Chapter 20
Time seemed to stand still, each second, every minute of the clock painful and endless. But it also seemed to rush past with every sunrise and sunset.
Or at least it appeared so to Isabel as she watched the world pass by through her bedroom window.
In the weeks since she had ended her affair with Sirius, Isabel had left the house only a handful of times. She visited Ana María and Gideon, and attended Mass a Sunday or two, but couldn’t bring herself to go anywhere else. Isabel made no trips to the lending library or museum. No meandering walks in the park with Gabby. When her sister and Lady Yardley dressed in the evenings to attend one event or another, Isabel declined their increasingly frustrated requests to accompany them. But Isabel was incapable of feigning interest in such things any longer.
When Tío Arturo received the letter that Presidente Juárez and her parents had managed to escape before the French troops surrounded their location, he had delivered the news to Isabel in person. She’d been overwhelmed with relief, thankful the message had reached them before Maximilian’s army could, and yet Isabel didn’t cry. Couldn’t cry. Her chest felt hollow, and she could think of nothing to fill it.
Isabel wanted to go home, but home still seemed so very far away.
A soft knock on her chamber door drew her head around. “Entra,” she called.
The door opened, and Gabby stood on the threshold, her brow puckered in concern. She stepped inside, but paused, glancing about her.
“Aren’t you tired of this room?” she said, her tone gentler than her words.
“What do you want, Gabby?” Isabel said, turning back to the book in her hand.
“Viscount Westhope is here to see you.”
Isabel went still, her gaze flying to meet her sister’s. The last person she wanted to speak with was Westhope. He had called two times already, with Gabby or Lady Yardley claiming Isabel was feeling unwell. She knew that excuse would last for only so long. “Did you tell him I was in?”
“I did,” Gabby said succinctly.
“I wish you hadn’t,” Isabel said, groaning.
Gabby flung a hand up. “I thought you liked the viscount.”
“I do like him,” Isabel said, snapping her book closed. “And that’s the problem. I do not wish to hurt his feelings.”
“Why would you hurt his feelings?”
Isabel stared at the cover of the book in her hand. It was a collection of poems by John Donne. She did so love to hurt her own feelings. “Because I would have to tell him I’m not interested in being his bride.”
“That will be hard.” Gabby’s voice was sympathetic. “But the viscount deserves to know.”
She was right, of course. Westhope deserved her honesty, especially now that she had used their acquaintance to gain what she wanted. Guilt festered in her gut.
The room went silent…but the tension screamed in Isabel’s ears. When she glanced up, Gabby was considering her closely. “Lord Westhope is not why you have cloistered yourself away like a medieval nun, right?”
Smothering a chuckle, Isabel nodded. “Correct.”
“Then why have you, Isa?” Gabby demanded. “Why do you refuse to leave this room? What happened?”
Rising to her feet, Isabel walked to the window and peered out, desperately wishing she could escape her sister’s questions. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter.” Gabby’s hand slipped into hers, spinning her about to meet her gaze. “I don’t like seeing you like this.”
And I don’t like being like this. But a malaise had settled over Isabel, and she had no notion of how to free herself from it…other than to leave. Without Sirius, London had become unbearable.
“I’m fine.” Isabel tried to smile but wasn’t sure whether she was successful. “Truly.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Isa.” Gabby spun about in a cloud of skirts. At the door, she glanced at Isabel over her shoulder, her lip curled in irritation. “If you’re going to lock yourself away, you may as well move to one of the attic rooms so you can haunt the house like a proper ghost.”
Isabel snorted…and it quickly turned into a laugh. A full-body laugh that soon had her wheezing. Gabby watched her with an exasperated, if fond, look on her face.
“Go tell Westhope you’re not interested in being his bride. He deserves to hear it from your lips.” Her sister opened the door and stepped into the hall. “The cowardly thing to do is hide. And you’re not a coward, Isa.”
Staring at the open doorway, Isabel covered her face with her hands and groaned. Gabby was right; she wasn’t a coward.
Setting her book aside, Isabel checked her reflection in the mirror, thankful she didn’t look as terrible as she felt. Straightening her spine, she headed down the stairs.
The viscount was chatting with Lady Yardley when Isabel entered the room, and his face lit up when he spotted her. After exchanging greetings, Isabel sat in the armchair next to his, and politely answered his questions about her health and her recent absence from society. But something about her bearing must have alerted Westhope that Isabel had not been entirely truthful, for he turned in his chair to face her directly, a tightness to his expression.
“Has something happened, Miss Luna?” The viscount shook his head. “I get a sense there’s something you’re not telling me.”
Isabel slid her gaze to Lady Yardley, who looked back at her with disgruntlement.
Knotting her hands in her lap, Isabel lifted her chin. “You’re right, my lord. I haven’t exactly been honest with you.”
Westhope moved to the edge of his seat. “What do you mean?”
“What I mean,” Isabel began, sinking her nails into her palms, “is that I haven’t told you that I plan to return to Mexico.”
“Soon?” he asked, rotating his head to look at Lady Yardley.
The viscountess grimaced as Isabel murmured, “No. I do not have immediate plans to return.”
Lord Westhope rubbed the back of his neck. “Why did you decide to tell me this now? If you will continue to live in London for the foreseeable future, why are you thinking of returning to Mexico?”
“Because I’m always thinking of Mexico. I have never planned to make my stay here permanent.” Isabel dropped her gaze. “But the more time I spent with you, the more I came to admire and respect you, and the more it became clear that you wanted more of me than I could give you.”
Isabel pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, fearful she had said too much. Worried she might have misread the situation and attributed feelings to the viscount that he did not feel for her. Setting her jaw, Isabel prepared for his response.
Thankfully she did not wait long, for the viscount stood and stalked to the fireplace, gripping the mantel with a firm hand. “It seems foolish now to admit it, but since you have been honest with me, Miss Luna, I will be honest with you.”
Lord Westhope turned to face her, a pained light in his eyes. “I had hoped to one day make you my bride. You’re the first woman I’ve met whom I find interesting and clever. And your life in Mexico has given you a different perspective on society. On culture and literature! I’ve enjoyed our conversations, and feel as if I learn something new whenever we speak.” He glanced down, the tips of his ears turning red. “And you’re quite pretty. Very unique and striking.”
It was Isabel’s turn to dip her head, overcome by the sentiments the viscount had shared. But the heart wanted what the heart wanted, and Lord Westhope deserved to have a bride who desired his.
“I am more honored than I can say that you hold me in such high esteem,” she said.
“But honor does not a happy bride make,” he replied with a self-deprecating smile.
“Any woman would be honored to be your viscountess,” Lady Yardley interjected with a tsk.
“Perhaps,” Lord Westhope said, his eyes wistful as they landed on Isabel, “but then I only wanted that honor from one woman.”
Taking a moment to fight back a blush, Isabel said, “You know, my lord, I have a friend you should meet. She’s witty and beautiful, and I believe you would get along splendidly.”
The viscount cocked his head in interest.
After he departed, Lady Yardley asked Evans to bring them two glasses of wine, stating they were in great need of it. As they sipped an excellent red vintage Isabel didn’t know the name of, the older woman considered Isabel over her glass.
“You could have been a viscountess.” Her blue eyes were far away, no doubt imagining the wedding announcement. “What an achievement that would have been.”
“I want to achieve more than marriage, my lady.” Isabel held up her glass, rotating it, mesmerized by the red liquid that swished about. “There are so many things I’d like to try—”
“Well, you’d have to get your nose out of your books to do so,” Lady Yardley said with a dry laugh.
“I know.” Isabel smiled at her. “And I will.”
The door opened, and Evans walked in, a sealed letter on a tray. But instead of presenting it to the viscountess, he extended it to Isabel.
“Mr. Valdés just sent this by courier. He said you need to read it immediately.”
Blinking up at Evans, Isabel nodded, gingerly lifting the letter from the tray. Studying the seal, Isabel’s eyes widened. Ripping it open, she gasped, raising a trembling hand to her mouth.
“Who’s it from?” Lady Yardley asked.
Lowering her hand, Isabel released a shaky breath. “Presidente Juárez.”
“You look like shit, Dawson.”
Sirius glanced over his shoulder to grumble at the intruder, but paused when his gaze landed on the figure in the doorway. Setting down his book, he dropped his feet to the floor and rose, inclining his head respectfully. “Sir.”
Lieutenant Colonel Green stepped into the study, his eyes sweeping over the room, before turning to examine Sirius. His inspection felt tangible, and Sirius stood straighter, struggling not to shift on his feet. Yet Sirius had so much to feel ashamed of.
Finally, the older man pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the desk and sat. “You missed our meeting today,” he said without preamble.
Sirius gradually sank back onto his own chair. “I apologize.”
“You missed last week’s as well. And the one before that.”
Hunching his shoulders, Sirius nodded. “I’ve not been feeling”—his throat bobbed—“myself.”
“So it would seem.” Lieutenant Colonel Green raised his brows. “Although I suspect what’s ailing you is not physical.”
Sirius fought back a wince…as well as a desire to defend himself. But there was no defense, so he pressed his lips together in what he hoped was a friendly smile. “What would you like to discuss today, sir?”
“Your retirement.”
“My what?” Sirius cried, slapping his hands on the desk as he leaned forward.
“Your retirement, Dawson.” Green slipped a letter from his coat pocket and held it out to Sirius. “You’ve served the Home Office honorably for the last eight years, and have proven yourself to be an asset to the Crown multiple times.”
“And yet you want me to retire?” Sirius growled, taking the letter and brandishing it in the air. “Why?”
The older man leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his belly. “Because it’s obvious you don’t enjoy the work anymore.”
Sirius scoffed. “It’s work. Was I ever supposed to enjoy it?”
“When you had a beautiful woman on your arm, it appeared you did.” Green peered at him over his spectacles. “Dawson, we both know you don’t have to work. Regardless of your relationship with Harcourt, your parents left you a sizable fortune. You don’t have to do this job, so why continue to do so when it’s obvious your heart is no longer in it?”
Standing, Sirius crossed to the sideboard and grabbed a glass. Lifting a half-filled decanter of brandy, he poured himself a finger before tossing it back in one burning mouthful. “I do it because I feel that I have to.”
Good breeding won out over frustration, and he poured Green a glass, depositing it on the desk in front of the man. Too agitated to reclaim his seat, Sirius paced in front of the window.
Green lifted his tumbler and took a sip, whistling as he set it down. “Excellent bite.” Sighing, he looked at Sirius. “You did it because of your men. I know. I’ve always known. The occupation seemed to be good for you, so I didn’t say anything.”
Sirius glowered. “What could you have said?”
The lieutenant colonel considered the glass in his hand. “That no matter what you do, or how hard you work, you won’t be able to bring them back.”
Clenching his jaw, Sirius pivoted, his gaze unseeing out the window.
“I know, because I’ve tried.”
Despite how his heart raced, Sirius tried to keep his breath measured. Even. But his emotions were too raw for this discussion. Hadn’t losing Isabel because of his own reticence been enough? And now he was being forced to retire when he needed the distraction of his work the most?
The urge to kick something, to crush something within his hands, nearly overwhelmed him.
But Sirius had already destroyed too much.
Swiping a hand down his face, Sirius poured himself another tumbler of alcohol. “What about Westhope and the information I was trying to get from him?”
“We already have someone else on it”—Green shrugged—“although from what you’ve reported, I don’t think the viscount knows much.”
Unsure of what to say, Sirius filled his mouth with brandy.
Sirius watched as Green stood and walked to the door. “Go to your abbey in Devonshire. Hack out across the meadow, help with the harvest, and let those early country hours lull you to sleep. With those bags under your eyes, you look as old as me.”
“Not quite,” Sirius shot back with a hoarse chuckle.
Green smiled. “Get out of this godforsaken city, Dawson, and let old ghosts lie.”
Sirius stared at the open doorway for an indeterminate amount of time after Lieutenant Colonel Green departed, and contemplated what his life would be like now that he no longer had to spy for the Crown. Boring, no doubt. Infinitely less stressful. For so many years, his work had given him a sense of direction, a piece of stability, and his pay helped him fund the renovations and expansions he’d made not only at Dancourt Abbey, but the nearby village as well. Now that work was done, and Sirius felt a bit like a fish flopping about on the seashore.
And curse his silly broken heart, but the only person he wanted to talk about this news with was Isabel. She would know exactly what to say to strip away this lump in his throat, and the next phase of his life wouldn’t be so uncertain because she would be a part of it. But Isabel would be returning to Mexico. To a life she wanted and deserved. Sirius respected her enough to allow her that happiness.
Dropping his head into his hands, Sirius considered Green’s suggestion to retire to Dancourt Abbey. It was true that he felt more himself, more at peace, within its aging walls than he did anywhere else. And what was keeping him in London now? Sirius could cancel the lease on his townhome, and invite Stanley and the other men to accompany him to Devonshire or pension them, if they’d prefer. Glancing at his bookshelves, Sirius could admit that he liked the idea of blending his collections into one large library. Isabel would have loved organizing them together—
Sirius rubbed his chest as if it could ease the razor-sharp pain that festered there. He couldn’t wait for the day that Isabel Luna didn’t haunt everything he did.
The move to Devonshire proved to be easier than he anticipated, and Sirius settled into the daily routine of a country gentleman. Rising with the sun, he hacked out with Monroe, the gamekeeper, to survey the land. Sirius did so love the early hours when mist still clung to the grass and made the world seem a bit magical. Soon, though, the sun burned away the fog, and Sirius busied himself with visiting the nearby mill before stopping at the various farms located on Dancourt Abbey land. Many of the farmers who worked the land had served in the Crimea, as had a large portion of the mill workers, and the men who tended to the orchards or whom he had hired to restore the old abbey. He had purchased the dilapidated estate after he’d been released from the hospital, and within its quiet walls and sun-dappled meadows, Sirius healed and rebuilt his life. Seeing it provide a place for other men and their families to do the same would always bring a warm glow of satisfaction.
Now Sirius longed to find contentment there again, but it just didn’t feel the same without Isabel’s quiet, calm presence.
“You’ve been staring at that colt for so long, I’d almost think you were expecting it to sprout wings.”
Blinking back to the moment, Sirius shifted back and forth on his feet. “I got lost in a bit of woolgathering.”
O’Brien’s mouth quirked. “You’ve seemed to do that a good deal since you’ve arrived.”
“Have I?” Sirius winced when the other man nodded. “I suppose I have a lot on my mind.”
“The abbey is a great place to think through it all”—O’Brien shrugged—“or so I’ve found since I been here.”
It had been many long weeks since Sirius had met the Irishman in the back gardens of his London townhome, and in that time O’Brien had found a place for himself among the stable hands and trainers who cared for the draft and heavy horses. Sirius had taken to stopping by the stables to chat with the man almost daily, finding him sharp-witted and droll. Oftentimes their conversations led to Sirius assisting him with one duty or another, a fact O’Brien was scandalized by.
“The lord of the manor can’t be mucking out horseshit,” he’d declared the first time Sirius grabbed a shovel to help him.
“I’m not a lord, and I’ve done every job at this manor at least once.” Sirius had chuckled. “I’ve never been afraid to get my hands dirty.”
And Sirius desperately needed anything to keep his mind busy and his hands active.
“I was going to attach Angus and Goliath to the hay wagon, and bring them to the southeast field.” O’Brien cocked his head. “Do you want to come?”
Sirius blew out a noisy breath. “I don’t have anything better to do.”
“Still haven’t finished putting all your books away?” At Sirius’s curt nod, O’Brien looked at him askance as they walked to the draft horses’ stall. “Mrs. Ormsby said your library is your pride and joy, but I always see you here in the stables or out in the fields.”
His books, and their memories, were for the night, when sleep fled him and all Sirius had to keep him warm was the written word and his regrets.
“Organizing a library takes careful consideration, and I’m doing just that.”
Thankfully, O’Brien did not push the conversation, and soon he couldn’t if he wanted to, because the sound of pickaxes striking rock as several field hands worked to extricate debris to prepare for new plantings drowned out every other sound. It was why Sirius did not hear the approaching horse hooves until Monroe had stopped his mount next to the wagon. A flicker of unease sparked in his gut when the man thrust a piece of paper at him.
“Telegram was just delivered. Mrs. Ormsby said it was marked urgent.”
Sirius accepted it wordlessly, hastening to open it. The message was short, but it almost knocked Sirius off his feet.
Isabel departs for Mexico. Wednesday, 2 p.m. Fox