CHAPTER EIGHT
The one thing Isabel had to be grateful for, in the week following her encounter with Constance, was that she was too busy being sick with worry over Walter to brood over what had happened.
He cried almost constantly when he was awake; the only thing that seemed to settle him was being walked in slow circles around the room, and even then, he would cling tightly to her neck and whimper all the while.
He couldn't breathe properly unless he was upright, wheezing and choking whenever she tried to lay him down in the cradle or on the bed.
She occasionally gave her aching arms a rest by propping him up against the wall, but she lived in terror of him falling asleep and toppling over while she wasn't looking.
When he did sleep, he did so in her arms, his head resting on her shoulder; she had to sit up all the while.
She snatched a few hours' sleep at a time when he did, but it happened rarely enough that by the time five days had passed, she didn't think she'd slept more than two hours at a time since she'd brought him home.
She woke slowly on the fifth day, her whole body protesting as she tried to peel her eyes open.
Something had changed, but she was too addled by exhaustion to tell what it was at first. Walter was still in her arms, face tucked into the crook of her neck, snoring faintly.
There was no other sound in the room but the faint street noises filtering in through the closed shutters.
She had no idea what time of day it was. She only knew she felt cold.
There – that was the difference. Walter had been burning up all week, a hot coal in her arms, leaving sweat stains against the bodice of her dress.
He wasn't hot now – warm, yes, but only the ordinary warmth of a baby sleeping in her arms, not the fever-heat of before.
And he wasn't wheezing. She put her head down towards his mouth, listening closely, but all she could hear was the soft huff of air as he exhaled.
The fever had broken while they both slept, and it had taken the congestion in his lungs with it.
He was, if not entirely healthy again, then well on his way to it.
She buried her face in his curls, squeezing her eyes shut as tears welled.
Silly to cry now, when it was all over and the danger already seemed distant – but she had sat up all night, every night, consumed with visions of how Geoffrey had died choking on the fluid filling his lungs.
How Walter might have inherited his father's worst frailties, and Geoffrey might steal his one gift to her from beyond the grave.
In the cool, unsentimental light of day, she knew it was a foolish thought – but logic held no sway over her where her child was concerned.
She had to take several deep, steadying breaths before she was able to raise her head again.
She'd thought she'd been quiet, but evidently it hadn't been enough to keep from waking Walter.
He stirred in her arms, blinking large grey eyes – clear, thank God and all his saints, not clouded with fever – up at her.
"Mama?" he said, unwinding his arms from around her neck to pat at her face. "Mama, wan' bremmy."
She breathed hard through her nose to keep a sob at bay even as she smiled.
Of course he was hungry – she'd only been able to coax him into a few bites of porridge all week.
She ran a hand over his tangled curls. "Yes," she said.
"Yes, let's have breakfast. And then a bath – we both need one.
" Her nose had become inured to the twin scents of sickness and unwashed bodies over the course of the past week, but she was certain that anyone who met them in their current state would be hard-pressed not to gag from the odour. "And then –"
Her eyes fell to the foot of the bed, where she'd laid out Leah's dress.
Not the one she and Constance had been working on when last they spoke – that had been the wedding dress, the most pressing part of their job – but a simpler day dress, embroidered only at the cuffs instead of the more elaborate stitching and beadwork she'd been applying to the other dress.
This one was mostly finished, but the other wasn't. And Leah would be wanting to know how they were faring.
Most likely, she'd been to see Constance in the past few days, looking for answers that Constance wouldn't have had.
She couldn't complete the job by herself – that had been the whole point of hiring Isabel on to begin with.
She needed Isabel's skill, and her presence.
Isabel took another deep breath. It was more difficult than it should have been: though she'd fought off tears, her nose and throat were still clogged, and the stale air of the room was making her head ache.
She had to go back and see Constance again; even if nothing had passed between them save business dealings, their business was not yet finished.
And more had passed between them, and Isabel at least owed it to her to visit and explain why it couldn't be permitted to happen again.
* * * *
The walk to Constance's house was no longer or shorter than it had ever been, but today it seemed like miles.
Walter fussed in her arms to be put down, then fussed to be carried when she set him on his feet.
It was near noon, and the sun was blinding overhead; each time her eyes caught the glare, she felt a piercing pain in her head.
The air was cold, and her chest seemed to squeeze tight around every inhale; just the act of putting one foot in front of the other had her out of breath.
By the time they'd reached their destination, the street around her seemed to weave and warp in her vision, as if she was looking at it through a haze.
Constance was standing behind the table when Isabel pushed the door open and went in, frowning down at the dress pieces spread out in front of her.
She looked up at the sound of the door, and a smile spread across her face almost immediately – like the sun coming out.
Like the sun, it was painful to look at.
Isabel wanted to drop her eyes to the floorboards, but she held her gaze steady.
It was her mistakes that had put her in this position; she could at least look Constance in the eye while she rectified them.
"I –" she began, then had to pause as a cough climbed up in her throat. She was holding Walter, so she couldn't cough into her sleeve; she swallowed it down instead, wincing as her throat scraped. "I – apologize for having been so long absent. Walter has been ill, and I . . ."
Now she really couldn't keep from coughing. She just barely managed to set Walter down on the floor before the spasms racked her chest, bending her nearly double. Through watery eyes, she saw Constance come around the front of the table to stand before her.
"He's not the only one, it seems," she said, laying a soft hand on Isabel's arm.
Isabel tried to shrug her off, but her limbs seemed entirely uninterested in obeying her, and she only managed a weak sort of shudder.
Constance's hand moved around to rub her back, and she could have cried for how good it felt.
"I'm well enough," she said – croaked, really – "only tired. And I came because –" She paused for another shuddering cough. "Because I behaved – my conduct – I ought not have, when we spoke before – forgive me –"
Her thoughts, which she had arranged so carefully before she left, were tumbling around in her head like loose grain.
Constance, still rubbing her back, only made a soft, noncommittal noise.
Isabel took a deep breath and tried again.
"I fear I – I behaved towards you in a manner that – that was wrong of me, to give the impression –" The room was tilting the way the street outside had.
"- that – that I wished – that I would be, that I could offer – things, favours, that I am not free to –"
"Mmmhm," Constance said. "Why don't we speak of it later, once you're better? I think, for now, you had best lie down."
Isabel tried to blink away the blurriness that had descended over her vision. It didn't work. "I'm not ill."
"Of course not." Constance was guiding her across the floor with a hand on her back. "But you've been looking after Walter, and you must be exhausted, hmm? You'll feel much better once you've had some rest. Just a few hours, there you go."
Somehow, Isabel found herself deposited on the bed with Constance pulling at the laces of her gown until they gave way, then saying gently, "arms out," and getting Isabel to shift in her seat until she could pull her free of the dress entirely.
Now that she was only in her shift, Isabel began to shiver, suddenly aware of how cold the room was.
Had it been this cold before? She hadn't noticed.
Constance was still murmuring something, too low for Isabel to make out – if she'd even been able to, with her brain as fogged as it was – but it still sounded soothing.
Hadn't someone done this for her, before?
She had a vague memory of sitting in someone's lap, when she was still small enough to fit, being rocked and sang to while a fire crackled nearby.
Or had it been her doing that for Walter? Or Matthew? She couldn't remember.
"Lie down now," and then there were hands on her shoulders, pushing her backwards.
Isabel felt herself seize up, flooded with cold panic as new memories rose: her bridal bed, in her husband's house, being borne down into the bed with his awful, crushing weight on top of her, his smell all around her, and she couldn't get free.
She felt tears leak from her eyes and hated herself for it – it would only make him angry, she knew that, she knew better – but she couldn't stop.
"Please," she said, "please, I don't want to, Geoffrey, please, no –"