CHAPTER EIGHT #3
Back downstairs, she retrieved a bit of piecework – the sleeve for Leah's wedding dress, which was only half-sewn and which she'd planned to spend the afternoon finishing – and returned to the bedroom, pulling up a stool beside the bed so she could sit.
Before she did so, she bent over to feel Isabel's forehead.
It was warm, but not dangerously so – likely the state she was in owed more to exhaustion than to fever.
Her face was pale, which was another good sign – there was no telltale flush of fever.
A proper sleep would put her to rights, and Constance was perfectly content to let her rest as long as she needed to.
# # #
Isabel's return to consciousness was slow.
The first thing she noticed was that her head no longer ached as fiercely as it had before – some pain still lingered, but it was manageable.
The second thing she noticed was that the surface she was lying on – a bolster?
– was more comfortable by far than the narrow bed she was accustomed to sleeping in at home.
And the third thing, realized in conjunction with the first two, was that she was in Constance's bedroom.
She raised herself up on her elbows and looked around.
But for her, the room was empty of people.
Where Constance had gone, she couldn't guess.
The dress she'd put on that morning was folded neatly and draped across the foot of the bed, just the way she laid out Walter's clothes every night.
The shutters were closed, with no light seeping through the cracks; either the day had grown cloudy, or night had fallen.
How long had she slept? And - her heart seized in her chest at the thought – where was Walter?
She was in the act of pushing the bedclothes aside and getting up when the door opened and Constance walked in.
"Oh, you're awake," she said, setting down the bowl she'd been carrying.
It was steaming slightly. "I'm glad of it – I thought to wake you, but you seemed so tired. Are you hungry? I've made supper."
"I-" She was hungry, now that Constance mentioned it, but there were more pressing matters at hand. "How long did I sleep? And where is Walter? Has he eaten? He'll grow fretful if he misses a meal, and we only had a bit of bread and cheese before we set out –"
"He's happy and well-fed, I assure you." Constance came around to sit in the chair Isabel had just noticed beside the bed.
There was a small table there, too, and a second bowl sat on it along with a bit of linen.
"He's upstairs with Peter. I just got back from taking them food and clean clothes.
He's been playing up there most of the day – you arrived in mid-morning, and the bells for evening mass just rang. "
"With Peter?" She tried to picture Peter indulging a child – any child – in a game, and failed. "Is that – wise? Is he able to – if he's not well, or if his mood is poor –"
"He's not such a bear as that, not where children are concerned," Constance said lightly.
"And I've been up and down checking on them most of the afternoon, when I wasn't sitting with you.
Walter's been amusing himself with that toy horse most of the day.
I'm tempted to send it back with you two – he certainly gets more enjoyment of it than any of Matilda's young ones. "
"He likes anything that moves," Isabel said.
Her thoughts were still sluggish, but her primary emotion was overwhelming relief that Walter was safe – and, almost more importantly, that Hilda and the others weren't expected home for another week, and therefore would never know that she'd spent the whole day out.
If they had, questions would be asked that Isabel would not be able to satisfactorily answer.
"Most children his age do." Constance picked the bowl up again, proffering it. "Will you eat? I don't doubt you're as hungry as he was."
Isabel took the bowl from her hands, nearly wincing when their fingers brushed.
She was acutely aware that she wore only a shift, and that the last time she had been thus undressed in this room, she had let matters progress far further than she should have.
She sipped the brew – it was good, and hot, and the warmth soaked pleasantly into her aching chest. She had to put it down abruptly, though, when another coughing fit took her; Constance rescued the bowl just in time.
When she was done, she said, "I had best get dressed, and fetch Walter.
" She paused. She did not want to raise the matter of what had happened before – indeed, she would prefer it greatly if neither she nor Constance was ever obliged to bring it up again – but it was what she had come for, and to defer it would only leave it hanging over her head like a cloud.
She took a deep breath. "When I came this morning, I had intended – that is, I meant to say –" Her nerve failed her, and she dropped her gaze to where her hands sat in her lap.
"You said a few things, earlier." Constance looked thoughtful, her brows drawn together. "Do you recall what they were?"
Isabel frowned. Now that she was asked directly, she wasn't at all sure she did remember what she had said that morning.
She recalled waking in her bedroom, getting herself and Walter ready, and some of the walk to the shop – but it was all blurred and warped, and the details remained stubbornly outside her grasp.
It was like trying to catch hold of something in water: every time she almost had it, it slipped away.
"I fear I do not," she said. "But what I meant to say was – what passed between us when last we met, it – it was my fault.
I ought not have – encouraged, or –" No, that wasn't right.
She tried again. "I asked for what I had no right to and could not accept regardless, and for that I apologize. "
"Mmm." Constance's face was unreadable. Isabel felt a prickling of unease in her breast. Was she angry?
She would have every right to be – and it was Isabel's own fault - but even so, it would be hard to bear.
When she spoke, however, her voice was quiet – almost pacifying.
"Do you recall what else you said? Just before you fell asleep? "
Isabel shook her head. She had a vague impression of being very, very cold, and Constance's warm hands rubbing her back and pulling the blankets up over her.
And somewhere in the middle, there had been a spike of – fear?
Something unpleasant, at any rate – but she could not hope to recall what had provoked it.
"You were sick already, when you came," Constance said.
Her voice was still gentle, as if she was preparing to give news she knew Isabel wouldn't like.
"So I brought you here, and got you out of your dress so you could sleep.
You were all right until I tried to get you to lay down, and then .
. ." She bit her bottom lip. "You were badly frightened.
I hadn't realized. You said you didn't want to, though you didn't specify what, exactly.
" A delicate pause. "You called me 'Geoffrey. '"
If Isabel had had the strength to leap out of bed and flee the room in that moment, she might have.
Barring that, she wished God would somehow allow her to travel back in time to that morning, so she could decide against going to see Constance and thus avoid everything that had led to this conversation.
Shame trickled down her spine like ice water; she knew her face was most likely scarlet, though she had no inclination to find out for herself.
She didn't dare look Constance in the face ; she knew it would only confirm the pity Isabel could already hear in her voice.
"Oh," was all she managed. Even to her own ears, her voice was hoarse.
"You calmed down quickly," Constance said, still so, so gentle.
Isabel hated it. She wished Constance would take the same tone with her as Hilda did, or as Geoffrey had – that, she knew how to manage.
"Once I let go – I think that was what frightened you, my hands on your shoulders.
You didn't like it. I'm sorry. I ought to have guessed. "
"Don't be silly," Isabel ground out. "You could not have – it's a small thing, a foolish thing, there's no need –"
"There is," Constance said. She was still quiet, but her tone was firm.
"There isn't," Isabel insisted. "I've no need of anyone – humouring me."
Still, she did not dare look at Constance. After a long pause, Constance said, "someone ought to."
There was nothing in the world Isabel could say to that, so she did not. She stared down at her hands instead, clasped tight together in her lap. The knuckles had gone white. She was holding them so stiffly, it almost hurt, but she welcomed that – they couldn't shake as long as she held fast.
"I won't ask you to tell me more," Constance said, "about – whatever happened, about your husband. If you don't wish to speak of it, you needn't –"
"Good," Isabel said. "I don't."