Chapter Twenty-six
The promise of sunshine quickly faded, and the weather turned gray and dreary. By late morning a light drizzle was falling, growing steadily heavier as the day wore on.
The weather mirrored Isabella’s mood, for she soon discovered she had neither the strength nor the heart for conversation. She could feel Lord Poole’s eyes upon her, but she chose to ignore him. Yet he continued looking at her with a faintly glowering expression on his face.
Hoping to avoid him entirely, Isabella leaned her head back against the velvet squabs and closed her eyes, listlessly waiting for the residual pain in her chest to ease. It did not.
“We should be arriving at a comfortable posting inn shortly,” Lord Poole said in a brusque tone. “I shall send one of my servants ahead to ensure we have a proper selection of food prepared for our midafternoon meal.”
“Please don’t go to any special trouble on my account, Thomas,” Isabella replied. The swaying of the carriage was making Isabella queasy, and the mention of food merely increased her distress. “The last thing I wish to do is eat.”
Lord Poole edged to the end of his seat and leaned closer. “You are very pale, Isabella. I must insist that you eat a substantial lunch.”
“I cannot.”
“But I insist.”
“Thomas, please.”
“Forgive me for my concern over your lack of appetite, Isabella,” he said with a haughty air of aristocratic arrogance she instantly disliked. “But you must understand my feelings in this matter. You are my responsibility now; therefore I must see to your welfare.”
“I have managed very well for the past twenty-odd years without having someone looking after me,” Isabella snapped. “Let me assure you, the very last thing I require is a nursemaid.”
Lord Poole gave her a hard look. Isabella’s angry words seemed to shimmer in the air between them. She locked her hands together in her lap and stared down at them.
“My only thought is your happiness and well-being,” he insisted in a stilted tone.
Her head shot up at that statement, but the fight soon left her. What was the point? Quarreling with Thomas would only make this difficult journey even harder.
“I am sorry,” Isabella said, struggling to remove all traces of anger from her voice. “I’m an independent woman and unused to this sort of ... of consideration. Above all, I do not wish to become a burden to you, Thomas.”
“You are my joy, dear sister,” he replied softly. Lord Poole sighed and shifted his legs. “However, since you prefer not to have lunch today, we shall continue on our journey and stop when darkness falls.”
Relieved as she was that he had dropped the matter so quickly, Isabella still felt a lingering unease.
It seemed impossible that Thomas felt as casual as he was acting.
His mouth curved up in a smile and the creases around his eyes softened, but the eyes themselves seemed to sharpen.
Isabella shuddered. It reminded her of a cat when he’s spotted a mole in the lawn.
She rubbed her fingertips against her temples. Nothing had seemed real since the moment she left The Grange, and now Thomas’s possessive attitude was almost more than she could bear. The silence and tension within the carriage grew.
“Goodness, look at the rain,” Isabella commented, trying to sound genuinely interested in the weather. Any sort of banal conversation was preferable to the uncomfortable silence. “If it continues to come down this heavily, we will most certainly get bogged down in the mud.”
“The condition of some of these roads is deplorable,” Lord Poole agreed. “But you mustn’t worry about a thing, my dear. I will make certain that you come to no harm.”
Isabella smiled stiffly and turned her face to the rain-soaked carriage window. She was simply too tired and too emotional to cope with these unexplained, uneasy feelings Thomas inspired.
It was still all so new, so strange, accepting the fact that she had a brother who felt it was his duty to take care of her. It was going to take time to make the necessary adjustments. Eventually it would get easier. Wouldn’t it?
Isabella glanced out the carriage window with fleeting interest as the coach pulled into the courtyard of a modest inn.
“I apologize for the humble accommodations,” Lord Poole said when the carriage stopped.
“The inn is small and unfashionable, hardly up to my usual standards, but I will not risk your safety by traveling these roads in complete darkness. I was forced to frequent this establishment on a prior occasion, and I can assure you that although the food and service are rustic, the rooms are clean and the linen free of vermin.”
“It is fine,” Isabella replied wearily. Bedbugs were the last thing she was concerned about. The heart-wrenching grief she had first felt upon leaving The Grange had settled into a quiet lethargy. What she craved most was solitude.
Lord Poole climbed down from the carriage first and waited while the coachman assisted Isabella.
They stood together in silence on the uneven cobbles for several minutes, stretching their cramped legs.
Lord Poole extended his arm, and after a slight hesitation Isabella took hold of it.
She bit her lip when his other hand clamped possessively over her fingers, but said nothing.
Shoulders held firmly back, chin high, Isabella entered the taproom.
One lone customer was slouched in his chair with a brimming glass of ale set before him.
A tired-looking barmaid was scrubbing off a table.
The innkeeper rushed forward to offer assistance.
Isabella could almost feel the man’s nervous anticipation as Lord Poole cast a critical eye about the room.
“We need two rooms for the night,” Lord Poole said. “And a private dining parlor. I trust you can accommodate us?”
“Yes, your lordship,” the innkeeper replied with a low bow. “We always keep our best chambers ready for our finest guests.”
Lord Poole waved a dismissive hand at the innkeeper and turned his full attention to Isabella.
“You must go to your room and refresh yourself before dinner, Isabella,” Lord Poole commanded.
“I regret that our haste to leave this morning has caused you the lack of a personal maid. I would have tried to secure the temporary services of one of the wenches from The Grange if I had believed them capable of performing the job adequately.”
“As I have told you before, I am used to fending for myself,” Isabella replied. It seemed a waste of breath to point out that all of The Grange’s maids were married women and therefore unable to make such a journey even if asked.
The burly innkeeper insisted on escorting Isabella to her chamber personally, and she wearily followed him up the narrow, winding staircase.
He led her to a corner room on the third floor.
The room was of modest proportions, with a large window that overlooked the front of the inn.
There was an ancient-looking chair to one side of the fireplace, and the coverlet on the bed was shabby, though it appeared clean.
Isabella sat on the edge of the lumpy mattress the moment the landlord left, struggling to hold the desperate sense of loss she felt at bay.
It would serve no useful purpose to indulge in these lonely and morose feelings.
Life at The Grange was now a part of her past. She must resign herself to that and turn her attention to the future.
Oh, Damien. A wave of longing rushed over Isabella.
She flopped back on the bed and brushed back the tears that sprang to her eyes.
How foolish to succumb to tears. One lesson Isabella had dutifully learned was that when there was no hope of achieving your heart’s desire, it was madness to long for it.
But her stubborn heart refused to cooperate this time.
The desperate longing did not ease—nay, it had increased.
The love she felt for Damien, the need she possessed to be near him, physically and emotionally, were not easily denied.
Being separated from Damien made everything else in the world look bleak and bare.
Isabella lifted her eyes to the ceiling. The tears slipped freely down her temples and wet her hair. Crying would accomplish nothing, she knew, but it made her feel less helpless to acknowledge the depth of her grief and loss.
When her tears had subsided, Isabella rose from the bed. She picked up the lit candle from the table near the bed and brought it to the washstand. She poured fresh water into the pitcher, then bathed her swollen eyes with the wet cloth.
Returning to the bed, Isabella lay back down and fell into a light sleep.
Soft knocking on her chamber door woke her an hour later.
A chambermaid had been sent to fetch her for dinner.
Politely declining the maid’s shy offer of help, Isabella left to join her brother, her emotions still in a tangle.
Lord Poole smiled brightly when Isabella entered the parlor and inclined his head in a brief greeting. “I took the liberty of ordering dinner for us, Bella. I knew, since you ate no lunch, you would be hungry. I hope I have selected items that will tempt you.”
Isabella glanced at the generous platters of food but could summon up little enthusiasm for the fresh pigeon pie, stewed carrots, roasted mutton, meat pasties, buttered potatoes, wedges of cheese, and basket of fresh bread.
“It looks lovely, Thomas,” Isabella remarked. She sat quietly while Lord Poole filled her dinner plate.
“The wine is tolerable,” Lord Poole decided, taking a generous swallow. “Shall I pour you a glass?”
Isabella’s stomach revolted at the innocent offer. “No, thank you. I prefer water.”
Lord Poole attacked his food with enthusiasm while Isabella nibbled on her carrots. After appeasing his initial hunger, Lord Poole relaxed and poured himself another glass of wine. He leaned back in his chair and eyed Isabella critically.