Chapter Seven

Dear Isaac,

We have discovered that Mr. F is steeped in gambling debts, and this is the reason he has sold his lesser properties and likely the reason he would sell Hybrigge. He is desperate. A marriage connection with his family at this time would not be wise, and I am relieved for Miss H.

However, the family is still in peril. I shall look into it further, see if we can secure them a cottage somewhere and find Miss H a sponsor. Unless you can come up with something better? It is good you are there. Give them our warmest regards and hope for their situation. Happy Christmas. Write your mother.

Yours,

Father

Isaac paced several minutes with his father’s letter clutched in his hand. His leg throbbed, but he’d learned to ignore it. Abby crossed his thoughts so often anyhow, and he could not ignore her.

Why had he kissed her? She was absolutely right. He had used her with no intention of following through with anything more. He hadn’t meant to, but that didn’t change the fact that he had. And she was so . . . perceptive. Nothing got past her, and she spoke her truth like an arrow shot from a bow. He knew that about her. For thirteen years he’d known that about her. Loved that about her—

He stopped, standing tall. He studied his carved hand. “You are a coward, Isaac Linfield. And she called you on it.”

After a moment of contemplation, he moved to his desk to a small pile of letters, plucking one off the top and smoothing it out.

Major Linfield,

I write to let you know that all is ready. The papers have been drawn, and I have written my steward. The duty of Bailiff of Merigrove and all other holdings will be a temporary position, as I have named you my sole heir. There will be much to learn, but you have proven your ability as a soldier and a man. Upon my return, God willing, we shall make a good team of it. You shall fill the rooms of Merigrove, Furton, and Upton Hall with wife and family—for you must take a wife—and I shall rejoice in the sounds of it. There is much life ahead, Major. I intend to live it well. Join me.

My steward awaits your consent. I don’t really need it, you know.

Col. Sir D. Upton

Isaac closed his eyes. He wouldn’t change one action in saving the colonel. He was too good a leader, too good a person to be lost in this infernal war.

The living Colonel Upton offered had been one thing. The stirrings of purpose, of independence, of what good, honest work meant had invigorated Isaac, and he appreciated the colonel’s offer. What else could he do? Burden his parents and his brothers? Not that they would ever make him feel as such. But his father’s farmlands were smaller than Hybrigge’s. And he had this offer before him. Not only a living, but an inheritance.

It was too much.

You shall fill the rooms of Merigrove, Furton, and Upton Hall with wife and family . . .

The image of Abby closing her blue eyes at his touch, her nose upturned, her pink lips barely parted, and the scent of her perfume pulling him closer . . . kissing her once had been easy. For luck. Kissing her again ended him. Pulling away from her had been like losing . . . well, a limb.

Yet how could he ask her to accept him, as he was? See him, really see him, as he was? He’d no intention of ever marrying after his stint in hospital. His friends had left, feeling uncomfortable that he was not who he used to be. Any girls he’d hoped to return to before his injuries had long turned their attentions elsewhere. Except for one. Abby had been both a friend, and, he’d come to realize, a hope.

He looked down at his boots. He was half.

And a coward.

You put your boots before a life, sir.

What kind of life could he give her? Any help, George?

Isaac sat at the desk, pushing his hand through his hair, looking between the two letters.

Then he sat bolt upright. Almost too hastily, he dipped the quill in ink and began to write.

* * *

Christmas Day passed quietly. After church—and to Mrs. Hyatt’s dismay—Abby had presented Eleanor with a small fisherman’s creel filled with sticks and twigs of all sizes and an assortment of smooth rocks—some round for throwing and some flat for skipping. Eleanor had hopped and sorted and tried to “fro rock” in the drawing room, but she had been thwarted in the attempt and promised a walk if she behaved.

After the walk and much “frowing,” the family and their guest retired to the drawing room and blazing fire. Eleanor toddled to Isaac and patted his wooden leg. “Leg aw better?” she asked.

“Somewhat,” he said, running his hand over her curly head.

She yawned, then leaned down and rested her cheek against the wood. “Ah luh loo,” she said, then kissed his leg.

“Ah luh loo?” he asked, then looked to Abby for interpretation.

She lowered her gaze, her fingers working her embroidery. “She said, ‘I love you,’ Major.”

The words struck him, and he allowed the child to crawl onto his lap, where she curled up and fell asleep in front of the fire. “Sleep, little Linny,” he said. “All will be well.” But he watched the fire fretfully, glancing Abby’s way as often as he’d permit himself.

* * *

Isaac had been gone to town three days. “Really, Mama,” Arabelle said, tearing out a row of stitches that she could not get even. “I see no reason why Mr. Linfield couldn’t conduct his business from Hybrigge House.”

“You know very well why he had to leave, Arabelle.”

Arabelle frowned at the seam in her hands. “I do not,” she said around the needle gripped in her lips.

“Because, my darling, it was no longer proper for him to stay here.”

“And why is that?” she asked, removing the needle to thread it.

“Because you are in love with him.”

Arabelle froze, no longer seeing her embroidery. “I don’t know what you mean, Mama.” But her beating heart argued that she knew exactly what Mama meant.

Clark entered then with a tray. “A letter for you, mum.”

“Thank you, Clark.”

Arabelle watched, only half interested, as Mama unfolded the letter. How had Mama deciphered her feelings for Isaac, and what did it mean that he left? Mama had implied that he knew of Arabelle’s feelings. She hadn’t played the shrinking violet, had she? But then he left. Because it was no longer proper. And because he didn’t return her feelings. And she’d equaled him to the horrible Mr. Forbes. Who held their whole future in his clammy grip.

Arabelle tossed her stitching aside and stood, walking about the room, vaguely aware of her mother reading her letter.

“Oh heavens,” Mama said, her hand to her chest.

Arabelle stopped immediately. “What is it?”

Mama lifted her gaze to Arabelle. “Oh. It is nothing. Major Linfield will be here within the hour, and we must change. Have Edith help you first. I must speak with Cook.” With that, Mama stood and left the room.

Upstairs, Edith pulled the laces on the back of Arabelle’s coral muslin gown. “I wonder why Mama is acting so strangely about Mr. Linfield coming to dine,” Arabelle mused aloud. “He stayed with us for ten days.”

“Have you not heard, Miss? Mr. Linfield has bought Hybrigge for himself.”

Arabelle dropped the matching slippers she held. “He what?”

“He intends to make Hybrigge his home.”

“And what of us?”

Edith paused. “I do not know, Miss.”

Arabelle frowned, then she spun, searching the floor.

“What are you looking for, Miss?”

“My riding boots.”

“But you’re dressing for dinner.”

“Right now I’m dressing for my horse. Tell Seth I need her ready. No, don’t bother with my riding gown. Just the coat will do. Ah, my boots.” She sat down to pull them on but felt Edith’s stare. “Edith. Seth. Now.”

“Oh. Yes, Miss. Sorry, Miss.” And with a quick bob, she was gone.

Seth had Snowbird ready when Arabelle arrived. He helped her mount and without so much as a nod of thanks, she urged Snowbird into a gallop. They’d just crested the bridge when she spotted a horse and rider stopped in the distance under the old oak trees. She urged Snowbird into a run, a burning in her core and spreading outward. She recognized his horse first, then his posture. He saw her and dismounted, no easy feat, she was certain. He was still steadying himself when she pulled her horse up and dismounted herself.

She crossed the remaining distance at a brisk pace. “You bought Hybrigge? How could you? When you knew. You knew how much it means to Mama and I!”

He removed his hat. “Miss Hyatt.”

“I don’t understand. After everything!” She reached him, the exertion from her march, or her anger, obvious in her erratic breathing. “You bought it from that awful man.”

“Miss Hyatt—”

“Don’t you ‘Miss Hyatt’ me. After I confided in you—trusted—”

“Abby.”

“What?”

He wrapped his arms about her and pulled her close, then kissed her quite thoroughly. As her anger eased in his arms, he pulled away enough to gaze into her eyes.

“How—” she stammered, quite breathless. “Why—”

He glanced upward, then back down at her. “Mistletoe.”

Her gaze went to the clumps in the oaks, and she swallowed. “Oh.”

“But that’s not why.”

“Oh?”

He shook his head. “I bought Hybrigge with a portion of my living from Sir Upton. I bought it for you.”

She blinked. “Why? I thought—”

“I love you, Abby.”

She could only watch him and allow the burning in her core to change into something softer, yet just as fiery.

He ran his finger along her cheek. “Be my wife. Live here with me. We’ll raise Eleanor as our own. Take slow winter walks. Run Snowbird and River. Say you’ll take me—as I am. Make me the happiest man there ever was.”

She nodded, tears in her eyes. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

She grinned. “Yes, Isaac. To all of it.”

“‘All of it.’ Interesting choice of words.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll tell you everything, my love.” He kissed her again, whispering against her temple. “My dearest Abby.”