Chapter Five #3
“I am, a little,” she says after a moment.
“But I suppose one gets used to it.” Her voice wavers, belying the sentiment.
She thinks of George, of how she used to pass the months waiting for him.
She was on her own then, too, although there were the servants, of course.
But it was different, because she knew he’d be coming back. Until he didn’t.
The tears rise in her so suddenly she makes a choking noise in her attempt to hold them back.
She tries to turn it into a cough, but it’s useless: Harriet has seen her distress and reaches for her hand, patting it lightly.
With effort, she manages a smile. “It’s not that bad, truly.
And…” She hesitates, unsure if she could make Harriet understand.
“And what, Isabel?”
“This may sound strange, but there’s something appealing in being on one’s own.
I’ve never really had the chance to do things for myself or make my own decisions.
It was always Father or George who decided for me, and after I lost George, the house was always bustling with people, friends, servants, and so on.
It’s quiet here. I feel I’m able to think more easily.
And while I still have much to learn and sometimes barely manage, I do feel as if for the first time I’m… well, truly independent.”
“Oh.” Harriet breathes the word like a sigh, her mouth round with it.
Isabel looks down at her cup. “That must sound awfully strange to you.”
“Oh, but it doesn’t. On the contrary.” Harriet colors; she brings up her hand, pushing unseen hairs from her face.
“I think it sounds heavenly, my dear Isabel. To be in control of one’s decisions, why, it must be so very freeing.
I only wish…oh!” She clasps her hand to her mouth.
“Oh no, I did not mean for it to sound as though—I love Sir Hugh dearly and I could never…”
“Of course.” She places her hand on Harriet’s kidskin-clad wrist. “I do understand you. Marriage, even under the best of circumstances, can make one feel hemmed in, can it not?”
She had never put it in those words before, not even in her own mind, but now that she says it, she feels it’s true.
There’s value in her new independence, she sees suddenly—she’s poor, yes, but she’s free.
She hadn’t considered remarrying the past three years, despite two offers by well-respected, if slightly older gentlemen, because the pain of losing George was still too raw.
Her stepmother urged her to accept the second offer, but she didn’t see how she could be another man’s wife if the motions of everyday life still cut inside her.
Of course, at the time, she still believed the prize money forthcoming; she did not realize what George’s debts meant.
Now she thinks there may be another reason not to remarry, if she were given the chance. Maybe her independence is too valuable a dowry to pay.
Sounding relieved, Harriet says, “Yes, that’s what I meant.
‘Hemmed in’ is a good way to describe it.
Not like a gilded cage, nothing so dire as that, but perhaps a garden, free to grow and flower as it will as long as it stays within its walls and hedges.
I suppose you have moved beyond your hedges, Isabel.
Mine are rather prickly, I’m afraid. Sir Hugh can be very exacting. Which is why I should probably…”
She lifts the small gold watch dangling from her waist and gasps.
“Is that the time? Oh, but I’m afraid I must dash.
I’ve overstayed—it’s been an hour and ten already—I must go at once.
” She jumps up, the alarm wild in her, pushing her features into a shocked frown.
“I do apologize, Isabel. I’ve spent such a marvelous while with you in your lovely garden I lost track of the time.
Sir Hugh detests it when I’m late. He dines early, as they do in the service—well, you being an officer’s wife, you understand, I’m sure. ”
Isabel rises and Harriet embraces her as if they’re sisters.
She smells of sunshine and roses—some perfume, Isabel thinks.
Harriet says, “I do hope I shall see you again soon, Isabel. Please call on me at Weatherston anytime. Oh! I almost forgot the purpose of my visit, besides making your acquaintance. I do hope you haven’t found me presumptuous coming like this.
I couldn’t think who to ask to make the introduction besides Lieutenant Sowerby, who has been rather busy as of late.
Besides, I understand he has not been formally introduced to you himself. ”
“He came to warn me about smugglers,” Isabel says, willing any trace of disgust from her voice. “So I believe the lack of a formal introduction may be forgiven.”
“Yes, yes, most certainly. And he is a man of unblemished character, I can assure you.”
“Isn’t he—don’t you find him—a little ruthless?”
“Ruthless?” Harriet’s eyes widen. “My dear Isabel, it’s the smugglers who are ruthless!”
“He hanged a man the other day,” she says, unwilling to let it go.
“So I heard. A hardened criminal from the sound of it. I’m grateful Lieutenant Sowerby is so zealous in his pursuit; Cornwall shall be safer for it. Do you know he’s from London, too? Born and bred, I believe.”
“Is he?” Her heart thumps. If Lieutenant Sowerby learned the rumors about her and James—it doesn’t bear thinking about.
“Well, I must dash. Dear Isabel, I shall see you soon, I hope.” Harriet darts up the path, around the house.
Isabel hurries after her. “Harriet. The purpose of your visit, you said?”
“Oh, yes, of course. Sir Hugh and I are having a small dinner party Tuesday next week. Just a few of our friends in the area. Lieutenant Sowerby will be there, as well as another officer, Lieutenant Sullivan. Then there’s Mr. and Mrs. William Tredinnick, who own several mines, including the largest copper one—I forget what it’s called—and Mr. John Carlyon, owner of an estate at Roskorwell, and lastly, Mr. Frederick Pickford of Pickford House.
And you, I hope, dear Isabel. As you see there will only be one other lady in attendance and she’s past fifty. Do say you’ll come.”
Isabel’s stomach clenches at the thought of seeing Lieutenant Sowerby again.
But then she thinks of the blue muslin gown she wore to the ball at Blakemore where she first met George and that she didn’t expect to ever wear again.
Besides this, the thought of the food alone is enough—she can almost taste the meats, the cheeses, the puddings they’ll serve.
She’d like to see Harriet again, too. And the other guests may prove decent company.
Surely they won’t all be like Lieutenant Sowerby?
She glances at the cottage again. It couldn’t be more unlike anything the other guests will have for a house, but she has only just come down from Greenwich, which, as Harriet says, is nearly London.
This carried enough weight, apparently, for Harriet to disregard her reduced circumstances in favor of making her acquaintance.
Most of the guests at the dinner won’t know of the way she’s forced to live now—not unless Lieutenant Sowerby or Harriet tells them.
“I’d love to come,” she says. “Thank you.”
“It won’t be anything grand, mind you,” says Harriet, getting into the saddle.
Isabel bites back a laugh, thinking, It’ll be grander than a supper of fish and carrot soup. Smiling, she says, “It sounds like just the thing.”
She gives Harriet a wave and turns to close the door of the shed, the question of the storing of contraband back in her mind.
As much as ten pounds on a good run, Jack said.
It’d be wrong, but with ten pounds she could buy another gown like the blue muslin.
Or, more practically, she could buy better sheets, a new mattress, an armchair.
She could buy all manner of things that would make life in the cottage more comfortable.
And then, suddenly, she cannot do it any longer.
All through the past week, she has occupied her mind with practical things, filling her days with necessary but oftentimes mindless tasks, all to keep Jack out of her head.
But now he’s in it again and he’s taking up all of the space and she misses him the way you shouldn’t miss someone you’ve only known for two days—someone you will likely not see again.
She misses the way they talked and the sound of his laughter and how he made her not think about George so much.
Storing contraband in the shed was never about getting ten pounds with which to buy gowns or sheets.
She retrieves her change purse from the kitchen—she may pick up some fresh fish on the way home, mackerel or maybe pollack if there is any.
Along the way people greet her. They’re people she knows from introductions made by Mrs. Dowling, who knows the entire village, and some only from moments like this, when she walks up the road and sees the same faces day after day.
So what if half of them—maybe all of them—believe she is the Sea Bucca’s daughter.
They’re friendly; they’ve taken her in. She isn’t sure it will be the same at Weatherston Hall.
Although, if Harriet’s enthusiasm is anything to go by, she’ll be fine.
When she reaches the Shipwrights Arms, she spots two women on the doorstep of one of the cottages.
One watched her arrive in Helford, the other is younger and wears a shawl that’s similar to her companion’s, but in bright green and blue instead of black.
The women watch her approach the inn and she feels the weight of their stares as she did before.
They can’t know about Greenwich. Do they, like Mrs. Dowling, believe in the Sea Bucca story?
She turns back to the women and lifts her hand in greeting. A moment, the length of a swing from the inn’s sign, then both women wave back. The older one smiles a dark gap of a smile.