Obsession Wears Opals (10 page)

Isabel laughed. “You poor thing!”

“The way you talk to that beastie . . .” Mrs. McFadden interrupted from the stable’s large doorway. “I suppose it’s all right so long as he doesn’t answer.”

Isabel reluctantly stepped back, her cheeks warming at being caught in an unguarded moment. “I often think he does.”

“I meant to find you as the men are gone. I’d say it’s a good chance for a hot soak, if you wished.” The housekeeper crossed her arms against the cold. “I’ve got a lovely copper tub in the storeroom off the kitchens and it’s all ready for you.”

“Mrs. McFadden,” Isabel said, a bit shocked at the housekeeper’s thoughtfulness. “A bath!”

“Well, I’m not six young girls to be toting boiling water in buckets up those stairs a dozen times! The kitchen’s good enough for the moment.” Her tone was sharp but Isabel knew her well enough to recognize the tender flash of worry in her eyes.

“It’s splendid of you, Mrs. McFadden, and very thoughtful. I’d love a bath.” She stroked Samson’s neck and left him to follow the older woman back toward the house. “Thank you.”

Mrs. McFadden shrugged. “Well, it’s not much. But I also wanted to tell you that my niece skipped by early this morning with some butter from my sister’s and there’s been no talk in the village, madam. No word of inquiries.”

“However did you determine that? I mean”—Isabel rephrased her question carefully—“without telling her about me?”

“No worries! I just asked if there was news. Trust me, the village is so small, a cat can’t have kittens without causing a stir. If your—if anyone was asking for a lady such as yourself, the words would have tumbled out of her mouth before I’d taken the jar out of the basket.”

It was a relief to know, but still . . . Isabel was certain that eventually her husband’s agents would widen the circle and might just come across a farmer who’d seen her riding wildly across their field or a stranger who’d noted Samson’s unique size and beauty.

The women tapped the mud off their shoes before crossing the threshold of the back door into Mrs. McFadden’s warm, tidy kitchen. The curtain across the pantry door was pulled back and Isabel sighed at the sight of steam curling up from the large copper bath.

Mrs. McFadden took her coat and scarf. “Here, there’s a hook on the beam for your clothes and you can take your time with it.”

Isabel dropped the curtain and set about making quick work of the transition. Even with Mrs. McFadden’s cast-iron stove blazing, it was still a chilly enough proposition before she climbed gingerly into the steaming welcome of the tub. The housekeeper had lined it with linens to add to her comfort, and Isabel gripped the sides and closed her eyes as she slowly slid down into the water.

Pain and pleasure warred at the contact of heat against her skin, but the stiffness in her back eased and Isabel let out a long, slow breath in relief. The sound of Mrs. McFadden returning to her work in the kitchen on the other side of the makeshift curtain was reassuring. She took a few minutes to inventory what marks she could see on her upper arms and shoulders, wincing as she twisted to try to see the worst of it.

“I forgot to set out the soap!” Mrs. McFadden said on the other side of the cloth. “Mind, I’ll step in with it if that’s all right.”

“Y-yes, of course.” Isabel pulled her knees up for modesty.

“Here you are.” The woman held out a bar of soap the color of dark honey. “The soap’s not as fine as you’re likely used to.”

Isabel took it from her and sniffed the bar in curiosity. “It’s cinnamon!”

“I make it for the professor and did not have a dainty in mind.”

“I love the smell of cinnamon.”

“Your back looks better, if I can say it.” Mrs. McFadden’s voice was a bit brisk as she then deliberately made a show of looking at the ceiling to give Isabel a better measure of privacy. “Still as bright as a rainbow though. However you came by it . . .”

“It isn’t very painful.” Isabel soaped her arms, the awkward moment stretching out between the women.

“I’ll leave you to it.” Mrs. McFadden retreated again and Isabel slid down into the tub until the tip of her nose lapped at the water.

Isabel lingered as long as she could, long after the practical business of a bath had been concluded. The warmth enticed her to stay but she also felt shy about her inability to respond to the housekeeper’s hints to share her story. It was natural for her to ask, but Isabel still wasn’t sure what to say. She felt cowardly and small today. Darius had spoken of her bravery, but it was difficult to see it in the still and quiet of the house.

She closed her eyes and the memory of the chess lesson came back to her.

The queen is the most powerful piece on the board.

She believed it when he said it. Worlds of power and freedom opened up as Darius sat across the small table, as tantalizing as the electricity of his touch when she’d taken his hand.

She wasn’t brazen enough for flirtation or unaware of the nature of her position.

I am a married woman.

But with the smell of cinnamon surrounding her, Isabel’s heartbeat raced at the notion that his skin would carry the same scent, that there would be traces of it on her own, and that by merely breathing in, she was connecting with Darius in a very real and intimate way. For one fleeting instant, the memory of Darius in her room in the night with his shirt unbuttoned spun out in her imagination, and she wondered what her life would have been if he were the one who had the right to touch her.

She sank back down into the water to scrub her feet and toes, attempting to ignore the rebellious and impractical twists of her thoughts. A lifetime of dutiful obedience and a firm adherence to every rule and restriction ever placed on her wasn’t something a woman overthrew easily.

Besides, I have already trespassed so far over the line there may be no chance for any sort of life. Richard swore to denounce me and have me committed before he’d allow a divorce. He said a thousand times that he would rather see me dead than give up a farthing of my dowry or be publicly humiliated in scandal.

There is no retreat to be made.

Mr. Thorne has already placed himself in harm’s way.

It would be demeaning if he knew I’d repaid his generosity with sordid carnal thoughts involving his . . . person.

She finished quickly, washing and rinsing her long hair to pile it loosely on top of her head before climbing out of the water to dry. Abandoning the warm water for the cooler drafts of the pantry was a test of her resolve, but Isabel did her best to embrace practicalities and give Mrs. McFadden the free run of her kitchen for her work.

The dress she’d borrowed from Mrs. McFadden didn’t require any help, as the buttons were placed in the front. It was a simpler design for women who would know nothing of a ladies’ maid or the intricate fashions that dictated that a lady have assistance as she dressed. But managing the belt and refolding the skirt to make sure she didn’t trip ended her illusions of independence.

“Mrs. McFadden. I . . . Would you help me with this?” Isabel asked as she stepped through the curtain.

“Of course.” The housekeeper washed and dried her hands before approaching. “Let’s see to you.”

Isabel dutifully turned or moved as the older woman made quick work of it and straightened the back of the blouse to make sure the undershirt lay flat against her bruised back.

“Here. Let’s get your hair combed and pleated while it’s still wet. It’s an old trick when you have hair as soft as yours, but I think we can manage.”

“Thank you, Mrs. McFadden.”

“It’s practically white, isn’t it? Like an angel’s.” The housekeeper sighed as she combed through it.

“My nurse used to tease me when I was little and said I was a ghost baby left on my parents’ doorsteps.” Isabel shrugged as she took a seat on the stool near the kitchen table. “But I never was transparent enough to get out of lessons or escape the blame for mischief.”

“What child is?” Mrs. McFadden scoffed. “My brothers probably wished themselves invisible a thousand times for all the trouble they managed to get into! Worthless hooligans! All of them!”

“How many brothers do you have, Mrs. McFadden?”

“Three fools and a sister. All in the village still.” The housekeeper’s voice was muffled as she put a few hairpins in her mouth as she worked. “I see them market days each week and they come out to check on me sometimes.”

She removed the pins from her mouth with a sigh. “Interfering matchmakers and gossips, that’s what they are! But I’ve waved ’em off for the most part, my lady, so you needn’t fear at being spotted. Not that I expect you to be dancing in the lane outside the house or making a show of yourself. . . .”

Isabel sat as still as she could while Mrs. McFadden played the ladies’ maid, braiding and pinning up her hair. When she was done, she handed Isabel a small metal mirror and returned to her stove to see to the evening’s courses.

Isabel reached up to touch the elaborate coils, admiring the woman’s efforts. “You’re a woman of many surprising talents, Mrs. McFadden.”

The housekeeper puffed her cheeks in protest. “It’s just braids. I’m no ladies’ maid.”

“Well, I’m grateful for it. Thank you.”

“I’m one to speak my mind. I hinted earlier but now I’ll just ask.” Mrs. McFadden crossed her arms. “Was it truly your husband? That did all that?”

Isabel wasn’t sure how to answer. She simply nodded and set the metal mirror back down on the kitchen table.

“Is he a drunkard?” the housekeeper said.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Mrs. McFadden.”

“Of course not! Who speaks of such things? It’s a trifling business.” Mrs. McFadden held her ground, her eyes kind despite her stubborn stance. “I had a cousin who endured a terrible husband. Of course, the way he told it, he suffered the worst in the bargain. She died in childbed, if that’s a mercy, but he swears to this day she brought out the worst in him and blathers on whenever he’s drunk about how he’s a candidate for sainthood.”

It was all Isabel could do to just blink in reply. It was the assumption of everyone who guessed at a wife’s mistreatment that she had in some way earned her punishments. It was certainly the way her own mother had responded to her complaints.

Mrs. McFadden continued undaunted. “Some would say it’s a woman’s place and a testament to her character to stick no matter what. But those that say it haven’t been on the wrong end of it, have they?”

“Have you . . . Were you—ever at the wrong end of it?”

“No.” The woman’s eyes darkened. “Ailbert was a dear, and you’d not know it by me now, but I was as meek a thing as ever walked this earth when Ailbert courted me. I
never
spoke above a whisper.”

Isabel couldn’t stop the smile of disbelief that crossed her lips. “Never?”

“A tale for another day, then.”

“Oh, please! Won’t you tell it now?” Isabel pleaded gently.

“Very well. In short, I was shy as a young girl. Ailbert’s father had beef cows and we met in the market by accident one day and—that was that. He was so pretty! He won my heart in a single afternoon and I don’t think I said four words, I was so overwhelmed. So he teased me and called me his . . .” Mrs. McFadden’s voice trailed off, her eyes misting with the memories. “He called me his sweet dragon, which made no sense at all and made me laugh. He joked and said he was afraid of me and would dedicate his whole life to making sure I never frowned or fussed. We were married that same month and I had heaven in my hands for an entire year.”

Isabel stood slowly from the table, hoping to offer her hand if the woman needed it, marveling at the changes that fate could bring about.

“Well, he died. Fever.” The older woman’s voice hardened, her words clipped and brittle. “And when he passed, I howled like a banshee. I yelled and roared to shake down the skies and I never stopped, and I never will. I frown and I fuss. Because . . . that, madam, is what dragons do.”

“You aren’t a—”

“Home, woman!” Hamish’s gruff voice interrupted them from the outer kitchen doorway. “I’ve brought your precious Englishman home in one piece. Now come complain about the state of him and tell me when supper is!”

“Get out of my kitchen!” Mrs. McFadden turned to chase the groom out. “You smell like horse sweat and worse! And she’ll catch her death with the draft you’re letting in, you big, ugly clod!”

The door slammed behind him and Isabel jumped away from the table, startled by the violence of the exchange, an icy knot in her stomach.

“They’re early!” Mrs. McFadden was oblivious, cheerfully turning back as if all was right in the world. “I must see to the professor and make sure he’s warm and settled. He’ll sit in a cold, wet coat and ruin the furniture otherwise! Dinner’s nearly ready and I’ll ring for you to come down to the library if you’d like once I’m set on serving.”

“Th-That would be lovely, Mrs. McFadden.” Isabel retreated, warily eyeing the door where Mr. MacQueen had made his escape. “If you need an extra hand—”

“Pah! I can manage well enough! And a lady like yourself? In
my
kitchen? I’d go balmy before I’d allow it, madam. No fears on that account!” She ushered Isabel out like a small child, then bustled toward the other side of the house and the front entry to intercept “her Englishman.”

Isabel had no choice but to retreat to her room and wait for the bell, feeling a bit useless and anxious at the abrupt shift, but she was excited to see Darius again and enjoy his company. It had been an empty, strange day without him, and now Mrs. McFadden’s tale of loss spun around in her head.

Heaven in her hands.

Whatever does that mean?

***

Darius arranged the table before the fire and then added another pillow to her chair to make it seem more inviting. He stepped back to survey the scene before scowling at the notion that in all his studies and pursuits, he hadn’t the foggiest idea of what appealed to a woman when it came to rose-embroidered cushions or upholstered chairs. He tried to remember the details of Mrs. Warren’s lavender-hued parlor for reference and was faced with the real possibility that there was very little he could do to remedy things. He’d bought the house lock, stock, and barrel from a man who had died a bachelor, and now lived in it himself as a bachelor.