CHAPTER SIX
"You're certain you're all right?" Constance asked for the third time.
She was standing – or rather, leaning – in the doorway to Peter's room, watching as he stared out the window and picked at the counterpane.
Pain had kept him up for most of the previous night, tossing and turning and groaning; he'd only finally fallen asleep as the sun rose, and Constance doubted he'd slept for more than two hours.
She and Jack had taken turns sitting up with him, and consequently she could feel sleep dragging at her eyelids even now.
But she couldn't afford a nap – Isabel had promised to arrive midmorning, which meant she'd be there at any moment.
Constance just wished she felt more secure in leaving Peter by himself.
"Fine," he said tonelessly. "It's manageable, now. I just want to sleep."
Manageable did not mean gone. Constance bit her lip. "I could call Jack back –"
"And have him lose a day's wages?" Peter turned to look at her, his eyes shadowed with purple bruises. "Leave me be, I say. Go and see to the shop." His mouth gave a bitter twist. "If need be, I can always ring the bell."
Constance sighed, but she knew he was right. As if to punctuate his urging, she heard the scrape of the door opening downstairs, followed by the almost imperceptible sound of Isabel – it had to be her, only she walked so quietly – treading into the main room. "If you're certain."
Peter waved at her, a dismissal by any standards. Constance knew when she'd been beaten, by Peter or by circumstance. She pulled back, closing the door softly behind her, and leaned her head against the wall for a moment to gather herself before she went downstairs.
Isabel was – as she'd expected – standing in the main room, a richly embroidered piece of cloth draped over her arm. She blinked as Constance descended the stairs. "Have I come at a poor time? I could return later, if it's preferable."
In spite of herself, Constance smiled. What a pair they were. "You're precisely on time," she said. "I was the one who lost track. May I see that?"
Isabel passed the cloth – panels for the skirt of Leah's wedding dress – over, and Constance tried and failed to keep her mouth from dropping open.
She'd run a border of oak leaves around the hem, and a larger, matching one around what would become the waist. It would look as if vines had twined themselves around the wearer, if not for the fact that the embroidery was all done in a delicate gold thread with little knots of red and blue winking amongst the pattern.
In the sun, it would glitter like real gold: Leah would appear as if she wore a belt of jewels.
"The hem is crooked there, I know," Isabel said, misinterpreting Constance's look entirely. "I thought to pick it out and start over, but the marks from the needle would still be left on the cloth. I could add a flourish to disguise it, if it's too obvious –"
"I would not call it obvious," said Constance, who had not spotted any irregularities in the hem, and still could not discern one even as Isabel pointed to the spot in question.
"And I doubt Leah would either. I'm –" She struggled for a moment over what to say.
"It's beautiful. I've no notion how you managed to make it so – intricate. "
She was rewarded with a slight twitch at the corner of Isabel's mouth, the shadow of a smile. "Many years of practice, I suppose."
"I was afraid you'd say that. Here." She fanned the cloth out and let it settle on the sewing table so that the whole thing was visible at once. "Take a spot on the bench. Now we have the godets embroidered for the skirt, I can sew them to the bodice and the main panels. What's left?"
"For this one? The sleeve cuffs." Isabel settled herself on the bench, and Constance slid in beside her.
"And the lacing – I've not finished the holes yet, though I suppose I can't, really, while you're stitching the skirt up.
" She paused. "I suppose I could start on the second dress, while you finish this one.
But she didn't want that one so decorated, did she? "
"Not as much as the wedding dress, no." While Isabel spoke, Constance had taken out her needle and thread and was attempting – without much success – to thread the needle.
She could blame her failure on exhaustion making her clumsy, but the truth was, she'd never had much aptitude for the task.
After her third try, which ended with the thread going wide of the needle by several inches, she hissed through her teeth and tossed the offending implement down on the table.
"Here, let me." Isabel at least had the good grace to keep the amusement in her voice to a minimum as she took up the thread and needle, managing the task in one smooth attempt before handing the needle back to Constance.
Constance took it with a mumbled thanks, acutely aware that her ears were burning.
"You seem tired," Isabel said, then seemed to catch herself. "Forgive me. I don't mean to –"
"Nothing to forgive," Constance said. She'd realized too late that the thread still needed to be knotted; fortunately, Isabel appeared to come to the same realization and took it from her to do so herself. "Peter wasn't well last night, so I sat up with him. Didn't sleep more than a few hours."
"Not well?" Instead of handing the needle back to Constance, Isabel took the cloth from her and began to sew. Constance let her. In the state she was in, it seemed the better option. "His injuries have not grown infected, I hope."
"Nothing of the sort, thank God and all his saints.
" It had been a real fear, in the first few weeks after the accident; but fortunately, the torn flesh had not grown putrescent, knitting itself back up without complication.
"It's only the pain that keeps him awake, and there's nothing to be done for that but offer him strong ale to drink.
And I'd rather not, come to that. It can become a habit far too quickly.
" Peter in his current state was quarrelsome enough, at times; Peter drunk would be unmanageable, and a shame to him besides.
"Ah." Isabel was quiet for a moment before she spoke again.
"It must be – harder for you both, in some ways.
Only . . ." She caught Constance's eye, then quickly looked down again.
"You said you married for practicality more than love.
I did the same, and I think my husband – resented it, towards the end.
That his nursemaid was . . . not indifferent, but not a lover, either.
" She blinked, rolling her shoulders. "Although I suppose it would have been harder, after a fashion.
To see someone I cared for on his deathbed and know I could do nothing. "
"It is and it isn't." Constance leaned her elbow on the table, propping her chin on her hand.
"I do care for him. Not as a lover might, but we are old friends.
" She thought of Jack's face in the dead of night, white and drawn as Peter clutched at his hand and moaned and thrashed.
The worst of it was when he grew angry: he would rail at them both for keeping him alive, for not simply slipping him a dram of something strong that would have carried him away peacefully, for keeping him in this hell.
Those were the times when she sent Jack away and nursed Peter himself: she knew he couldn't bear listening to it.
"I've had lovers. I would have cared for them, if some injury befell them.
But I think it is easier, with a friend. "
Isabel made a small sound, and when Constance glanced up, she saw that she'd accidentally driven the needle into her fingertip, and had put the digit into her mouth to soothe it. "You – what?"
Of course: she'd never spoken of her lovers to Isabel before. She chose her words carefully when she spoke. "I did say, when Peter and I were wed, that we agreed to a certain freedom within our union. That was part of it."
"So –" Isabel took her finger from her mouth, glistening with spit. Constance swallowed hard, looking down at the tabletop. "You've had lovers – while you were married?"
"We both have," Constance said. The fact that Peter had only taken one lover, before or after their wedding - and that the lover in question has been Jack - was information better kept to herself.
"Three in my - well, no. I had two before we were wed, and one after.
I cared for all of them a great deal, but in a - different way than how I care for Peter.
It would have been far more difficult to keep my composure, with them. "
Isabel was staring down at her work, though her hands had stilled as Constance spoke.
Constance was just beginning to worry that she'd offended her - she may accept the idea of lovers in the abstract, but not when spoken of so frankly - when she spoke.
"Those other lovers, why did you not . .
." She stopped, shaking her head. "It's none of my affair. "
"Whatever it is, you may ask," Constance said. "I don't mind."
Isabel began to sew again, the needle gliding up and down in small, neat movements.
"If you loved these men, why not marry one of them?
I understand the need to marry well, but if you were happy with them, then why .
. .?" She gave a tight, bitter smile. "I suppose I've no room to question it, marrying as I did.
But there were no others for me, nor did I anticipate any. If you had two other suitors - ?"