Chapter Two

 

After an emotional welcome from Mama, Isaac had retired to a guest room with a tray of food and orders to eat and rest. Now he and Mama conversed at the fire as Arabelle worked quietly in a corner embroidering a shawl. At least, she made herself pretend to embroider a shawl.

“I received a letter from George seven months ago,” Isaac told Mama. “I’m certain the only reason it found me was because I had been injured and conveyed to a hospital. Even so, I was too weak—too incapacitated to return home.”

“Of course,” Mama said. “No one would expect you to drop your service, wounded or not, to return here because of this. Nor to make the journey while still in danger from your wounds. Certainly, George didn’t?”

“No. He simply wanted me to have the news from him.” Isaac glanced at Arabelle, and she ducked her head back to her needle.

“We are filled with gratitude that you are alive, sir,” Mama said.

“Yes. I don’t know how or why. There were times when . . . well, I survived when others did not. And when it was deemed I couldn’t return to battle, I was released and sent home.”

“What an ordeal. And you’ve been to your family. I’m sure they were overjoyed to see you.”

“And I them. But the words in George’s letter never left me. I wrote to you and—forgive me for not waiting for your reply—I left them to come here.”

“Your mother must’ve been very reluctant to let you go.”

“Indeed. But she also knew I could not rest until I spoke to you myself.”

Mama reached for Isaac’s hand and bowed her head over it, her shoulders shaking with sorrow. “Bless you, dear boy.”

Isaac’s expression softened toward his best friend’s mother, then he lifted his gaze and found Arabelle watching. In that moment of firelight and candle glow, Arabelle remembered a Christmastime evening when guests filled the house and she watched the party from behind the window seat curtains. Isaac had spied her across the room as he talked to a group of pretty girls, and just when she thought he would expose her, he’d placed a finger to his lips and winked.

“Miss Hyatt?”

She blinked, and the memory faded. “Yes?”

“Will you join us at the fire?” Isaac nodded discreetly toward Mama, who dabbed at her eyes.

“I was just feeling a draft at this window.” Arabelle stood and approached. She sat next to Mama and eased the woman toward her shoulder. “There, there, Mama. You are much warmer than that shawl I shall never finish.”

“You shall finish it,” Mama sniffled. “And it will be lovely.” She straightened, still close to Arabelle’s side and clinging to Isaac’s hand. “Now, how long will you stay? As long as you like, I hope. I shall write to your mother. It’s been too long since we exchanged letters. She’ll want to know that you are well. Gracious, are you well?”

A smile teased at the corner of his mouth, another reminder of the boy he used to be. “Well enough after my rest, thank you.”

“You must be hungry again. That tray of food was barely tea. Cook has made roast chicken and creamed potatoes. A simple dinner, but always one of my favorites.”

“One of mine as well, ma’am.”

Mama smiled. “Then you shall join us.”

“As you wish.”

“I promise you a more lavish meal tomorrow when Mr. Forbes dines with us. Now that you’re here, I shall make the most of it. And I daresay you’ll find Mr. Forbes an interesting enough fellow and quite agreeable, am I right, Arabelle?”

Arabelle opened her mouth, but no words for nor against Mama’s prediction came out. Truthfully, she’d forgotten about Mr. Forbes and that he would be coming to dinner the next day. In the end, it didn’t matter, because Clark came in and all three heads turned.

“Yes, Clark, what is it?” Mama asked.

He looked at Arabelle. “Miss, a word?”

Arabelle rose and approached. “What is it?” she asked in hushed tones. “Is something wrong?”

“The babe, Miss. It’s Thursday and somehow she knows it.”

Arabelle closed her eyes. “I dine with her on Mondays and Thursdays. With Mr. Linfield’s arrival, I’d forgotten. Has her dinner already been sent up?”

“Yes. She noticed it was too small and asked where ‘Abibelle’s’ was.” His brows rose expectantly. “Edith sent me to fetch you.”

Arabelle glanced back at Mama, who watched with interest. Isaac only gazed at the fire.

She turned back to Clark. “Tell Edith I’ll be right up. And ask Cook to send up a little something more.”

“Yes, Miss.”

Isaac rose as she returned to the fire.

“I apologize,” Arabelle said, “but I’ve forgotten a previous engagement and shall be late for dinner.”

“A previous engagement?” Mama asked.

“It’s Thursday.”

Mama smiled. “Ah. Yes, you shan’t miss that.” She looked up at Isaac. “When George wrote to you, did he mention that he and Jane had a daughter?”

“He did. To be honest, the child has weighed heavily on my mind, but I’d not presumed to ask yet.” He turned to Arabelle. “Is everything well with her since your brother’s passing?”

His concern intrigued her. “She is very well, thank you. Would you . . . would you like to meet her?”

* * *

To say that Isaac was conscious of the young woman walking next to him as he limped up the stairs was a grand understatement. She graciously matched his snail’s pace, though he imagined her darting up this flight like a bird.

He shook his head. “I’m afraid our days of racing to the nursery are done.”

She paused. “I cannot decide if you are serious. I remember how you would tease, but do you tease about this, sir?”

He released a half-aggravated laugh. “If I can’t tease about this, then what do I do, Miss Hyatt? Bellow? Moan? Perhaps it’s just a façade, but teasing helps.”

“In that case,” she said, “I would have to balance on one leg, and perhaps borrow George’s cane for leverage.” She glanced sidelong at him.

“Ah,” he said, taking the opening she’d allowed him. “Tie one hand behind your back. Then I might have a sporting chance.”

Her eyes danced. “Of course, we’d have to put you in a gown, to really even things up.”

He broke into a laugh. “You might have me there.”

She smiled as they continued up the staircase. She’d grown up rather prettily. When she’d followed George and Isaac around the estate, she’d been a waif of a thing. Six years separated them, just enough for her to keep up, but not close enough for them to be thrilled about it. To her credit, she was a good sport and kept their secret escapades. And she’d had them laughing more often than he’d give any six-, eight-, ten-year-old girl credit for.

“Will you tell me about it?” she asked quietly. “How it happened. Someday?”

He frowned, the lightness gone. He’d given her permission to address his injuries. He should have known she’d ask further. “I’ll not promise you that. It’s difficult.”

“I understand,” she said, though he knew she could not.

He changed the subject. “Tell me about Eleanor.”

“She is thoughtful for one so small. Perhaps it’s because relationships mean so much to her. She was only a year and a half old when she lost her parents. People dismiss the effect that has on an infant. But believe me, we watched her mourn just as we did. She knew.” Her gaze narrowed as if in contemplation, and she paused on the stair. “She is a person. As much of us as George was.”

He wondered at her ardent tone. “I do not doubt it. Loss comes in all forms, to all ages. It affects each differently. But I’ve learned that it is not what happens to us, but rather what we do afterward that determines our course. She has your example to learn from.”

She lifted her chin, studying him. “Sometimes I believe I’m the one learning from her. Is that childish of me?”

He studied her. The last time he’d seen her she was fourteen, with ringlets on either side of her face and wide eyes watching him say goodbye before he took his commission. He’d bowed over her hand and told her something silly to watch her break into a smile, because he couldn’t have borne leaving her in tears.

“In all my years of knowing you as a child, Miss Hyatt, you were never childish.”

Again, she smiled, the action lighting something inside him he’d not felt in a long time.

Again, he reminded himself of his duty here.

They made the first landing and walked down the hallway to the narrower staircase leading to the nursery. He sighed inwardly. If he ever built a house, it would have scandalously few staircases.

“Are you all right, Mr. Linfield?”

He nodded. “Still recovering from the ride, that’s all.”

“I should have thought better and brought Eleanor down.”

He gestured for her to lead up the narrow flight. She moved gracefully, and he caught himself appreciating his perspective for more than one reason. He’d known she would have grown. It seemed a lifetime had gone by since he left England. But when he’d pictured Abby here, he’d somehow removed the “woman” part of the experience, and now reality mocked him. Isaac shook his head to clear his thoughts and focused on his steps.

“What sort of fellow is Mr. Forbes?” he asked, more to keep himself on task than anything.

She halted on the stairs, then quickly resumed. “He’s a good man. He is . . . sure of himself.”

“Fortunate. George mentioned he was to inherit. What are his intentions for Hybrigge House?”

She’d reached the nursery door and turned to face him, her eyes over-bright. “The best intentions, I’m sure. He’s paid the structure more attention than the inhabitants inside it.”

He frowned, puzzled by her response.

At that moment, the maid opened the door. “Miss. Sir.” She addressed Arabelle. “All is ready for you. If you need me further, only ring.”

They entered the room Isaac knew well. Before the familiar surroundings and scent could settle with him, his gaze was drawn to a little girl in folds of sprigged muslin, with pink cheeks and white curls atop her head. Arabelle stepped toward her, hand extended. The little girl took it, her gaze glued on Isaac, then to his leg.

“Eleanor, meet our friend, Mr. Linfield. He’s come a long way to see us.” She smiled up at Isaac. “Mr. Linfield, this is Miss Eleanor Hyatt.”

“Of course it is.” Isaac bowed. “Hello, Miss Eleanor.”

“Show him your curtsy, darling.”

The tiny figure held her dress out with one hand and dipped, wobbling. “Hello.”

Isaac couldn’t help smiling. “May I join you for your dinner?” He motioned to a small, waiting table.

She followed his gaze and nodded. Then she let go of Arabelle’s hand, crouched, and as Arabelle gasped, touched his wooden leg.

He put his hand up to silence Arabelle’s protest, his face warming with the awkwardness of the moment.

“You leg hurt?” the child asked. She waited for Isaac’s answer to her simple question, her finger tapping softly on one of the buckles holding his boot on.

He cleared his throat. “Yes, I am hurt.” He flashed her a trying smile. “But I’m getting better.”

Eleanor frowned, but nodded. “Better. Hurt aw gone.”

“That’s right.” He wished he could believe as she did. Pain was part of him now.

Without another word, Eleanor stood and reached for his false hand—he’d changed out his riding hook for the less off-putting carved hand. He quickly reached across with his good hand and allowed her to lead him to the table set with bread and butter alongside miniature crocks of chicken and potatoes and an apple tart the size of a tea saucer. He pulled out a chair for her, then for Arabelle, whom he caught watching him perplexedly, then seated himself in the tiny space.

“It hasn’t changed much,” Isaac said, looking around. “It’s smaller than I remember.”

Arabelle smiled. “We were smaller. Though you and George seemed like giants to me. Even when you were twelve. May I?” she asked, holding his dish near the crocks. She didn’t wait for his answer. “Usually it’s just Eleanor and I. Edith has so much to do that I manage without her.”

“Yet another example of how I’ve disrupted your routine.”

She set down his plate in front of him and dished Eleanor her food. “Not at all. Things can get a bit monotonous here. Hybrigge hasn’t been as it was. Here you are, Linny. Use your spoon, now.” She lifted her gaze. “A visit from an old friend is a balm, even when unexpected. Perhaps especially then.”

He found himself without words, because she was unexpected, and if he could describe the effect her presence had on his nerves, it would be something like a balm.

It was her kinship to George, he told himself. The familiarity of better days.

“Eleanor,” she said once they’d each been dished up a plate. “Tell Mr. Linfield about our walk yesterday.”

The little girl’s blue eyes lit up. “Fro rocks.” She giggled.

“Throw rocks?” he asked, intrigued.

She nodded. “And tick. In da water.”

“In the river?” He eyed Arabelle, who watched them both, amused. He continued with Eleanor. “Did you throw it with all your might?”

She nodded with fervor and put a piece of chicken in her mouth.

“I do most of the throwing,” Arabelle said. “But one day she’ll be skipping rocks across the water better than her father.”

“Well,” he said with a chuckle, “that shouldn’t be too hard. Many perfect skipping rocks lie at the bottom of that river by George’s hand. Alas, they never met their full potential.”

“He taught me,” she exclaimed with a laugh.

He shook his head. “He did not.”

“He did. I remember his hand around mine, moving me through the motions and then letting me try, over and over until I did it.”

He pushed a potato around his plate. “That was me.” Peering up at her, he caught her stare. She busied herself with a piece of chicken. Aware he might have stolen what she believed to be a warm memory of her brother, he amended himself. “George was right there cheering you on, of course.”

She nodded, and quickly helped Eleanor with a sip of water. “Of course. I just presumed.”

“Naturally. While I could best him in skipping stones—which requires some finesse, as you know—George always had the stronger arm. He could clear the river and then some, every time.”

“I do remember that.”

“He would save the best skipping stones he found for you.”

She paused, her fork halfway between her plate and mouth. Her light blue eyes became glassy. “Thank you, Mr. Linfield.”

He nodded, biting back the urge to ask her to call him Isaac.

They resumed eating.

“And thank you,” she said. “For teaching me to skip rocks.”

He smiled. “It was my pleasure. You possessed finesse.”

“Kip rocks,” the little girl said, both hands flat on the table, looking between the both of them. “Kip rocks.”

“Now we’ve done it,” Arabelle said, grinning. “She’ll not rest until we’ve made her the best rock-skipper in all of England.”

Isaac leaned forward. “I believe those particular seeds of destiny were planted the moment you became her aunt.”

She beamed at him, as though his words were the greatest compliment he might have paid her.