Chapter 16
“She’s been crying for twenty minutes.”
Isadora said it to nobody in particular, standing in the nursery doorway in her nightgown with a shawl pulled hastily around her shoulders, her hair down, her feet in her slippers, having been woken by Violet’s cries at the precise moment sleep had arrived.
Mrs. Plum was already standing over the cradle, her cap slightly askew, her expression the professional blend of competence and exhaustion that Isadora had come to recognize as her working face after midnight.
“It’s the storm, Your Grace,” Mrs. Plum said over the baby’s cries. “She woke the moment the thunder started. I cannot settle her.”
Outside, the rain was doing everything at once, hitting the windows in gusts, retreating, returning with more conviction. Lightning had flashed twice since Isadora left her room, the kind that lit the whole sky before plunging everything back into darkness.
August had turned sharp overnight, and the nursery was not warm enough for what Violet was feeling, which was not cold but frightened.
Isadora crossed to the cradle. “Here.”
She lifted the baby before Mrs. Plum could object, and Violet’s cries hitched immediately, suspended for a second.
“I know,” she soothed. “I know. It’s very loud.”
Violet wailed, stretching her arms.
“It will not last,” Isadora murmured. “Storms always stop.”
“Isadora.”
She turned to find James standing in the doorway.
He had clearly come straight from bed. His dark hair was disheveled, his feet bare on the floor, and he was wearing his shirt loose and open at the collar, the sleeves not properly fastened.
He had his coat over one arm, apparently grabbed as an afterthought against the cold, and was holding it to his chest.
His eyes roved down her body, and she remembered she was in her nightgown. It was modest—made of cotton, high-necked, the shawl thrown over it—but it was a nightgown nonetheless. She felt a tickle at her neck and remembered that her hair was also down, falling past her shoulders.
“She woke me,” James said by way of explanation.
“She woke us all,” Mrs. Plum called from the window.
“Is she alright?”
“The storm,” Isadora said. “She’s frightened.”
James nodded.
He came into the room, and Mrs. Plum bowed her head and stepped out.
Isadora found herself standing in the center with Violet in her arms and James at a closer proximity than the hour and her state of dress warranted.
She looked down at Violet.
The baby had settled somewhat, her distressed cries fading into small hiccups..
“Hello,” James murmured.
Violet babbled.
“I know,” he said. “It’s very loud.”
“I told her that already,” Isadora drawled.
“Did it help?”
“Not much.”
Lightning flashed again, and the room briefly went white.
Violet flinched and grabbed Isadora’s nightgown by the collar with both fists, which was efficient and also meant that Isadora was now tethered to a frightened baby and could not easily move.
“Here.” James stepped closer and put one hand lightly on Violet’s back. Not to take her, simply to add warmth. “It’s all right,” he murmured, and the baby’s breathing slowed. “It’s just the weather.”
Violet turned her head toward his voice, still gripping Isadora’s collar.
The three of them stood there in the warm nursery while the rain pelted the windows and the thunder slowly moved east, James’s hand on Violet’s back and Isadora’s arms around her and the distance between them approximately nonexistent.
Isadora was acutely aware of his warmth, with his sleeve brushing against her arm.
She looked down at Violet again. The baby was calmer, her dark lashes beginning to lower with the gradual surrender of exhaustion.
Do not look at him.
She looked at him.
He was looking at Violet, his expression unguarded. His jaw was unshaven, the shadow of it visible in the low lamplight, and his collar was still undone.
There was something about the whole picture that was so different from every version of James she had encountered before that she found she had no defense against it.
His eyes moved away from Violet and found hers. She did not look away quickly enough.
His eyes traced every inch of her face and the fall of her hair, and something shifted in his expression. It was not teasing.
Then his eyes flicked to her lips. She felt it even though it lasted barely a second. He opened his mouth, but she was not certain what he intended to say.
Violet chose that moment to whimper, and both of them looked at her immediately.
“She needs rocking,” Isadora said.
“Yes,” James agreed, his voice slightly lower.
She moved to the chair, sat down, and began rocking. Violet’s grip on her collar loosened gradually.
The storm continued raging outside, and James stood in the center of the nursery for a moment before seemingly deciding that there was nothing further for him to do there.
“Is she—” He cleared his throat. “Will you be all right?”
“We’ll be fine,” Isadora assured him. “Go to bed.”
He stood there another moment longer.
“James,” she said. “Go to bed.”
“Right.” He did not immediately move.
Mrs. Plum appeared in the doorway with a blanket, went to drape it over Isadora’s lap, and left the room without comment.
James finally moved toward the door.
“James,” Isadora called softly.
He turned.
She looked down at Violet, who had dropped one small fist from her collar. “Thank you for coming,” she said.
He nodded once. “Good night, Isadora.”
With that, he left.
Isadora sat in the chair with the baby and the storm and the warm lamp and rocked.
She thought about the direction his eyes had moved for one unguarded second.
She thought about the warmth of his sleeve against her arm.
A small smile curved her lips.
* * *
“You cannot be serious.”
“I am entirely serious.”
“James.” Isadora looked at him across the breakfast table, the jar of milk she was holding tilted dangerously. “A fair.”
“The village fair,” he emphasized. “It’s an annual event. Henderson tells me my cousin attended every year without fail, which means the estate has a relationship with it, which means—”
“You want to go to the fair.”
“I want to uphold an important tradition.”
“You do know that going to fairs means having fun.”
“I am not averse to having fun. I know how to have fun,” he stated, waving his bread knife at her. “Besides, Violet would enjoy it.”
“Violet is too small to even enjoy it.”
“She enjoys things. She enjoys finding sticks.”
“She enjoys sticks in general. That is a low standard for a public event.”
“There will be more sticks at the fair,” James said. “And other things. Colors and sounds and movement, all of which she responds well to.” He reached for the butter. “Also, I believe there is a pieman whom the tenants describe as extraordinary.”
“You want to go for the pies.”
“I want to go for several reasons, pies being one of them.” He glanced up. “Come with me.”
She looked at him, at the ease of his demeanor, at the complete absence of any sense that he might be refused.
“All right,” she acquiesced.
He smiled.
Don’t. Don’t look at it.
She looked at her tea.
The fair was held on the village green, which was larger than its name suggested and considerably more packed than the August morning warranted.
Stalls ran the length of it, with several ribbons and pies and carved wooden things and a man with a trained bird that Eleanor would have found fascinating and Thomas would have run towards.
Violet was in Mrs. Plum’s arms for the first ten minutes, then in Isadora’s when the crowds thickened, then in James’s when Isadora needed both hands for an unfortunate transaction involving a ribbon stall and a length of blue satin that Letitia would have approved of.
“Blue,” James observed, looking at the purchase.
“For Violet,” she explained.
“Violet already has—”
“It’s for her hair,” she cut in. “When it grows.”
He accepted that without further question, which she appreciated.
The green was uneven, which was the nature of village greens in August, with the grass worn thin in some places and slightly treacherous in others where the rain had done something to the ground underneath.
They had been navigating it reasonably well until James was redirected by the pieman, who was indeed extraordinary, and then by a small boy who had apparently recognized the Duke and found this very exciting and positioned himself directly in James’s path.
James skirted around the boy, his boots finding the soft ground.
Isadora heard the crack and grunt before she saw it.
“James—”
He had caught himself against the nearest stall post, his hand gripping it tight. His weight shifted entirely off his right leg, and his face contorted with the effort to mask his pain.
“I’m fine,” he gritted out.
“You are not fine. You grunted.”
“It was nothing.”
“You’re holding on to that post as though it’s the only thing between you and the ground.” Isadora couldn’t keep the tremor out of her voice.
“I am simply—” He moved his right foot experimentally, and his sharp intake of breath told her everything his words did not. “It’s my ankle.”
“I can see it.” She was already at his side.
Mrs. Plum had materialized on the other side with Violet held safely in her arms.
A small crowd of concerned villagers began to assemble with the sympathetic interest of people who found the situation dramatic and were ready to help.
“Can you walk?” Isadora asked.
“Yes.” James moved his foot again, grunting.
“The carriage,” she ordered. “Now.”
“It’s nothing—”
“James. The carriage, or so help me God, I will throw you over my shoulder.”
He looked at her, and she looked back unflinchingly.
He went to the carriage.
* * *
The physician arrived at Ashbourne by three.
The ankle was badly sprained, not broken. It required rest, elevation, ice brought up from the ice house, and, the physician added with a pointed look.
“I will make sure of it,” Isadora declared firmly.
“I will rest,” James said at the same time.
The physician looked between them.
“I believe one of you,” he said pleasantly, collected his bag, and then left.
“I am perfectly capable of—” James began.
“Resting,” Isadora interrupted. “Yes. That is what you are capable of at present.”
“I have a report to review with Henderson.”
“Henderson will manage by himself. You will stay in bed.” She straightened the blanket at the foot of the bed. “Do you need anything before I go and speak to Mrs. Holt?”
“I need the report on my desk.”
“You do not need the report.”
“Isadora—”
“James.” She pinned him with a look. “I am sure you cancelled today’s plans for the fair.
You are simply looking for reasons to stress yourself.
You are in bed. You have a sprained ankle.
The estate will not crumble overnight.” She picked up the pile of papers he had produced from the bedside table. “I’m taking these.”
“Those are mine.”
“They will be returned when the physician says they can be returned.” She tucked them firmly under her arm. “Sleep.”
He looked at her like he had several other arguments available and was assessing which would be most effective, but she left before he could use any of them.
She came back at eight to check on him and found him asleep.
This was surprising. As far as she had observed, James did not surrender to sleep easily or early. He was usually the last person to retire; his study lit long after everyone else had gone up.
He was lying on his side, one arm thrown loosely across the pillow, his face slack in repose. His shirt was still loose—the valet had not quite finished dressing him after the physician arrived—and open at his throat.
She should leave.
She checked the ice. Replaced it. Checked the fire. Adjusted it. Then she sat in the chair beside the bed for a moment to make sure he was sleeping properly.
The moment stretched.
She had not slept much the night before. She was, she acknowledged privately, tired. The chair was comfortable. The room was warm. James’s breathing was slow and even, and she was simply making sure…
She woke to grey morning light and the realization that she had slept in a chair. Her neck confirmed it.
She straightened, blinking, and found James awake.
* * *
James had been awake for perhaps ten minutes when she stirred.
He had woken in the early light to find her in the chair beside his bed, and he had not moved since. He had lain very still and simply watched her.
Her head was resting against the side of the bed, her arm folded beneath her cheek, her hair loose the way it had been in the nursery two nights ago. She was still in her day dress, her shawl half draped over her shoulder where it had slipped while she slept.
She had stayed even though she had been frightened.
She stirred, and her eyes opened, finding him immediately. He was, after all, in the bed she was sleeping against.
The emotions that crossed her face in the next three seconds were some of the most honest things he had ever seen. Confusion first, then understanding, then shyness. Color rushed to her face as she straightened, pushed her hair back, and pulled the shawl up, reassembling herself with speed.
“You’re awake,” she said.
“I am.”
“How long…”
“A little while.” He did not tell her how long. He suspected she would find it embarrassing, and he found he had no interest in embarrassing her. “How is your neck?”
She paused in the middle of arranging her hair. “My neck is perfectly fine.”
“You slept in a chair; your neck is not perfectly fine.”
She dropped her hands to her lap. “It is adequately fine.”
“You stayed,” he said.
“I was checking the ice.” She shrugged. “I must have—”
“Isadora.”
She stopped.
He looked at her across the bed, at the loose hair and the creased shawl and the color in her cheeks.
“Thank you,” he said simply.
She held his gaze for a moment. Then she looked at the ice pack, which had done its job and was no longer cold, and lifted it.
“I’ll have Reeves bring fresh ice,” she said, standing up. “By the way, the physician is coming at nine. And you will not have the report until he says you may.”
“Isadora—”
“Your ankle needs another day’s rest at least,” she said to the ice pack. “You will stay in bed, and you will rest, and you will not attempt to conduct estate business from a horizontal position.”
“And if I argue?”
She looked up at him. “I will take the report and hide it somewhere in the old library, and you will not find it for weeks because you do not know how the library is organized.” A pause. “I do.”
He sighed. “All right.”
She moved toward the door.
“Isadora.”
She stopped and turned slightly.
“I am glad you stayed,” he said.
Her face flushed further.
She stood in the doorway in the grey morning light, with the ice pack in her hands and the loose hair she hadn’t finished pinning, and looked at him for a long moment.
“The physician at nine,” she reminded him.
Then she left.
He lay back against the pillow and looked at the ceiling, feeling the warmth in his chest that had been there since he opened his eyes and found her in the chair beside him.