Eight

Dear Lady Isabelle,

I know my words pale in comparison to the writings of such great works as the tale of Tristan and Isolde, yet I must write to you nonetheless. The scarce hours I’ve spent in your company are a treasured gift. Thank you for agreeing to see me again after my quick departure from the museum last week. Our time together in the park on Tuesday will remain in my heart forever. The light of your smile that day rivaled the sun. Next time I hope to be able to walk you home. You have my apologies for the business matter that called me away just as we were to return to your family. Soon I hope such things won’t hinder our days together. Until then we must cling to the moments we have to ourselves. I shall keep all thoughts of you close.

Yours,

Mr. Reginald Grapling

• • •

Isabelle shouldn’t have come here, and certainly not alone. But the museum was silent this time of day, and Mr. Grapling had been correct—the still and quiet of the artwork were just what she needed today.

She’d slipped out of her home amid the chaos of flower arrangements and preparations for the wedding breakfast on Victoria’s big day. Victoria herself had been shut away in her bedchamber along with their mother and every available maid. It was just as well since Victoria had had nothing but cross words for Isabelle since the engagement had been announced. In their last conversation, Isabelle had consoled her sister with how lovely her wedding dress was. It had taken great strength to offer such a compliment, but it had taken even more to strength not to strangle her sister a moment later when Victoria offered her the gown in jest. With a sigh, Isabelle had walked out the door today without anyone’s notice.

Now Victoria’s wedding was just over an hour away. Her family was no doubt still racing around and calling orders to scrambling servants, and Isabelle was here. The silence of the museum pressed in around her, her only comfort during the storm of her life. From the museum it was only a short walk to the church. She would meet everyone there, calm from her time spent here alone, and the day would carry on without issue.

Her sister would soon walk into that church Lady Victoria Fairlyn and walk out Lady Hardaway. Isabelle swallowed hard and focused on the painting in front of her. None of that mattered. She had moved on. Mr. Grapling was taking her mind from her troubles for now. Perhaps something would come of her time spent with him. Though she wasn’t planning their wedding just yet, he had been a fine distraction thus far, almost as if she’d dreamt him into creation herself. Victoria could spend a lifetime listening to Lord Hardaway’s hearty laugh. Isabelle would be fine—better than fine, in fact.

Even if St. James didn’t approve of Grapling, had even gone so far as to hit him, Mr. Grapling knew her, understood how much she needed to gaze upon these paintings this morning. His letters proved how much he cared for her. And being cared about was all she really wanted just now. She smiled at the memory of yesterday in the garden. Sneaking out of her house to meet him amid the roses had been enough to tell her how genuine he truly was, no matter what St. James might think. Mr. Grapling had insisted that she come here today, and his advice was spot-on. The artwork at the museum did bring her peace on an otherwise-hectic day. He really was a kindhearted gentleman.

Could St. James truly be jealous of the time she was spending with Mr. Grapling? Surely not. But it would explain why he was finding fault with such a pleasant man. St. James would understand in time. Isabelle needed hope at a time like this. She was fortunate that she’d found her secret admirer before Victoria’s wedding, or she would have been more devastated than she was already.

Smiling up at the paintings, she moved down the hall toward her favorite one. Simply walking past the pieces in her grandfather’s collection reminded her that the day would turn to night, the seasons would change, and yet here in the scenes depicted in paint, every detail would remain the same. Paintings could be counted upon. Maybe they didn’t seem like such sturdy objects to others, but to her they were stability—beautiful scenes of calm.

She studied the way the artist had created the waves on the ocean in the piece before her. Even the wind was held still. Nothing could move on or begin anew. Here every toss of that ship remained, held steady for eternity for all to look upon in awe. This single moment in time would be preserved forever more—if the paintings were well cared for—and she’d dedicate her days to ensuring that was the case.

She strolled to the next piece, already feeling better about her life. She had these beautiful works to look after. She had a gentleman in her life who had been so considerate of her mental state on her sister’s wedding day. And friendships she treasured—she had plenty of those with Roselyn, Evangeline, and now St. James. She smiled up at the painting of a young girl posing beside a bowl of fruit. She was going to get through today without any troubles.

In another moment she would leave. She couldn’t very well miss her sister’s wedding because she was busy strolling through the upper rooms of the British Museum. No one would understand that reasoning at all.

Moving to her favorite piece in the collection, that of a tumbling-down castle standing alone on a hillside, she smiled. She often wished she lived there—

Clunk!

She was knocked to the side, and a sound seemed to echo inside her head. Blinding, sharp, slicing, silencing pain. The room swam before her eyes, then went black.

Her knees buckled beneath her, and she was falling. Falling. Falling.

The last thing she saw was the castle, standing proud against the sky, calling her to come inside and stay within its walls forever.