CHAPTER FIVE #3
Isabel brought her knees up to her chest, hugging them.
Either the day was growing colder, or she was catching a chill.
Or perhaps it wasn't either; perhaps her blood was cold by nature.
"I think your brother and mine would have a great deal to talk about.
He had no cause to thank me for my meddling.
" And if he'd listened to her, he would have been worse off than he was now.
"Now, that I don't believe," Constance said, her voice unexpectedly firm.
Isabel glanced up and found herself pinned with a stern look.
"From what you've said of him, he's done well for himself.
I think you can credit yourself for at least some of that.
And who can say what would have become of him otherwise? "
Isabel rested her chin on her knees. "That's as may be," she said slowly.
"Our parents –" She had not intended on sharing this part of her story, but she found it spilling over anyway.
"They died when I was fourteen, and Matthew only nine.
So I had to look after him. I – took a firm hand.
Firmer than I ought to have, perhaps. I certainly had no notion of what I was doing.
It was my choice to come to Linden, since there was no home or work for us on the green.
I found an apprenticeship for him – well, we were lucky.
We chanced across a kind man who had need of an apprentice, and matters proceeded from there.
But as to what happened after –" She shook her head.
"He has no need of me now. He can manage his own affairs, and everything he has now, he worked for. I had no part in it."
"'No part in it,'" Constance repeated. "When the success he has sprung from you bringing him to town and finding a place and a profession for him? I would say you had the greater part."
Isabel had little to say to that. It sounded true, and maybe it was – and yet .
. . "He's married now, as I said," she said, "to a good woman.
One he chose for himself. I was – against it.
I thought he ought to aim higher. But he defied me, and now he is content.
And I . . ." She clenched one fist and then released it, watching the way her fingers flexed.
"I chose my own marriage, and was not nearly so lucky. It does not recommend my judgement."
"Mmm," Constance said. "Well, you're hardly the first to regret your choice of husband, and I daresay you won't be the last." She paused. "How old were you, when the two of you were wed?"
"Sixteen." Isabel blinked back tears, feeling the old, familiar spring of shame well up in her gut.
What use was weeping, when discussing events that were nearly fifteen years in the past?
"I thought it best to find a wealthy husband – Matthew was settled in his apprenticeship by then, but I always looked towards future disaster.
And so I found my way into a merchant's household, and charmed and flattered and – seduced –" She fairly spat the word out.
"So he married me. I do believe he was more disappointed than I was in our union – he had hoped for a cheerful bride, and I was cold.
I ought to have known better than to make the attempt, but . . ."
She cringed to think of it now: how she had carefully observed the way the daughters of the merchant class carried themselves with their suitors, then endeavoured to copy the ways they tossed their heads and giggled.
How she'd put a sway in her step and lowered her lashes whenever Geoffrey glanced at her, hoping that he would see in her something worth purchasing.
He had, at first; but when he'd wed her and brought her to bed, she'd frozen in fear, and he'd realized too late how she'd swindled him.
She couldn't blame him for his anger afterwards, not really: it was her own fault for promising what she could not deliver, however little she'd realized it at the time.
"I don't believe that either," Constance said, and Isabel felt a cold stab of horror as she realized she'd been speaking her thoughts aloud.
"Why should you bear his disappointment?
A man who weds a girl of sixteen cannot expect her to be of good cheer, especially if his age exceeds her own. " She paused. "How old was he?"
"Fourty-three, when we were wed." Isabel rubbed her cheek against her knee.
"His first wife had died some years past, and he – I suppose he was lonely.
Certainly, he needed someone to keep house for him.
And I did do that well. I can manage accounts, and direct servants, and – well, you know I can embroider.
" She offered a humourless smile. "I can be of good service, in some ways.
But I am – was – a poor excuse for a wife.
" Or a sister, or a friend. She remembered little of her childhood, but perhaps she'd been a disappointment as a daughter as well; it certainly wouldn't surprise her.
Her only hope now was to rise above her personal deficiencies and be a good mother to Walter.
She felt Constance's hand cover her own, squeezing hard.
She had leaned in close to do it, close enough that their shoulders brushed; when Isabel inhaled, she could detect the faint scent of rosemary.
Most likely, Constance kept sachets of it folded amongst her clothes.
The scent suited her, woody and spicy. How strange, that she hadn't noticed it before.
"I've said already I don't believe that," Constance said.
Isabel blinked at the fierceness in her voice.
"And I'll go on saying it until you believe it.
How could you be a disappointment as a wife?
You are lovely and accomplished and kind – you're everything a man may want.
If your husband found you lacking, the deficiency was in him for not recognizing the treasure he had. "
Isabel felt her throat swell, and blinked hard until the burning sensation in her eyes receded.
She could not look at Constance; she would lose her composure entirely if she did.
"It's kind of you to say," she managed, once she felt sure that her voice would not falter.
"He was what he was; and besides, he is gone and buried now.
And he did elevate me far beyond my station when we were wed – and he gave me Walter. I owe him thanks for that, at least."
Constance said nothing, nor did she remove her hand.
Isabel found she was glad of it. The solid weight of Constance's grip anchored her, letting her stay still and quiet as the poison of her memories leached slowly out.
It was, as she'd said, all over and done with now, and no use dwelling any further.
She could not even have said why she'd spoken of that time at all, when she kept her memories so tightly locked in the chambers of her heart.
Constance had a way of coaxing them out without even making any obvious attempt.
It was undoubtedly a useful skill for her, but it made her dangerous for Isabel to pass too much time in conversation with.
What other confessions would she let slip, if she wasn't being careful?
"We had better take up our needles," she said abruptly, reaching for the basket and extracting the sleeve that still lacked a band of embroidery.
"If we wish to have this finished by the afternoon, we can't afford to pass time in idleness.
" She found the thread she wanted, threaded the needle, and bent her head to her work, avoiding Constance's gaze.
She thought Constance might say something, and perhaps she was thinking of it – she sat there, still, for what seemed like a long while – but at length she removed her hand from Isabel's, reaching into the basket to retrieve her own work, and set to the task in silence.
They lingered there for the remainder of the afternoon; when Isabel glanced up and said, "it's near suppertime, we had better go," Constance acceded with a nod, standing and brushing off her skirts before she offered a hand to help Isabel up.
Isabel took it. Her grip was as strong and solid as ever, and she found, once she was on her feet, that she did not want to let go.
But she was in the habit of doing things she did not want to do, and so she released Constance's hand and walked ahead without looking back.