least, but it was still frosty and cold. By nightfall, they huddled around the fire as the temperature plummeted. She stared into the flames, now, and spending the whole of tomorrow freezing while Henry studied her did not appeal.

Still, Jack had no doubt had to work to get Henry to agree to have the decorators in, and Isabella was excited about it. She’d enjoyed choosing from the paper samples and material swatches they had supplied for her, spending days pouring over them, and the catalogues of furniture that Jack had brought for her from Bath.

Her mother had never allowed her to choose things for herself before. Lady Scranford had always ruled the house, its décor, and Isabella’s wardrobe. Not that she’d been badly dressed. Her mother had a good eye for fashion, but her choices were always rather severe of cut, and the colours muted. Isabella had longed for something with a splash of bright colour, something that caught the eye. The deep blue dress she’d been wearing the night her mother had thrown her out had been the only one she’d ever gotten her own way on. Her mother had never allowed her to wear it out of the house before, though. Ironic, really.

All the time she had pondered and made lists of her choices, Henry had studied her.

She looked up now as she made her choices for the parlour they sat in, finding his dark eyes upon her as they flicked back and forth between her and his paper. The muted scratch of the pencil was as constant as the clock ticking on the mantle and Jack’s soft snoring from his chair by the fire.

Henry sat, cross-legged at her feet, silent and still other than the movement of his hand and his eyes. He’d not spoken a word to her since her reaction to his drawing the week before and she knew he was punishing her. Though she’d tried to speak to him, he refused to answer, and he wouldn’t show her his work.

Isabella vacillated between frustration, anger, and, to her own surprise, sadness. She became ever more curious about him as the days passed, and his stubborn silence vexed her.

He’d held to his word and kept himself clean and shaved and well-dressed, something she was regretting demanding of him. It was far easier to think of him as dim-witted and peculiar when he looked like half-man, half-bear. Sitting at her feet and looking like a fallen angel in the fire-light, his eyes so full of softness and warmth, it became hard to remember just how strange he was.

She pushed the furniture catalogue away and looked back at the fashion plates Jack had supplied her. The list of her choices sat by her elbow, her only decision remaining the fabrics to choose. The swatches scattered the table and Isabella stared at the brighter fabrics with something like longing. There was an emerald green, a bright sunny yellow, and a fiery vivid orange. They called to her from a sea of pastel pinks and safe muted colours. There were plenty of blues this season, at least, and she’d chosen several gowns in various shades. She refused to acknowledge that Henry’s compliment to her eyes had anything to do with her choices.

On hearing the rustle of paper, she looked around to find Henry pulling another clean sheet from the pile on the floor beside him. Suddenly she found she wanted to speak to him. Jack had said he would likely cut her off for weeks, months, even, as punishment for lying to him. Why that bothered her so, she didn’t know, but it did.

“Henry.”

He stilled for a fraction of a second, but then carried on as though she’d not spoken.

“Henry, I’m sorry.” The words hung in the air and Isabella realised she’d never apologised before. Never apologise, never explain. That was one of her mother’s many rules of life. Well, Isabella didn’t have to abide by those rules now. In fact, she felt determined to break as many of them as possible. “I am,” she added as he still didn’t react. “I was crying,” she admitted, feeling foolish talking when he was ignoring her, but determined to get a reaction. “I denied it because you looked upset and I worried about making you feel worse.” Henry picked up his pencil, moving it to the paper, though she believed he was paying attention now. “The truth is, your drawing made me cry. It was so beautiful, Henry, and … and I couldn’t believe anyone could see me like that.”

He looked up and Isabella’s breath caught. There was an expectant look in his eyes, watchful, waiting, and she knew if she wanted forgiveness, she needed to continue.

“I’m not a very nice person, you see, and … and you made me look so lovely, I …” Isabella swallowed and shook her head, sucking in a breath to steady her emotions. “I’d like to be like the woman you drew. She looked … she looked like a good person. She looked happy.”

Henry frowned, puzzlement in his eyes. “I drew you,” he said.

Isabella laughed and shook her head. “You drew me sleeping.” He frowned harder, and she smiled at him, her expression rueful. “I suspect I’m easier to like when I’m asleep.”

He didn’t laugh at her joke, but looked troubled instead. “I like you now, and you’re not asleep.” He put his paper aside, moving to sit up on his knees beside her. “Are … are you unhappy?” he asked, such concern in his voice that Isabella felt quite taken aback. Why should he care if she was happy or not?

She shrugged, unsure of how to answer such a question as a lump formed in her throat. Isabella turned away from the apprehension in his eyes, staring down at the table, scattered with patterns and fabrics. His hand taking hers made her jump.

Henry snatched his own hand away, startled by her reaction, and she smiled at him, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. You startled me,” she said, wondering why she was apologising. It wasn’t like she wanted to encourage him to touch her.

He reached out again, and she allowed him to take her hand. There was pleasure and curiosity in his eyes as he placed her hand against his, palm on palm. He traced the outline, each of her fingers, so much smaller than his large hand. “I’ll make you happy,” he said, his voice low and filled with sincerity. Isabella felt breath catch at the expression in his eyes as he looked up. “I’d like to,” he added, that dazzling smile adding force to his words.

Before she could think of an appropriate reply, if such a thing existed in the circumstances, he had moved away, returning to his work. Isabella stared at him, bewildered and unsettled, but he was absorbed now. He didn’t speak another word for the rest of the evening.