CHAPTER EIGHT #4
"- but there is something I want to ask you, if you'll permit it," Constance went on.
She reached a hand out and let it hover just above Isabel's, waiting to see if Isabel would permit a caress.
Isabel did nothing to rebuff her, but she also didn't move to accept.
Constance shifted her hand slightly to the side, letting it rest on the coverlet.
"I need to know," she said, "if your refusal – what you said to me when you first arrived – is on account of what you told me earlier.
You said you were a disappointment to your husband, and I've no wish to demand that you recount what he said to you – did to you.
" Isabel shuddered convulsively. "But I do need to know – did you say what you did because you believe him?
That you were a disappointment – that you would be to me?
Because you must know that isn't true. It couldn't be.
Whatever you wish, or don't wish, or decide, it ought not be because you think I find some fault in you. "
Once again, Isabel was left dumbstruck. Was that why she had meant to rebuff Constance?
No – it had been for Walter's sake, for her own sake.
If Constance's feelings had entered into her calculations, it had only been to spare her the disappointment of loving someone who was not free to love her in return.
She had not yet thought far enough ahead to consider whether or not she could make a passable lover; now that Constance had prompted it, the image left her feeling cold all over.
Because she couldn't, she knew she couldn't – and it hardly mattered, with her unable to take what Constance was offering, but she still felt faintly nauseous at the thought of how Constance would look at her if she found out for herself.
"It isn't that alone, no," she said, after taking several slow, measured breaths to steady her voice.
"It is – there are a number of –" She looked down her front.
The neckline of her shift was cinched modestly above her breastbone, so that no more skin was exposed than would be if she was properly dressed in her kirtle, but she still felt exposed like this.
It wasn't a conversation to be had in bed; that way was too familiar, too soft and yielding.
She needed the bite of a hard, wooden chair cutting into her back for this, holding her upright and steady.
"Could you – might I dress, before we continue?
There is a great deal I must say, and I would prefer –" She gestured vaguely with one hand, hoping Constance could divine what she meant to communicate.
Words were already failing her, and she needed to retain what sense she had for what she was about to say.
"Of course." She heard Constance get up rather than saw her; her gaze was still downcast. "I'll meet you in the kitchen, once you're ready? The fire is stoked there, and it should be warmer than here."
Isabel nodded, grateful at the implied excuse to delay.
She waited until Constance had gone out, shutting the door behind her, then let all the breath rush out of her lungs, slumping back against the headboard of the bed.
She had to be brave. She had to hold fast, for all their sakes – even Constance's, though she would no doubt argue when Isabel presented her case.
But she was finding it harder and harder to keep her eyes on the path forward, instead of lapsing into idle dreams of what she could not have.
She dressed quickly – lingering would only serve to prolong the afternoon's ordeal, and she had done enough of that already – and went out to the kitchen.
Constance was seated in front of the fire, stirring a pot of what Isabel assumed was meant for her supper.
She looked up when Isabel came in, and nodded at the vacant chair that sat across from her. "Sit."
Isabel sat. The chair – carved of oak, and worn to smooth warmth by years of use – was not as uncomfortable as she might have wished, but it would serve.
She clasped her hands together in her lap once again, and took another fortifying breath before she began.
"You think better of me, perhaps, than I deserve," she said, "and I believe your own kindness has given you an impression that I am – not equal to.
That is to say, you are inclined to think well of me because you think well of everyone. I do not deserve it."
Constance opened her mouth, and Isabel held up a hand.
"Let me go on, please," she said. Constance looked mulish, but she shut her mouth and nodded.
"All of which is to say," Isabel said, "that the thing which keeps me from – fulfilling the promises I implied when last we met is not my own doubt in myself.
It is the circumstances in which I live, which will not permit me the freedom to take a lover, no matter how I may – whatever my wishes may be.
" Another deep breath. "Not long after we first met, I spoke to you of my husband's niece, did I not? Of how Walter and I live in her house?"
"I remember," Constance said. "You told me your husband had willed it to her."
"He did, and more." Isabel realized, in a distant sort of way, that she was wringing her hands, and dug her fingers hard into the meat of her thighs to stop herself.
"When he died, Walter was eight months old.
He was barely weaned, not yet walking – he needed his mother.
So Geoffrey was not so cruel as to take him from me.
But he did not think me a fit guardian for him.
So he dictated that Walter's wardship be given to his oldest son, to dispose of as he saw fit.
Though he did recommend that I be permitted to keep Walter with me, at least for a few years. "
She found herself blinking back tears at the memory.
She had feared being turned out of the house upon Geoffrey's death – she had never been deluded enough to think he would will it to her – but losing her son had been a possibility too horrible even to contemplate, until the reading of the will made it a present threat.
Just thinking of it made her lungs constrict in remembered panic.
She would do anything, anything, to keep from facing it again.
"Forgive me," Constance said, "but I don't understand. If your stepson is Walter's guardian by law, then what say has your niece in all of this? Surely it is between you and him?"
"It is, by law," Isabel replied. Her eyes burned; she blinked rapidly.
"Piers – that is, my elder stepson – has no interest in Walter, and is content to leave him with me.
But if I were to lose my lodging, that would change – he may not care what happens to Walter, but the terms of the will do stipulate that he ensure he is fed, clothed, and housed.
And I live with Hilda only on her sufferance – she could choose to turn me out whenever she wished.
And if she did, I would not be permitted to take Walter with me.
So I must keep her –" The word happy died on her tongue.
"- I must give her no reason to find fault with me.
If she learned of – this –" She gestured between the two of them, attempting to encompass in a single motion of the hand all that she could not put into words, "then she may call me unfit to live under her roof. I cannot risk it."
There was a moment's silence as Constance digested all that she had said.
At length, she said, "If your stepson and your niece care so little for you, then why should they wish to keep you close?
Surely if you were to set up house away from them, they would see it as an improvement in their lives. And it certainly would be for you."
"The allowance," Isabel said. For the first time, she let some bitterness leach into her voice.
"It isn't much to speak of, but it is allotted quarterly for Walter's maintenance.
It goes to Piers, and he gives me however much he thinks I may use for Walter – the rest goes directly to Hilda, for she says we would eat her out of house and home if she was not paid to keep us.
If I left, Hilda would lose that. And she would put up a great fuss over it.
If she went to Piers to demand that I stay, he would accede to her wishes over mine.
Besides, she has use for me – I look after her daughters, and mend, and clean, and – whatever else she asks of me.
Demands of me. She would lose the money and a servant both if I left, and she would not tolerate that. "
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Constance was drumming her fingers against her knee.
"Let me see if I have this right. Your stepson is Walter's guardian; your niece permits you to live with her, which means you are able to keep Walter with you.
She keeps you as a drudge and is paid for the privilege.
And so you fear doing anything that may anger the two of them, lest your niece turn you out and keep you from Walter? Is that it?"
Isabel nodded miserably.
"And you fear that this –" Constance reached across to lay her hand over Isabel's.
Her palm was warm and rough, and Isabel was seized with the urge to grab Constance's hand in both of hers' and hold on for dear life.
"- will be the thing that angers them? That they would take Walter from you if they knew? "
"I am certain they would," Isabel said. Her voice was hollow.
"When Geoffrey married me, Piers and Ralf – his brother – made much of my being low-born, that I was not fit to bear their family name.
Hilda has told me at some length that she thinks me coarse and base and unworthy of eating at her table.
A transgression such as this would be – unthinkable.
Hilda may enjoy keeping me as a maid, but she would not suffer me under her roof if I were to be caught breaking the law. "