Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
Flowers, a bundle of quality drawing paper, and now a book of poetry.
Isabel was living in a romance novel. Last evening, Victor and his mother dined with her and Mamma again.
Already Mrs. Dalrymple had found songs for the children to sing, several with small solos that she intended to use for as many of the children as wished to show their talents.
Although Mrs. Dalrymple continued to wear colors too bright and too brash for the occasion, they didn’t bother Isabel anymore.
Victor’s mother had a wicked sense of humor that took its venom out on Sir Lightwood, after her son filled her in on the odious man’s blackmail scheme.
The way Mrs. Dalrymple had called him “that nasty little cod’s head” over tea had made Isabel laugh until her sides hurt.
Isabel sniffed the flowers again, the fragrance brightening her day. As did Victor’s note promising a ride if the weather held out to the afternoon. He was keen to check the apple harvest. Though the poor growing season meant the harvest would be slim, an early frost promised good flavor.
Mamma entered the library. “I have a letter from David.”
“Did he approve of my courtship?” For the first time, she worried he might not.
“This was written on Friday, so he would not have known.” Mamma sat on the settee.
Isabel joined her mother to read the letter together.
“I will let you read it in its entirety when I am finished. There was a section I wish to discuss with you, given your concerns during our conversation of the other day. Start here.” Mamma pointed to the paper.
After only four days, Susanna is much recovered.
On the doctor’s advice, I did not give her any laudanum during our journey so as not to make her ill.
By the time we reached Southampton, her appetite returned, and her appearance was much improved.
After only two days here, I question the physician’s use of the drug, as without it I find her temper much improved.
The sea air agrees with my wife. She has taken many long walks with her mother and tonight sang Oliver to sleep as I sat nearby.
I remain vigilant, but I have hope that a corner has been turned for her health.
She cries easily, but now from remorse. She begs me to send her apologies if I write, which I do now, though I do not believe they are owed.
I have hope for the first time in weeks that my dear wife will once again be my dear wife.
“Do you think Susanna is well then?” So soon, so easily? Isabel wished to celebrate as her brother did, yet the cure, if it was, seemed too simple.
Mamma pinched her lips. “I believe she is getting better. Long walks by the sea can have that effect on many people. I also believe her mother may have words of comfort and advice that I do not have.”
“Why did you want me to read this?”
“Two reasons. I want you to see the love David has for Susanna. The sleepless nights and worry he spent because he wants her to be whole. Second, I want you to know that although life can be unpredictable, there are solutions, and hope is part of that.”
“You are trying to tell me not to be afraid of motherhood?”
“Likely, you will never suffer such melancholy as you have witnessed. I certainly have never known anyone else to experience such extremes. Although, as I said, feeling some sadness seems common enough. If you do not feel quite yourself, I want you to tell me or some other woman you trust at the first signs of too much sadness. I cannot help but think if Susanna had told us how unhappy she was, it might not have become so scary for all of us.”
“I promise. In return, will you tell me if I am behaving oddly? I think we were all too scared to say something when Susanna first was not quite herself.”
“I am afraid I missed her sadness dealing with my own grief as I was.” Mamma sighed. She was not to blame. They all operated under a cloud of grief for weeks after Pappa’s death. Isabel couldn’t paint or, more accurately, had no desire to even move from her bed.
“Do you miss Pappa very much?”
“Every day. However, I have children who love and need me. And if I am very fortunate, I will have a wedding to look forward to in the near future.” Mamma smiled as if sharing a secret.
Heat rushed to Isabel’s cheeks. “Mamma!”
“Am I wrong? Is there not a wedding in your future?”
“I am still not sure. I enjoy the time I spend with him. Even when we are trying to figure out prizes for the archery competition.” The simple task had taken far too long as they debated adding second and third place prizes to allow them to help more people.
The biggest problem was Edward. If he attended the fair, everyone would expect him to enter and win.
“What makes you unsure?”
“The books I have read and many of my friends have spoken of feelings I have not experienced with Victor. I have yet to feel overwhelming passion, or being breathless, or desperate passion,” Isabel whispered the last words feeling the scandal of them.
“What do you feel most around him?”
“It is silly.” Isabel scrunched her face. How could she explain something so ordinary when it should be extraordinary? “I feel like I am sitting in front of a fire wrapped in a quilt on a cold winter day. Warm and comfortable.”
Mamma smiled. “That sounds lovely.”
“But I am not ecstatic. Shouldn’t love burn like in the books?”
“Love is not always ecstatic, or rapturous. That would be exhausting.” Mamma’s eyes glistened as they did whenever she spoke of Pappa.
“So I am feeling love?”
“I cannot say. However, your description of sitting by the fire is one I think many women would envy.”
“Will I ever get to feel ecstatic?”
“If my guess is correct, you have yet to kiss, which should not be rushed. In my experience, while not all kisses cause feelings like those you speak, some do.” Mamma shook her head. “I am not explaining well, but I have reason to believe you very well may feel what you are looking for in time.”
If Mamma hoped to ease Isabel’s mind, the opposite occurred.
How was love supposed to feel? Was the warmth she felt with Victor enough?
Or was she settling for comfort when she should wait for passion?
George’s love for Johnathan had started as respect and friendship before deepening.
Perhaps there were many kinds of love, and hers was simply quieter than others.
Perhaps that was enough. Perhaps it was even better.
Isabel touched her hairline where Victor’s lips had pressed that day in the pavilion. The memory still made her breath catch. If that gentle kiss had affected her so deeply, what would a real kiss do? She longed to know.