Chapter Four

Arabelle found Isaac in the hall, pulling on a glove with his teeth, then adjusting it slightly with the hooked hand he’d worn when he’d first arrived. All the curiosity she had about him rose again—not only the circumstances of his injuries, but how it would be to go through the dailies of life with not only one leg, but one hand. She’d found herself making the attempt to undress, tie a boot, or open a letter with only one limb.

She lifted her gaze quickly as he turned her direction.

“Abb—Miss Hyatt. Forgive me. Good morning to you.” He placed his hooked hand behind his back.

She smiled at the slip of her name, grateful she was not the only one dancing along the lines of their childhood familiarity. “I’m not sure I can forgive you for the thrashing you and Mama gave us last night.” She grinned, and he returned it. “I didn’t see you at breakfast.”

“No,” he said. “I rose early. I’m taking my horse out for a run before this weather turns.”

“It is a beautiful morning. Have you named him yet?”

“I haven’t.”

She shook her head. “He shall begin to wonder his purpose, sir.”

“Perhaps you can help me.”

A thrill leaped inside her. “Well, that would require some time with him. I can’t just spout off names like I’m dealing whist.”

“Walk with me to the stables, then.”

“I’ll do one better and take Snowbird for a ride.” She stopped, remembering herself. “But that was forward and thoughtless. You mean to make the most of your time. I’d have to change into my riding habit and convince someone to chaperone.”

“Things were much simpler when we were younger, were they not?”

Her face flushed. There he stood with one leg and a hook while she complained of having to change clothes.

“Was it very hard to learn how to ride again?” she asked before she could think not to.

His brow arched. “Yes. Quite.”

“Did it hurt terribly?”

His eyes seemed to intensify and dim at the same time. “Yes. Fear was also a factor.”

“But you learned.”

He hinted at a smile. “I learned.”

She nodded and clasped her hands together, wondering at his bravery.

“Why don’t you change,” he asked, “and I’ll talk to your mother about a chaperone?”

“Really? What of the weather?”

“Maybe it will inspire a name for my horse. Downpour. Or Drizzle.”

“Those are awful.”

“Which is why I need your help.” He smiled, and she found herself rushing upstairs to change out of her morning dress.

Atop Snowbird, Arabelle allowed her gaze a sort of routine: follow the thin, high clouds toward any break of blue sky, drop to the horizon at the west end of the valley, then over to Isaac’s horse in contemplation of a name, and then to Isaac, if she could do so surreptitiously. If she was caught, she would offer one of several names she had in mind. If she wasn’t caught, she would study him, searching for glimpses of the boy she knew so many years ago.

“On to tree names?” she asked when his gaze met hers. “He is a lovely deep brown, but I suppose Walnut is out of the question. Perhaps Chestnut? He is not red enough for Mahogany.”

“Walnut is out of the question. Everyone names their horse Chestnut. And Mahogany is a bit of a mouthful, don’t you think?”

“Something simpler, then. He seems steady and is very strong. What about Oak?”

“Hm. He’s certainly the coloring for it.”

She watched him consider. He sat handsomely in his beaver hat and high-collared coat. His sandy hair had always been neither blond nor brown, but the color of the pebbles along the river’s wider places. While George had always been more particular about his hair, Isaac had not, and it still worked for him.

“What are you thinking of, Miss Hyatt?”

She blinked. “Oh. Um. I was thinking of your hair.”

He pulled his horse to a stop. “My—hair?”

She stopped as well. With a quick glance back at Edith, whom she’d persuaded to bundle up and act as chaperone for their ride, and who was keeping a good distance behind them, Arabelle mustered the words to finish her thought. “I remember your mother often wondering aloud how you’d managed to escape the hairbrush again. The mussed look is quite in style.” She smiled. “Who would have known that your disdain for a hairbrush would make you the height of fashion?”

The corner of his mouth lifted, and he dropped his gaze to his horse. “And to think I took extra care with my coiffure this morning.” He threw her a good-natured glare.

She laughed. “It is good to have you home, Mr. Linfield. It is healing, in a way.”

He urged his horse forward, and she followed the motion.

“Your mother said something similar last night. I admit I didn’t know what my presence would bring here.”

“We have many happy memories with you and George. I can scarcely think of an unhappy one—oof, maybe dance lessons.”

He chuckled. “Dance lessons. Yes, not our favorite way to pass time. Though . . .” he paused as they ducked beneath some low-hanging boughs.

She waited for him to finish as they righted themselves, but he didn’t. “Though what?” she asked.

“Though . . . had I known how few years I’d have to dance, I would have welcomed every quadrille.”

Arabelle’s heart tightened for him as she chastened herself for bringing up dancing. “That was thoughtless of me. I—”

“Don’t, Miss Hyatt. Don’t apologize for remembering better times with me. As you said, it has been good to be here. Healing, in a way.”

His smile eased her chagrin. “I’m glad to hear it.”

They rode on a little longer and reached the place on the river where it was best to play pirates. Her father had built a small platform around one of the trees leaning over the water. Though he’d meant it as a fishing spot, the boys and Arabelle had quickly adapted it to their own games.

She sensed Isaac remembering similar images, ghosts of children barely recognizable as themselves.

“You were in his last thoughts, you know,” she said. “You were like a brother to him.”

“I felt the same.”

“He expressed his worry—we’d not heard from you in so long. He hoped that you were healthy and alive.”

“An excellent combination.”

“To be sure.”

He frowned at the water. “I fell short by half.”

She frowned as well. “By half? Are you unwell, Mr. Linfield?”

“Surely you jest.”

“Indeed not. The term unwell denotes physical or mental illness. You show signs of neither.”

“The term healthy denotes a state of being whole. A term you can’t possibly use in reference to me.”

She turned to him. “If I were to lose my arm tomorrow, would you think me unwhole?”

He looked away. “No.”

“And neither do I.”

He met her gaze directly, his expression stern. “But you would believe it of yourself, Miss Hyatt. You would be reminded of it, haunted by your dreams, waking to reach for something only to come up empty-handed with a hand that no longer exists.” His voice deepened as if pained. “You’d battle constantly between a desire for who you were and who you must now become. Wondering who would consider going down that path with you when all others have fled.”

Arabelle steadied herself, taken aback by the emotion their conversation had stirred. “Forgive me,” she said, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I cannot pretend to understand.”

“No. You cannot. Pretending is for the past.” He turned his horse as if to ride on.

“Who fled?” she called after him.

He turned again, and she knew he’d heard her. Even in his silence she could guess. Colleagues. Women. So-called friends.

“George would have never,” she said.

“I know that.”

“Neither would I,” she said.

His expression softened. “Because of George.”

“No. Because of you.” Her heart beat inexplicably fast awaiting his response.

His mouth remained closed, his jaw clenched. His horse sidestepped, and Isaac corrected him using hushed tones, brushing his hand along the horse’s withers. “What other names have you for my horse?” He lifted his gaze.

She looked at him—trying to ignore the deflating sensation in her stomach his change of subject brought—then to the place where they’d played. She took a cool, deep breath and released it slowly. “River,” she said.

He studied her with that unreadable expression, then watched the steady, constant water moving through the winter landscape. At last he turned his attention to his horse, rubbing its ears, speaking in low murmurs. “River,” he said softly. After a moment he sat tall in his saddle. “Thank you, Miss Hyatt. River it is.”

Satisfaction bloomed in her center, tempered by his reserve. She drew Snowbird up alongside him. “I’m glad you like it. It suits him.”

“I believe it does.”

“He now has purpose.”

“A gift, indeed.”

She studied him for as long as he let her. “You’ve grown up, Mr. Linfield.”

His head dropped, and he half laughed. Then he lifted it as if it carried all the weight of the world. “As have you, Miss Hyatt.”

His gray eyes locked with hers. For how long, she knew not, but her pulse pounded again as her fingers entwined firmly in Snowbird’s mane.

“Isaac—” she whispered.

“Don’t, Miss Hyatt,” he said quietly. “There is nothing for it. I’m here to see you’re taken care of as George would have. Nothing more.”

She nodded because her words stuck painfully in her throat, and her eyes stung.

His expression softened with what was likely pity. “Shall we return to the house?” he asked.

She shook her head and found her tongue. “I want to run.”

With a nod from him, she turned Snowbird in the direction of the meadows, determined to run and run until these unwelcome emotions shook free. Then she would find Eleanor and spend all afternoon with her, stealing sweets from the kitchen and readying for Christmas Eve.

* * *

Isaac paced in front of George’s desk in the library, looking between the two letters in his hand, warring between how the two were connected and what he was supposed to do about it. Sighing heavily as he took the chair, he read the older letter for the hundredth time.

Dear Isaac,

I hope you are well. I know that is a severe generalization, but it’s the truth. I myself am not well. To be short (and forgive me for being so) I’ve been hit by the consumption and will likely be gone from this world even as you read this. I wish I could write that I’m at peace with this turn of my life, but three things prevent me from accepting my demise with grace. First, my dearest Jane is dying by my side. To bear this horrid disease on one’s own is awful, but I could bear it. To see my Jane so wracked in pain and fading undoes me. Which brings me to the second thing. We have a child, our daughter Eleanor, who is but a year. She is safe, as she was taken from us at the first sign of illness and is with my mother. I believe, though, that the separation of child from mother has weakened Jane’s will. Dear Isaac, the love for a child is something I never fathomed, could have never predicted. To know she is with Mama and Abby is a comfort. But our hearts break. To miss her Christmas is one thing; to miss her life—Third, Hybrigge is entailed to a cousin, one Mr. Hewitt Forbes. I’ve never met Mr. F, and have little idea of his intentions toward my family. I have written, asking him to break the entailment, but he refused with a note saying he’d visit the estate and make his decision then. Hybrigge is large enough to be profitable while small enough to avoid the heavier taxes, with loyal, fourth-generation tenants, so I see why he’d want to have a look. But I have no assurances of my family’s future. A is of age. Do not think I haven’t considered the possibilities there, as Mr. F is wealthy and unattached. E is but a baby and will be at this man’s mercy. I have hired a solicitor to learn what he can of the Forbes family and Mr. F’s character. I’ve given him your father’s name with his permission. Isaac, if there is any possibility, might you write to my mother? Words of comfort go a long way when from a trusted friend. I understand you are at war and can likely do little. But I beg you, think of my family as yours. There is nothing better I can do for them. I wish I had happier tidings for you. To be hopeful is a battle. A much quieter one than those you’ve experienced, I’m sure. My thoughts often drift to our adventures on the river with little A in our pockets. Be good to her, Isaac. Tell E tales of her wild father. Until I see you next, brother.

Your friend,

George Hyatt

Isaac pushed his hand through his hair. The other letter, short and to the point, stated that Mr. Hewitt Forbes had sold three of the family’s holdings in the last two years. No motive was given. Hybrigge House would be the fourth. It could be that this was a business strategy, that the profits could be going into other investments, or to help pay—or avoid—the ever-increasing taxes the war had brought on. But something tugged at Isaac’s gut. Something told him to keep digging, especially now that Mr. Forbes intended to make Abby his bride.

He shook his head. Today on their ride he’d come too close to revealing feelings he’d been denying for a week. Or perhaps longer than that.

Now Abby had named his horse, forever tying herself to the creature and Isaac to that moment. It had been a selfish thing of him to ask, perhaps some underlying desire to have that connection with her before he left. How quickly it had turned on him, already torturing him.

But the horse’s name was River, and it would have no other.

He picked up the quill and wrote a letter to the solicitor, then another to his father. And he tried to blot out his thoughts of the moment he’d nearly reached out to Abby—to touch her flushed cheek—with his hook of a hand.