CHAPTER SIX #5
"Only when I must," she said. She could not decide which part of what he'd said offended her most, but another stray was approaching the top of the list. "When I extend a hand of friendship and find myself insulted. For instance."
"Mmm." Peter did not smirk, precisely, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "And if I say no insult was intended?"
"Then I would say you are a poor judge of insult," Isabel fired back. It felt good to do it. She'd not realized how much the effort of holding her tongue exhausted her until the moment she no longer had to.
"I cannot dispute it," Peter agreed. "Though I must beg pardon on account of my circumstances. I've not seen anyone outside of these four walls in months, and so my skills at repartee are somewhat atrophied. As Constance and Jack will tell you."
Isabel crossed her arms. "Constance has told me. Is this how you speak to her every day? I'm shocked she hasn't yet dashed a bucket of water in your face for it. Certainly, I would not blame her for it."
"Oh?" Peter still looked amused. "Wouldn't you?"
"Not in the slightest." She was warming to her theme now, words pouring forth without effort.
"She nurses you, keeps your shop running, cooks and keeps house for you, and in return you offer her insults and cruelty.
How much do you think she is required to bear?
Marital vows may tie you two together, but she is not bound to accept ill treatment. She deserves far better than that."
She was out of breath by the time she had finished speaking - more than she ought to have been, really, for a few meager sentences - but she was too irked to care.
Peter was staring at her now, faintly open-mouthed, as she stood there in silence, struggling to catch her breath.
On the heels of her speech came the first flush of shame: not over what she had said, for she didn't think any of it was wrong, but for having said it all to begin with.
Was this what she called making peace? She'd only made everything worse.
Would she never be capable of managing her affairs to her own best interest?
"I . . ." Peter looked as if he were rolling his words around in his mouth, seeking out the right ones. "I said I was mistaken as to why Constance liked you, but it appears my error extends farther than that. I did not realize how much you like her."
Isabel shifted uneasily from foot to foot. What was he getting at? "Of course I like her," she said. "She has been very kind to me, kinder than I deserved. She is kind to everyone. I only wish she received the same treatment in return."
"In that, I think, we are in agreement." Peter was looking at her very closely.
She didn't like it; it felt as though he were peeling her like an onion, exposing soft and tender parts beneath her skin.
"And - if you will take no offense at my saying so - I am glad to see she has you now, to treat her kindly. "
Isabel had not the faintest idea how to respond to that.
Treat her kindly? She had only behaved towards Constance as she would to anyone else.
If anything, she had burdened Constance with far more of her own worries than was warranted.
Peter's understanding of kind treatment must be truly warped, if this was how he viewed things.
Unless Constance had said something to him to make him think more of their relationship than there was . . . ?
She almost asked him as much, but she closed her mouth with a snap before the words could escape.
She was not a green girl, to go about begging information from others regarding her own relationships.
She had not been, even when she was a girl.
If Constance had somehow conceived a misapprehension of what they were to each other, then it was a matter to be settled between the two of them, not using Peter as a go-between.
Her fingers were tingling; she curled them up against her palm, remembering the brief brush of Constance's little finger against hers'. It was nothing, had meant nothing. But it hadn't felt that way. It had felt -
"Thank you," she said abruptly, "for your time and your - forgiveness." And before Peter had the chance to say anything in response, she spun on her heel and hurried out.
# # #
Once Isabel had taken her leave, it was left to Constance to escort a still-sniffling Margery home.
She had calmed down enough that Constance did not fear another outburst once they had reached Matilda's house - at least, not from Margery.
She had no way of knowing whether or not Matilda was still angry, but she did know that matters needed settling sooner rather than later.
And she could hardly keep Margery at the shop forever.
"Where have you been?" Matilda burst out as soon as they walked through the door.
She'd been sitting at the table, but she surged to her feet, arms crossed, starting forward towards them.
Margery hunched her shoulders, her face hardening, and Constance sighed: of course it wasn't going to be easy.
"Your father and I have been worried half to death - how could you, after you ran off last night too!
What mischief have you been getting up to? "
"She's been with me," Constance said, before Margery had the chance to snap back. "And there's been no mischief, we've only talked. Margery, will you go upstairs? I've something to say to your mother."
She feared, briefly, that Margery would dig her heels in out of sheer bullheadedness.
But after a glance at her, and another at Matilda, Margery tossed her head and walked - she did not quite stomp, but her tread was noisy - across the room and up the stairs.
Constance waited until she heard the bedroom door close before she spoke again.
"You can't go on like this," she said to her sister. "She came to me in tears, swearing she'd never return here. It took me near an hour to calm her down. The more you threaten her, the more she'll fight you. You know that."
Matilda's eyes flashed. The look was so reminiscent of Constance's childhood, she almost shrank back out of habit.
"And what would you have me do instead?" she said.
"When she's out at all hours wandering God only knows what streets and alleyways, consorting with all kinds - she might have been killed!
She might have been ruined, and she's no notion of what that means, all she cares for is spiting me.
I believe she'd do some injury to herself rather than obey. "
Constance thought it best not to mention Margery's threats of throwing herself from the town walls. "She's frightened," she said instead, "and she's hurting, and she wants a kind word and a sympathetic ear. Surely you must see that pushing her is only making matters worse?"
"And if it is?" Matilda scrubbed her hands hard against her apron.
"If she goes on fighting me but I manage to keep her safe, I don't care whether she hates me or not.
You can't understand -" Her voice cracked, and she dropped back down into her chair.
With a shock, Constance realized she was crying.
She'd never seen Matilda cry in her life; she had no idea what to do with the sight in front of her.
She could more easily have understood seeing a horse stand up and walk on its hind legs.
Matilda had buried her face in her hands; her voice, when she spoke again, was muffled.
"I have tried," she said, her voice low, "to explain to her what it is she risks when she runs off like this.
I have tried to tell her what this marriage means, how it will keep her safe.
But she is too willful to understand me, and I cannot wait for her to grow wise enough to see the need for it.
She is too foolhardy by half for that. If I cannot trust her to govern herself, and she will not let me govern her, how long will it be before she gets herself into trouble that no one will be able to get her out of? "
Constance lowered herself into the chair opposite Matilda, regarding her sister carefully.
Everything she was saying made sense; it all had a ring of truth to it.
And yet, none of her arguments would move Margery.
More likely, they would push her further away.
If she could at least prevail upon Matilda to be gentler with her daughter, it might ameliorate the worst of their fights.
"What irreparable harm to you think she will come to?
" she asked. "She's been all right thus far, hasn't she? "
Matilda dropped her hands, the better to give Constance a reproachful look.
"It would only take an instant," she said, "one rough man with ill intentions coming across her on a dark street in the night.
Or even one ill-advised tryst to leave her reputation in ruins, with no man willing to take her on.
How might I trust her word that she is behaving herself when she does nothing but disobey me and run wild?
Surely you would not trust her with any great responsibility as she is now. "
"That would depend on the responsibility," Constance said.
She would not give Margery any tasks that relied on her ability to govern her passions - she had proved very aptly over the past few months that such a feat was beyond her capabilities.
However - "I've never known her to break a promise once she makes it.
Or to lie, for that matter - she is straightforward even to a fault.
If she had fewer scruples, she would simply mislead you about where she went and what she did, then go off and do as she pleased anyway.
She is rash and she is impolitic, but she has a good heart and she works hard.
I would feel no hesitation over allowing her to work in the shop with me, or to help in taking care of Peter. You do not credit her enough for that."