CHAPTER FIFTEEN #2
Isabel curtsied - a bit of politesse he did not deserve, but what matter?
She could afford a little magnanimity - and left the room at a pace that was just short of a run.
As soon as she reached the corridor, she dashed down to the nursery, almost slamming the door behind her.
Walter, who was already awake and sitting up in his cradle, goggled at her: she picked him up and spun him around, provoking gales of laughter.
"We're going home," she said, setting him down on her cot and taking her meager possessions down from the shelf on the wall.
It did not take long to pack: she only had her embroidery box, her spare dress, and Walter's tunic to roll up and pile into her basket.
That done, she picked the basket up in one arm and her son in the other, and set out for the door.
She'd thought to avoid meeting Hilda on her way out, but God was not so kind as that: she was coming in the front door just as Isabel came downstairs.
For a moment, she froze in remembered panic.
Then she forced herself to relax. Hilda had no power over her, not anymore.
She could rage and threaten as she liked; it would make no difference.
Hilda looked her up and down with a sneer that bore more than a passing resemblance to Piers'. "Where are you going? I've told you already -"
"Ask your cousin," Isabel said, and shouldered past her without another word.
She wasn't worth the effort of a grand speech or declaration of victory.
Isabel had what she wanted. Hilda and her family meant nothing to her now.
She walked out the front door and into the street and the sunshine, hoisted Walter up on her hip, and set out walking.
Despite what she'd said to Piers, she did not truly intend to go to Matthew and Elizabeth - at least, not at first. If necessity demanded it, then she knew her brother would offer her sanctuary, and it would be worth accepting it to live life on her own terms. But she had amends to make, first. Amends and - hopefully - a reconciliation.
# # #
The front room was quiet, though not for want of custom.
A half-dozen women had stopped by the shop over the course of the past week; it appeared word was spreading, and they all wanted embroidered kirtles of their own.
Constance had been careful to make no promises just yet, offering only to sew the dresses for now.
Surely, she thought, there were other women in Linden who could embroider - perhaps not as well as Isabel (who could?) but well enough that her customers would be satisfied.
Once she'd finished the dresses, she would seek one of them out and begin to build a partnership.
It would be hollow and bitter, but at least it would keep the household fed.
And she could have this woman, whoever she was, train Margery; her niece had already shown an interest, and she needed some plan for her future now that Matilda's plans for her marriage had utterly collapsed. Life would go on. It always did.
She only wished she didn't feel so much like her own life had effectively ended.
Oh, she had no intention of doing herself any harm; but all she could see ahead were gray days and lonely nights, punctuated with the sight of those she loved most finding contentment in their own matches.
God help her, but the thought made her feel sick.
It would pass - it had to pass - but just then, she wanted nothing more than to crawl beneath the table to lick her wounds.
The door made a scraping noise when it opened, but she did not look up. "I'll see you in a moment," she said, still attempting to roll a seam between her fingers, "though if you wish to lay money down for a kirtle in the future, I warn you it will be five weeks at least."
From the doorway, a familiar voice said, "Do you require some assistance?"
Constance both lost control of the seam and ran the needle into her finger almost immediately.
She hissed, snatching her hand away from the fabric - it wouldn't do to stain it with blood - and sticking her finger in her mouth as she looked up, wide-eyed.
Isabel was standing just inside the room, with a basket hanging from one arm and a squirming Walter balanced on her opposite hip.
As Constance stared, she set Walter down - he made immediately for the corner where Tib was curled up in a sunbeam - and did likewise with the basket, before taking a further step inside and closing the door behind her.
She looked much as she had the last time Constance had seen her - the same shapeless brown kirtle, the same veil and fillet pinned over her hair, the same shadows under her eyes - but at the same time, everything was different.
Her shoulders were pulled back, not rounded, and her mouth was no longer drawn into a tight, unhappy moue.
Her eyes, though tired, were also clear and bright. Constance had not seen her thus since -
Since the morning after their night together. Since she had offered Isabel a place here. But even then, her smile had been tentative, tremulous. Now she looked confident, and Constance could not think what had effected this change in her.
Had she changed her mind? Had she -
But she couldn't think such things - couldn't bear to taunt herself with dreams that had every likelihood of dying on the vine.
Instead, she took her hand from her mouth and wiped it on her apron.
"I will find some, I'm sure," she said. She did not venture out from behind the protective shield of the table.
"Though none have been forthcoming, as of late.
" The words sounded more bitter than she'd meant them to; but it had been a bitter few weeks.
Isabel nodded slowly. "I must offer my apologies, if my departure caused trouble for you."
"'Caused trouble,'" Constance repeated. She raised her head slightly to look over Isabel's shoulder, expecting to see Ellyn trailing in her shadow. But there was no one in the room but the three of them. "Is - are you alone?"
Instead of answering, Isabel did something then that made Constance's heart jump in her breast. She turned and set the door's bolt into place, effectively locking them in - and, perhaps more importantly, locking the world out.
It was more than enough to answer Constance's question.
No spies had followed her here, no tell-tales sent to report back on her to Hilda.
Or, if they had, Isabel no longer feared defying them - and that seemed somehow more significant than if they had simply vanished.
Isabel turned back to her, crossing and uncrossing her arms before dropping her hands to worry at the hem of her apron.
"I owe you many more apologies than that," she said.
"For - for the way I took my leave of you, and how little care I spared for your feelings.
I ought have -" She sucked in a breath. "I ought to have done a great many things. "
"I can't think what," Constance said softly.
Every fibre of her being was screaming at her to run to Isabel now, to take her in her arms as though their last meeting had never happened.
But she didn't move. Whatever all this portended, Isabel had not yet made any gesture towards wanting her affection, much less her touch.
And to have her and then let her go again would be unbearable. "Your position was impossible."
"Not quite." The hem of Isabel's apron was fraying rapidly as she twisted it to and fro between her fingers.
"It took me some time to see the truth of it.
That I could choose my course, even if it was not - if I was required to sacrifice some things I had considered invaluable.
" She took a deep breath and met Constance's eyes.
"Some things are far more precious than others. "
Constance couldn't breathe. She only barely managed to squeak out, "And - how - ?"
"I purchased Walter's wardship," Isabel said.
Her voice was as carefully measured as always, but Constance could hear it vibrating.
"I went directly to my stepson, to ensure it could be done without interference from Hilda.
He is mine by rights, now. No one may take him from me.
" Her mouth trembled. "I had thought - it had seemed to me that I did not require the wardship, so long as I had him with me.
I was wrong. So long as it was in other hands, he could be used as a tool to threaten me, to keep me obedient.
It could not be borne, for either of our sakes. "
"But -" Her head was spinning. "You said - the money, you said it would cost too much - how did you - ?"
Isabel smiled, a little sadly. "His inheritance.
It was a pittance, truly, but Piers valued it above the wardship.
I offered it all to him, and he accepted it.
He never wanted anything to do with Walter anyhow.
" She sighed. "Perhaps Walter will hate me for it, when he is old enough to understand.
But it seemed the best way to keep him safe with me.
And -" She dropped the much-abused apron, clasping her hands before her instead.
"It occurred to me that I was not - all that I should have been, to him, while I was so unhappy.
That it would be better for him to be raised in a household where I could devote myself more wholly to his care.
To showing him that happiness was possible. That love was."
Constance stood stock still. There were so many things she could say, so many things she needed to say - about the sacrifice Isabel had made, about the sort of mother she was, about love - but what she said instead was, "Margery's intended is married."
Isabel's forehead creased in confusion. "To . . . Margery?"