Chapter 9

“Wherein hasty words bring pain and the beauty of art stirs an anxious heart.”

Isabella stared at the fabric swatches in her hand. Although Jack had remained tight-lipped about the state of Henry’s financial affairs, he said they’d get whatever she needed. According to Jack, Henry wanted her to have whatever she wanted, and she wasn’t to worry about the cost.

The trouble was she didn’t know if he was just being generous and she was pushing his finances, or if this was a drop in the ocean. She’d written a list of things she couldn’t do without, but … the bright emerald fabric called to her. It was hardly appropriate, to be wearing such bold colours after her fall from grace, however, and it wasn’t as if she was going anywhere.

It was late now, the fire in the parlour burning low. The decorators would move in here once her bedroom was done, but for now it was peaceful. Jack was pretending to read some sporting journal, though his eyes were closed, and Henry was drawing her.

He’d left his clean paper on the table, and got up to reach for another sheet, when his attention fell upon the fabric swatches. She watched as he reached for them, his thumb testing each piece of material. He picked up the green one and his eyes lifted to hers, considering. He set that swatch aside and smiled as he picked up a vibrant orange one she would never dare wear.

“Get this one,” he said, a note of command in his voice she’d only heard once or twice before.

“I can’t wear that, Henry,” she protested. “In my condition, and after everything ...” She paused and shook her head. “I’ve no wish to draw attention to myself. Though I love the green,” she added with a wistful note.

Henry picked up both the orange and the green, considering them for a moment.

“Get this one,” he repeated, his tone brooking no argument.

Isabella sighed with dismay as he placed the orange one in front of her.

“I want to paint you wearing it,” he added, that intense look he got sometimes glittering in his eyes. “You’ll look like the goddess of summer.”

Isabella blinked, the green gown forgotten in the light of such fulsome praise.

“Very well,” she said, her voice faint as she dipped her head to hide a blush. She picked up her pen, dipping it in the inkwell and added the orange fabric to the list of materials for her gowns. Henry’s large hand appeared in front of her eyes, as he set the green swatch down on her list.

“Get this one, too,” he added, his words soft. “Because you like it.”

***

As the men decorating the rooms only worked short days, it seemed to take forever to complete the job.

Isabella kept her word and spent her days outside with Henry as he worked on various poses. It appeared he was working towards a specific painting now, though he would not tell her what he had in mind.

Some days he was easy to be with, like the first day she had accompanied him. On those days, she could almost forget his odd ways and feel affection for him. Others, he seemed quiet and tense, for no reason she could fathom. Those days were hard, as he would not speak with her and his concentration was absolute.

Isabella had tried various means to get through to him. Keeping up a constant stream of chatter, wheedling and pleading for a response, shouting at him, and walking off in a huff. None of them had worked. In fact, this last attempt had not pleased him at all. She’d relented, noting his agitation, and returned to sit for him. It changed nothing, though, he’d shut down and not spoken a word all week.

She could only feel grateful that the decorating was all done.

Isabella stood in the middle of her bedroom, a rather strange sensation blooming in her chest. Pride was a part of it. She had never had free range to decorate as she pleased before, never had a choice to makeover colours or textures. Though she’d been excited to see the results, she’d been equally terrified. What if she’d chosen badly? What if it looked dreadful and she’d wasted all that money? The idea had kept her awake at night. She hadn’t dared even peek, too frightened to discover it was a horrible mistake. Instead. she’d walked past the door and straight on to the bedroom she’d been given for the duration.

Now, though … She clapped her hands together, wanting to squeal with pleasure. Instead, she ran downstairs to the kitchen to where Jack was preparing something dubious for dinner. The familiar scent of burning lingered on the air.

“Jack, where’s Henry?”

Jack looked up from the pot he’d been staring at with a quizzical expression and jerked his head.

“In the library,” he said as she turned and ran out again without another word.

“Henry, Henry,” she said, running into the library. She discovered Henry’s dark head bent over the desk, studying a heavy text book. He didn’t look up. “Oh, Henry, please come. I want to show you something.”

He didn’t budge, and the surge of disappointment that flooded her was startling. She really had wanted to show him.

“Please,” she said again, her voice low now, and rather sad, as she expected him to continue ignoring her. To her surprise, he looked up, a wary expression in his eyes. Sensing weakness, she ran to the desk and took his hand, tugging at him. It was akin to tugging at a mountain, but after a moment, he relented and got to his feet. “Thank you,” she said, beaming at him. “I know I’m not an artist like you but … Oh, do come,” she said, impatient now as she towed him behind her.

She felt rather nervous as she opened the door and pulled him through. After all, Henry was a genius as far as his art was concerned, and … If he didn’t like it, she’d be rather crushed.

Henry stared, turning in a circle. For a long time, he looked and looked, a surprised expression in his eyes as Isabella almost bounced with impatience.

“Well?” she demanded. “Well?”

He took his time, as ever, moving to run his fingers over the paper on the walls, to touch the curtains and inspect the furnishings. He even knelt, sinking his fingers into thick rugs that covered the floor.

“You’re wrong,” he said at length, making Isabella’s heart drop. “You are an artist.”

Isabella gave a crow of triumph, delighted by his words. Why his opinion mattered so much, she didn’t know, but it did, and she took pleasure in his approval.

“I like this,” he said, stretching out on the rug before the fire. He lay on his side, one large hand stroking the pile of the carpet with a rapt expression. Henry looked up at her, his eyes warm. “Come and see.”

Isabella hesitated, but Henry held his hand out to her. With difficulty under the growing bulk of the baby, she got to the floor.

“I hope you can get me up again,” she muttered, feeling awkward now and wishing she’d stayed standing.

“Of course,” he said, grinning at her. “Though you must stay here until I let you go.”

Isabella looked away from him, troubled by their sudden intimacy. She reminded herself of his behaviour outside the church, of the blue ribbon, and a dozen other peculiarities that marked him as odd, not right … not normal.

“We must go down for dinner soon,” she said, hoping Jack would call them.

Henry sighed and lay down on his back, his hands resting on his chest. “I know,” he said, a thread of amusement in his voice. “I smelt burning.”

Isabella snorted, as he turned his head to grin at her. She wondered if this might be a good opportunity to broach a tricky subject, as he seemed relaxed.

“If we got a cook, we wouldn’t have to eat burnt food, you know,” she said, keeping the words light and unconcerned. “And it would make life much easier for poor Jack.”

The change was instant. Henry’s face closed off and he sat up, turning away from her. “No.”

A sudden rush of anger with him, for his stupid fears, made her lash out for no reason she could understand.

“It’s just one person, for heaven’s sake,” she snapped. “How can a man of your size be frightened of a cook? It’s ridiculous.”

He was on his feet in a moment, and before she could take the words back, the door had slammed hard.

Isabella cursed herself. To her dismay, she discovered she didn’t care about the blasted cook as much as she did that she’d hurt him. That made her angry, too, though, and frightened. She mustn’t care so much for what Henry thought, for what he wanted. It wasn’t as if she was staying. That reminder made something like fear and regret twist in her chest. As soon as she could, she would leave. She repeated the words to herself with greater emphasis. Hopefully Jack would be pleased for things to go back to normal and they’d give her an allowance, so she could live a decent life and raise her child.

For now, though, Henry was unhappy, and she realised she regretted that fact. She must make it up to him.

***

Isabella could do nothing to make amends, as Henry disappeared from their lives. They knew where he was, locked in the room he’d taken as his studio.

According to Jack, he was painting now, and she disturbed him at her peril.

Jack had a key and would enter to take him food, most of which came out again untouched. He said Henry became obsessive during these periods, not sleeping or eating for days. That Jack worried for him was clear.

Isabella found her regret over her harsh words only grew as the days passed. With nothing much to occupy her mind, she dwelt upon them, remembering how peaceful and happy he’d been until she’d opened her mouth. She wondered if he would have locked himself away if she’d said nothing, though Jack assured her it was normal behaviour for him. That Isabella’s definition of normal was shifting was something that both worried and confused her. As the days continued into weeks, with no sight of Henry, the realisation she missed him only made her even more unsettled.

Her restlessness and guilt had one, positive outcome.

“What the devil are you doing?” Jack demanded as he came into the kitchen to discover her up to her arms in flour.

Isabella turned, pushing an irritating lock of hair from her eyes with her arm, as her hands were sticky. “I’m not sure I know,” she admitted, blowing at the lock now as it fell back before her eyes. “I’m just sick of being bored and if Henry doesn’t want a cook …” She shrugged, turning back to stare at the incomprehensible instructions in the cookery book she’d found. Jack knew how terrible she felt over that conversation, as she’d admitted it to him. So, he’d know, too, that she was doing it to make amends. The fact made her feel vulnerable, exposed.

Jack came to stand beside her and peered into the mixing bowl.

“Is it supposed to look like that?” he asked, looking at the clumpy mixture with misgiving.

Isabella chewed at her lip for a moment. “I don’t know.” She nodded at the recipe. “Do you think it needs more eggs?”

“How many in now?” Jack frowned at the pages, squinting a little.

“Six, but … should it look like that?”

Jack scratched the back of his neck and read out the list of ingredients as Isabella confirmed that she’d added them.

“Here, how much butter d’you put in?” he asked, frowning at her.

Isabella shrugged. She hadn’t known how to measure the ingredients, so she’d guessed. “That much,” she said, holding out her finger and thumb.

He treated her to a snort of amusement as Jack rolled his eyes at her. “It says a pound of butter, you dozy creature.”

Isabella gaped at him, about to give him a nasty set down for speaking to her so, when she recognised the teasing note of his words. No one had ever teased her before or spoken to her in such an informal, friendly manner.

“I … I didn’t know how to measure it,” she said, unfamiliar with the rather sheepish tone to her voice.

“You do surprise me,” Jack said, winking at her. “Come on then, lass. If you’re going to make yourself useful, I’ll show you how to do it right.”

***

The cakes were burnt when they came out. They were also heavy enough to use as a paperweight. Jack could see that the young woman was ridiculously pleased with herself, all the same. It was rather touching.

She’d wanted to take them to Henry at once, but Jack had forced her to rethink.

“I’m not trying to punish you,” he said, registering her disappointment with hope lifting his spirits. “Truth is, I get in and out as fast as I can. He’s liable to lose his temper if I disturb his concentration.”

“What happens?” Isabella asked, falling quiet as fear flickered in her eyes. “What happens when he loses his temper?”

Jack realised what she was thinking and hurried to reassure her. “Oh, he’d never hurt me, if that’s what you’re thinking. No. I’m afraid he’ll hurt himself.” He shook his head, giving her a rueful smile. “Worst one was a couple of years ago. I was frightened he would make himself ill, he’d eaten so little. The weight was dropping off him, see. So, I tried to get him to look at me … you know how he avoids your eye sometimes?”

Isabella nodded, understanding and concern in her expression. Jack tried to squash his hopes. He didn’t want to be disappointed. Henry’s feelings would be hard enough to bear.

“Well, it didn’t go down well,” Jack said, thinking that was the understatement of the century. “He lost his temper good and proper, throwing things about. Ended up cutting his hand on a broken bottle. Frightened me bad, it did,” he admitted, remembering the fear that Henry would bleed to death before he’d calm down and let Jack bind it. He let out a breath. “So, I tread real careful now.”

Isabella sighed. “Yes, I see what you mean,” she said, the regret in her voice obvious. “Well, you take them into him for me, then, please.”

Jack nodded and took the plate of rather blackened cakes from her and placed them on the tray beside the bowl of stew he was taking in for Henry’s dinner.

“Will do, lass, don’t fret. I’ll tell him you made them for him, too,” he added with a wink.

Hours later, long after midnight, Jack crept into the ballroom. This was the room Henry used as his studio. It was light and bright during daylight hours as glass doors ran the full length of the vast room. Jack had forced Henry to bring a bed in here, but to his dismay he discovered it empty and Henry still at work.

He was all ablaze, lit up by dozens and dozens of candles that surrounded the canvas he worked on.

Jack sucked in a breath, as astonished as always by the genius that was Henry Barbour. The subject matter troubled Jack’s heart, though. Henry often painted things that troubled his mind, as much as intrigued him, things he was trying to understand. This time, it was different. The painting was beautiful, serene, intimate.

Isabella asleep on the forest floor.

It was autumn in the painting, and her golden hair tumbled over the fallen leaves. Her body rounded with pregnancy, the burgeoning swell of her stomach echoed by the scattering of glossy, mahogany chestnuts and conkers. Henry was working on her hands now, and Jack wondered at the God-given talent behind such work. One hand cradled her stomach, a reassuring, protective pose which made a lump rise in Jack’s throat. The other lay half-open, resting on the floor beside her head, a silky blue ribbon curled around her fingers.

Jack prayed. He’d never been much of a man for believing in God, never been much of a church-goer, not before Henry. Henry had made him believe there was some greater plan, something beyond the basic human instinct to survive, to procreate, to live.

The beauty in the painting before him was easy enough to appreciate. The detail exquisite. Golden leaves lay crisp and thick, the folds of material that covered the sleeping figure falling in soft drapes he could almost see flickering in an autumn breeze. Isabella’s hair was glossy, silky, and her eyelashes thick as they rested against her warm skin. He’d captured every nuance with such startling realism. Jack had never seen the like. Even by Henry’s standards, this was something extraordinary.

What struck him most, however, what made his heart fill with both hope and fear, was the tenderness of the image. Henry had painted it with such delicacy that his emotions shone through.

If Isabella left now, it would destroy him.

With as much stealth as he could manage, Jack moved away to gather the tray with the dinner things on it. With a sigh, he smiled as he noticed the stew remained untouched, but Isabella’s burnt cakes were all gone.