Chapter Twenty #2
Again, Isabella baulked at tracking dirt along the pretty furnishings in Mirrie’s chamber, which was hung with silks and finely-stitched tapestries.
She held her muddied skirts in one hand and perched on the edge of the couch.
Mirrie was wearing a simple tunic in pale blue, knotted at the waist with cream-colored cord.
Her long hair was neatly plaited, and her cheeks, though pale, had a tinge of pink about them.
“I am sorry to disturb your rest.”
Much as she had with Esme, Isabella felt that all of the usual ways of the world had been turned on their head. Usually, she was the one in control; the one to marry an earl and command a great house. Now, she looked at Mirrie and saw wisdom and experience in her tired eyes.
Mirrie indicated the day bed and, belatedly, Isabella saw the sleeping figure of her nephew.
“I did not realize.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, then pressed her lips together at her clumsiness. “Esme said the fever had broken.”
“Aye. He is getting stronger every day.”
Mirrie crossed the room and gazed down at her son, who was a miniature double of his golden-haired father.
From her position on the couch, Isabella could see the upward sweep of thick blond eyelashes.
She did not want to move closer, for fear that she would disturb his rest. Having never had children, Isabella was not comfortable around them.
“I should not have come.” Isabella made to get up, but Mirrie hastened to stop her.
“Please don’t leave just yet. ’Tis lovely to see you. And I have been low on company these last days, looking after Lucan.” With a last look at the boy, she came to sit on a chair pulled close to the fire. “Tell me what has been happening downstairs.”
Isabella knew a pang of guilt. She had come here for Mirrie’s help, not to chatter.
But it was Mirrie who looked embarrassed. “Forgive me, Isabella. Tristan has told me some of your tale. I should not have pressed you for more. I am not quite myself, you see.” She wrung her hands. “The world outside this chamber has become small and unimportant by the side of Lucan’s health.”
“As it should be.” Isabella leaned over and clasped Mirrie’s hands in a sisterly gesture, albeit one she had not made often. “Naught is more important than your boy.”
Mirrie smiled and squeezed her hand. “But Tris has told me that your future husband, Lord Gaunt, is a difficult man.”
“That is most restrained of Tristan. I would say that Lord Gaunt is a despicable man.”
Mirrie leaned forward. “Then you cannot marry him.”
“Nay, Mirrie, you would not say that if you knew what consequences an innocent maid would suffer if I refuse the match.” Isabella shook her head.
“I signed the betrothal contract myself and now I must make good on my promise. That is not why I am here.” She sat straighter.
“I have come to ask if I may borrow some of Tristan’s clothes. ”
“Oh.” Mirrie thought for a moment. “For the highlander?”
“You are very well acquainted with recent events.” Isabella raised her eyebrows.
“Tris is free with his tongue of an evening, especially when he has imbibed strong wine.” Mirrie glanced at Isabella then quickly swung her gaze to the fireplace.
“What is it?”
Mirrie grimaced. “I most certainly should not say.”
“Mirrie, I am tired and I am dirty. Perchance on the morrow I will be married to a man I cannot ever hope to respect. If you have something to say to me, please God say it now.”
She gave a little laugh. “I am not accustomed to you being so direct, Bella.”
“Nay, ’tis a habit I have recently acquired.” Isabella stretched out her long legs, noticing that bits of leaves clung to her skirts, amidst the mud.
“Tristan believes you to be in love with the highlander.” Mirrie’s cheeks flushed at her daring. “I cannot believe I have said this to you.” She put a hand to her mouth and shook her head regretfully.
“Tristan said that? Tristan noticed?” Isabella was more amazed than embarrassed.
“He sees more than he pretends to see.”
“Aye, well, perchance in this case he is correct.” Isabella saw no sense in prevaricating.
“But it matters not. I am to marry Lord Gaunt. I only wish for my highlander, Hamish, to dine with us this night in the great hall, where he rightfully belongs. He cannot do so in clothes that are torn and matted with blood.”
Mirrie gave her a long look before going over to the closet and fetching out a freshly laundered shirt, clean breeches and a plainly stitched jacket. “They are of a similar size, I imagine?”
Isabella nodded and held out her hands for the clothes. “Thank you, Mirrie.”
“You are most welcome.” Mirrie caught her eye. “If I might say one more thing?”
“Of course.” Isabella smiled whilst she braced herself for the blow. How could the future Countess of Wolvesley countenance a dalliance between her sister-in-law and a rebel Scot?
“Do not give up hope.” Mirrie clasped her hands behind her back. “There were times when I doubted Tristan and I would e’er be together. Times when it seemed vast oceans stood between us. But somehow, we found our way and I have learned that love is worth fighting for.”
Moved by her kindness, Isabella gave Mirrie a kiss on the cheek, but as she took her leave and returned to her chamber, she reflected that Mirrie didn’t have any idea what she was talking about.
Whatever challenges Mirrie and Tristan had faced, they most certainly did not involve dungeons and death, nor the ruination of an innocent girl.
Isabella had no hope of a future with Hamish. And there was naught to be gained by pretending otherwise.