CHAPTER TWELVE #2
She nodded, plucking at her sleeve. "You have Jack, and she has - whoever she likes."
That prompted an actual laugh. Isabel tensed, looking down at Walter, but he didn't stir. "You make it sound as if she were cavorting with half the town. I assure you, the truth is far more dull."
"I do no such thing," Isabel said. "She said three -"
She stopped then as something occurred to her.
She had not had cause to revisit that conversation since it took place - and besides, she had been far too preoccupied with other things.
At the time, Constance had been deliberately vague about the gender of her lovers, but Isabel had hardly taken notice.
Why would she have? It was only now, naked under her borrowed shift, that she came to several belated realizations about what Constance had been trying, in as plain a manner as she could, to tell her.
"They were women, then," she said. She was grateful that Constance was still sleeping downstairs, for she was aware that she sounded quite stupid. "Those other lovers."
Peter at least did her the courtesy of not guffawing at her openly. "They were."
"Did you know them?" A silly question, perhaps - if they'd entered the marital home, of course Peter would have known them - but then again, hadn't she said that two of them had been before her marriage? But if she and Peter had known each other since childhood, then perhaps . . .
"I did," he said. "Some better than others." A soft sound, almost a hiss. "I liked some better than others, too."
"What were they like?" she asked. "These women?
" The question seemed suddenly vital. Who were these women who had held Constance's heart in their hands?
What had drawn her to them? If they re-appeared now, would they hold the same sway over her?
She'd said one was a girlhood affair, and one had been only passing through Linden.
And the other one, the one in-between - she had thought their match less than advantageous, Constance had said.
Knowing they were both women cast the statement in a new light: of course marriage had never been possible for them. But then why . . . ?
Peter coughed. "You ought to ask Constance that, not me."
"Constance is asleep, and let her remain so," Isabel said. "You are not. Tell me."
A sigh. "The first one, I didn't know well - I was too taken up with Jack then to take any notice of her friends.
And she never spoke a great deal about her, after the affair had run its course.
I suppose she was pretty, if you like that sort of thing.
" The bafflement in his tone made it clear that he did not.
"Lally - the one last winter - I saw little of her, but she was kind enough. Jolly."
"And pretty," Isabel said. She thought of asking what these women had looked like in more detail - had they been pale, rosy, auburn, golden-haired?
Had their eyes been blue or brown? Had they smiled often, shown white teeth?
Had their limbs been long, their hands soft, their bosoms high and firm? But she suspected Peter would not know.
"I suppose." She didn't need light then to know that he was shrugging. "The only notable one out of all of them was Emmeline. And not for any reason she would wish to be remembered for."
"Was she so terrible?" Constance had not spoken fondly of her, but she had also blamed the end of their affair on herself. But what she had perceived from the eye of the storm and what Peter had seen standing outside of it altogether could be very different things.
Peter made a noise of disgruntlement. "Oh, she was charming when she wished to be.
And she was very fond of being adored, so she knew well when to make herself agreeable.
Constance would have done anything for her, I know that.
" A sigh. "I think sometimes she loves too much, too easily. Tender hearts are the first to bruise."
Isabel hugged her knees against her chest, thinking.
She had nothing to say in response to that - at least, nothing that she wished to voice out loud to Peter.
Constance was a loving soul, free with kind words and open-handed to anyone who might require her help.
She knew that; she'd seen her with Walter, with Peter, with Margery.
She was the sort of good-natured that was far, far beyond Isabel's reach - nothing in her own cold and narrow heart could compare.
It almost seemed to her that Constance made up for her deficiencies in that regard - that it didn't matter what her faults were, at Constance's side.
But that sword was double-edged. What if the only reason Constance had opened her arms to her was because she would do it for anyone?
What if she was the recipient of more kindness than she deserved, or that a less generous person would have rightfully withheld from her?
Perhaps she and Emmeline had more in common than either Constance or Peter had said.
"What happened?" she asked, very quietly.
"She grew bored." Peter was blunt, and Isabel was grateful for it: this was not a conversation for minced words.
"She knew that she had gotten from Constance all that Constance could give her, and she still wanted more.
Money, a good name, a household to be mistress of.
She had no thought of making any sacrifices for the sake of someone who had loved her without limit, so she discarded Constance and went on her way.
I doubt she ever gave the matter a second thought.
She was like that - she left people behind easily. "
"And then Constance married you," Isabel said. "How did that come about? Who suggested it?"
"Truthfully, I don't recall," he said. "It seemed the neatest possible solution. Jack and I could stay together - Constance and I were both free from the expectation of marrying - we had the tailor's shop to support ourselves. Why do otherwise?"
"Why, indeed," Isabel said. "You had the benefit of it, and Jack likewise. What did Constance get from the whole arrangement? It seems to be her role is to protect the two of you, but she receives little in return." From anyone, she thought; herself included.
"She has the assurance of a husband who will not use her ill or press his attentions on her," Peter said. His voice was mild - milder than Isabel would have expected, given the sharpness of her words. "I'm given to understand that there are many women who cannot say as much."
Isabel once again had cause to be thankful that Peter could not see her face, for she could only imagine what he might read there if he did.
"But," she said, faltering a little, "but she has no - companion, not in the way that you and Jack do.
" She paused, mulling a new idea over in her head. "Does she want to? Have one?"
"I couldn't say," Peter said. "But - as I've said, she has always loved easily, and those who had the benefit of it did not always appreciate what she offered.
" Another rustling of the bedclothes. "So I would ask you again - you are fond of her, yes?
Because I should hate to see her toyed with and discarded again. "
Isabel felt her face heat up, this time with anger rather than shame. "You would accuse me of that?"
"I would be cautious," he said, still mild. "I have seen it happen once. I don't wish to repeat the experience, and I doubt she does either. But she will not protect herself. Someone must do it on her behalf. We are not husband and wife in any other sense, but I do owe her this, at least."
"You may consider your duty discharged, then," Isabel bit out. "You've made yourself understood perfectly." She stood. "I had better get back to bed."
She heard something like a sigh from Peter's direction. "As you wish," he said. "But do take what I've said to heart, whatever else you do. Both of you stand to be hurt if you don't."
"Your concern is appreciated," Isabel said, and grabbed the reed lamp before retreating back the way she'd come.
The first flush of anger she'd felt at Peter's words were giving way to a worse feeling, a sort of hot seething in the pit of her stomach.
She had no intention of toying with Constance and then discarding her; Peter could rest easily on that front.
But if Constance wanted something she couldn't give - or if she didn't want anything, and Isabel was simply a substitute for the women she'd loved and who'd left her .
. . ? Either possibility seemed unthinkable, and Isabel could not see a third option.
Matters would come to a head, and Peter was right: they both stood to be badly hurt when it happened.
She reached the bedroom and slipped inside, blowing the lamp out before setting it on the floor and crawling back into bed.
Constance made a soft, contented sound in her sleep, rolling over to sling an arm across Isabel's midsection and bury her face in the crook of Isabel's neck.
After years with Geoffrey, Isabel had not thought to enjoy being held like this, but the sensation was entirely novel.
She wanted to hold Constance in return - to burrow against her and know she was there, and she was safe, and they would both remain so.
If they could just stay there, she thought - right where they were, suspended in a single moment in time where past lovers and demanding family and maternal obligations could not intrude - she would give anything to have that.
And it was the one thing she couldn't have.
She turned until she was fully situated in Constance's arms, pressing her lips to Constance's hair and inhaling her scent.
They had tonight, at least. So long as the storm raged outside, they could keep the doors and the windows shut against the rest of the world.
She almost wished she could stay awake, just to savour the feeling as long as she could: but it was late and her eyes were heavy, and sleep claimed her sooner rather than later.
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