Chapter 22 #2
“It is a rare occurrence here when that happens. No one expects ruins to be as solid as a house. They are ruins.” All of this over a scraped knee?
There had to be more to his desire to cut off the ruins from the people.
His argument for it was weak. Yes, there had been scrapes, bruises and the occasional broken bone, but it wasn’t the fault of the ruins.
They weren’t built on the edge of a cliff, and no ghost haunted them, as the only people she knew of who died here would have been the residents from hundreds of years ago.
“Still, they are dangerous.” Victor’s voice increased in volume and heads turned their direction.
Isabel tightened her grip on his arm to get him to stop before others could understand his intent. More than the posts and holes indicated at least.
“I should close them,” he continued as they walked back to the blanket.
“You shouldn’t. The village has always enjoyed the ruins, and the trees round about it. It’s quite the gathering place.”
“You can see it is my responsibility.”
“You are not responsible for Danny’s scrape, nor for Dora’s screaming as if he had been murdered.”
“It could’ve been worse.”
“Of course it could have. Nigel broke his arm here once.”
“You give evidence to my point.”
Isabel let out an exasperated sigh. “So you’re going to bar your barn because someone might twist their ankle if they’re not wearing proper shoes? You’re going to close the ruins because my silly brother broke his arm here? Do you intend to close down the roads too?”
“Of course not.”
“Why? Edward was once tossed from a horse and hit his head on the road. He was quite insensible for a time. He claims not, but I claim he was. Were you responsible for that too?”
“I don’t know. Was the road in good repair?”
“I don’t remember. But you were not responsible for the roads ten years ago. Nor are you now. Even then, a skittish horse who tosses a rider is not the responsibility of the one who maintains the road.”
They returned to where their mothers remained sitting. Mamma lifted her head and held her hat at an angle to keep the sun away. “Who was hurt? Those cries sounded dire.”
“The potter’s son, Danny. Just a scrape on the knee. His sister Dora was screaming. I haven’t seen a child so unhinged over a bit of blood.”
“I should have known. That child has the lungs of an opera singer.” Mamma turned to Mrs. Dalrymple. “When she sings, it is very lovely. Last year she sang at the harvest fair with a chorus of other children.”
Isabel sat next to Victor who appeared to be silently fuming. “I’d forgotten about that. We should add singing to the harvest fair.”
“Who would lead them?” asked Mamma. “Miss Cuthbert married last January and moved to Dymock.”
“Perhaps I could. I don’t have much formal training.” Mrs. Dalrymple looked at her hands as though embarrassed. “However, I have time and a love for music.”
Victor didn’t seem to have heard, so Isabel voiced her approval. The three women discussed which songs the children might sing.
“I’ve always liked ‘Heart of Oak,’” said Mrs. Dalrymple.
To Isabel’s and apparently everyone else’s surprise, Lord Barlow began to sing.
“Come cheer up, my lads! ‘tis to glory we steer,
To add something more to this wonderful year;
To honour we call you, as free men not slaves,
For who are so free as the sons of the waves?”
Victor joined in at the chorus.
“Heart of oak are our ships, heart of oak are our men;
We always are ready, steady, boys, steady!
We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again.”
Victor and Lord Barlow’s voices blended in ways Isabel rarely heard outside of an opera at the theater. Certainly the two had sung it before.
They sang the chorus a second time ending with applause from Mamma, Mrs. Dalyrmple, Isabel, and several nearby groups.
Mrs. Dalrymple continued clapping after the others stopped. “That is why I love this song so much.”
“I must agree. I wish you two would perform.” Isabel wouldn’t stoop to begging, but a single ask was worth a try.
Lord Barlow shook his head. “My father would have my head if I shamed him by performing in public.”
Isabel looked around, almost half the villagers sat picnicking as they did around the ruins. “And this was not public?”
“Word is hardly going to get to my father that I was singing in a field on a Sunday afternoon.” Lord Barlow made a face as if he was shocked. “Unless one of you informs him of course.”
Mamma laughed. “You are safe then. I have no more reason to write to the Marquess of Blackridge than I do to the queen.”
The rest of the afternoon continued in a lovely manner, but as they left, Isabel passed the posts lying next to their holes, and her mood soured.
Isabel was upset with him. She tried to hide it as she teased Barlow about his singing. Though fairly sure it was over his plan to fence the ruins, Victor had learned not to assume.
He stood. “Isabel, would you like to take a turn about the grounds with me?”
She raised her hand so he could help her up.
Once they were out of earshot, Victor spoke. “You are upset with me.”
“You promised you would allow the villagers to enjoy the ruins.”
“I did, but there was another accident. I cannot have someone’s death on me.”
“No one has died at the monastery in centuries.” Exasperation laced her voice.
Victor slowed his steps. “But they could.”
Isabel shook her head and pressed on, quickening her pace. When she was several paces ahead she spun to look at him. “How did your father die?”
Never had a question startled him more. “Why?”
“There were vague hints dropped about something untoward during the season we were both in Town. If we are to court, I need to know the truth of it.”
“He died in a fire. Or, more correctly, because of a fire.”
Isabel inclined her head and waited for Victor to continue.
“He was returning to our townhouse in London from his club one evening. A street was blocked, so the hackney took another route that led them down a quieter street. According to the driver, they came to a building that was on fire, and he had to stop because that street was also blocked. My father jumped from the vehicle and ran into the building. There were people inside screaming. My father ran into the building three or four times—the accounts vary—each time returning with more people. And this is important to the rumor, they were all women. The last time he came out, he collapsed on the cobblestones. He coughed several times and struggled to breathe. He died on the spot.”
“Oh!” Isabel covered her mouth with both hands.
“This is where the rumor starts. The building was a house of accommodation.”
“A what?”
Victor lowered his voice. “A place where women of ill-repute work.”
Isabel blushed as red as he must be, judging by the burning in his cheeks.
“There was an inquiry. Everyone he rescued, and the woman in charge, testified that they had never seen my father inside the walls of the building before. However, the newspapers and others took great pleasure in reporting the rescue in as scandalous a way as possible.”
“Your father died saving people, and the paper turned it into something salacious?”
“Precisely.”
“I am so sorry. That must have been terrible to bear for you and your family.” Isabel stepped closer and took his hand.
“My schoolmates were ruthless. Only Barlow stood by me.”
“That explains your unusual friendship.”
“He has always defended me.”
They walked on for some time. “Is your father the reason you have the desire to protect others from injury?”
Victor looked at the ruins. He had never thought there was a connection before. “I have never thought about it. Possibly.”
They neared the place where they had left their mothers with Barlow.
“Thank you for explaining. I may not like the fence, but I understand better, and I will not fight you on the matter.” Isabel squeezed his arm.
“Did we fight?”
“No, we discovered more about each other.”
The warm smile Isabel gave him was enough to fuel his dreams for several days.