CHAPTER TWELVE #4
"I'll boil the water for pottage, if you'll mix the oats," Constance said to Isabel. She was already moving to fetch the fire poker. "If the rain’s not stopped by now, I doubt it will be over before noon. We had best prepare to stay in for the day.” She saw Isabel flinch, and added gently: “no one could expect you to go out in this weather. The streets must be flooded.”
Peter, who had not moved from his position leaning against the wall, took up the crutch and used it to maneuver himself to the door.
When he opened it, they were all greeted by the renewed sound of the rain - not so violent as it had been the night before, but still steady - and the familiar gurgling of water rushing in the gutters.
“Not flooded,” he said over his shoulder, “but a mess, to be sure. I’ve no envy for anyone stepping out in this; their shoes will be a ruin in minutes. ”
“There, then,” Constance said firmly, looking at Isabel. Isabel gave her a tiny nod and set Walter back down, moving to the bowl on the kitchen table where Constance had left the oats the night before. Constance turned back to the fire and took up the poker, smiling to herself.
Breakfast was amiable; Walter provided most of the conversation, which was both cheerful and unintelligible, and the adults occasionally interjected with a remark when he ran out of breath.
Isabel was quiet, tucked snug against Constance’s side as she ate her pottage and tried to guide Walter’s hand so that his portion ended up in his mouth rather than on the table.
Whenever Constance looked from Peter to Isabel, she caught the other woman smiling: it was always brief, shy, but it was there.
She reached under the table to twine their free hands together, and Isabel squeezed her fingers.
They were nearly done with their meal when the door swung open. Isabel jumped, disentangling their hands as she put both her arms around Walter. Peter - who was seated facing the door - looked up, his face splitting into a smile. “Braved the storm, did you?”
Constance twisted in her seat to see Jack, still standing in the open doorway with one hand on the door.
His mouth was hanging open, and she could hardly blame him for it: he had cared for Peter for months, coaxing him to take a single step or even simply to sit in a chair instead of the bed, and now he had risen overnight like Christ from the tomb.
She rather suspected he did not believe the evidence of his eyes.
“When -” he began faintly, then stopped, rubbing his eyes. “How - ?”
“Close that door, you’re letting the weather in,” Constance said.
Truth be told, it was hardly needed; in spite of her predictions, the rain did appear to have stopped.
But the air outside was still chill enough that she did not wish to be subject to it while still in just her shift. “You spent the night at the cooper’s?”
Jack nodded. He still looked faintly dazed, but he obeyed her command to close the door.
“We all did. I set out this morning when it became clear that the rain was slowing. I did not wish to spend any more time away than was necessary.” He looked at Peter again, his eyebrows raising.
“Although perhaps my concern was not so warranted as I thought?”
“Perhaps not,” Peter said. His eyes were - if Constance were describing anyone else, she would say they were twinkling. “But your presence is appreciated nonetheless.”
Jack’s expression softened. “It pleases me to hear so,” he said. “And I anticipate hearing what transpired while I was gone. I had not thought a single night such a long time, but . . .”
Isabel stirred herself beside Constance, sliding off the bench and getting to her feet. “The weather has eased, you said? And you were able to pass through the streets?”
Jack started at her words, which did not especially surprise Constance: he had been so focused on Peter when he entered, he likely had not even realized Isabel was there.
But he collected himself quickly. “Yes. The mud is not so bad as it appears - I was able to step around the worst of it. And the gutters have not burst, thanks be to God. It will surely be better on High Street, where the cobblestones are laid.”
Isabel nodded, hitching Walter up in her arms, then looked back to Constance. “I had better go, then,” she said softly. “Hilda might excuse my absence on account of the rain, but the excuse will not hold once the storm has passed.”
Constance got up as well, feeling her throat tighten.
She had woken that morning dreaming of soft things, of a peaceful day they could pass together without worrying about the consequences.
It had been a foolish dream, she knew, but it had been so sweet.
She did her best not to let her heart harden against Jack - who was, after all, only the messenger - and did not entirely succeed.
“Your clothes are in -” She glanced at Jack, who had come to stand behind Peter and was staring at her in open confusion.
“Well, you know. And Walter’s are by the fire. ”
Isabel nodded, stepping to the fire and gathering up Walter’s clothes before proceeding to the bedroom.
Constance let her go; she would hardly need assistance to dress her child, and it was more likely than not that she wished for a moment along after spending the past day and night in Constance’s company.
She did turn her back to the men, leaning against the kitchen door, though this did not prevent her from hearing Jack’s murmured, “what happened - ?” or Peter’s answering explanation.
It took Isabel all of five minutes to emerge from the bedroom again, dressed and with Walter in her arms. Constance stepped out of the kitchen doorway and went to her side, closing the door behind her.
Isabel seemed somehow smaller than she had been only moments ago: perhaps it was owing to her wearing her old clothes.
Or perhaps the knowledge of her imminent return home had already begun to shrink her, molding her into something that her niece could find no fault with. The sight made Constance’s heart ache.
“Thank you,” Isabel said. “For – everything.” She bit her lip. “I will return as soon as I am able, but Hilda will be angry, and I do not know –“
“Wait.” Constance laid a hand on Isabel’s arm.
"What we spoke of last night," she said.
"About you and Walter coming to stay here.
" The conversation had been as brief as it had been unsatisfactory. But it had planted a seed in her mind, one which had been quietly germinating all morning. Constance could not repair all that had gone wrong in Isabel’s life, nor vanquish all those who sought to crush her.
But she could offer a suggestion, at least. A little piece of hope.
Isabel was already shaking her head. "We can't. The wardship -"
"Is in your stepson's hands, I know," Constance said. "But - wardships can be bought and sold, can they not?"