Obsession Wears Opals (7 page)

“Yes.”

It was a small victory but he took it. “We should go in. For once, I would like to comply with my beloved housekeeper’s orders
before
she utters them.”

Helen laughed, a true, unrestrained melodic peal of laughter that demonstrated just how far she’d come in the brief span of time that he’d known her. For one moment, she looked like any other young lady, unhindered by the cares of the world or the strains of a dark past.

Just as she should be.

Chapter

5

Isabel nervously touched her pale blond hair to make sure it was in a respectable chignon. Her hair was fine and forever eluding the hold of combs and pins. It was the habit of a lifetime to try to dress for dinner and make a good showing for her host. Mrs. McFadden had brought her two dresses that morning from the housekeeper’s own wardrobe, both plain and ready-made, but Isabel was thrilled to have them. For shoes, Isabel had kept her riding boots since the women did not share a common shoe size.

Mrs. McFadden had tried to apologize for the drab gowns, but Isabel didn’t mind and had praised the fashions as if they’d come directly from a couture house in London. She’d abandoned a closet of satin shoes and fripperies, and as she studied her reflection wearing simple green gingham, she couldn’t remember feeling happier. Mrs. McFadden was slightly taller, but the women had solved the puzzle with a decorative belt to hide the folds that temporarily hemmed the skirt to a better length.

The dark green made her look even more pale than usual, but Isabel was grateful to be out of a nightgown. She pinched her cheeks to try to add a little color and then gave up on the enterprise.

I’m acting like a ninny. This is no time to be primping and I’m not a woman in a position to worry about what Mr. Thorne thinks of the lack of color in my cheeks—or to invite him to notice.

Even so, Isabel leaned in closer to the glass, drawn to her reflection. She studied the familiar sight of her own features and looked to see what traces the last few months may have left there. But there was almost nothing. Her cheeks were thinner, along with the rest of her, but other than the anxiety in her eyes, Isabel saw nothing to betray her experiences. Not a single scar or sign of Richard’s games marred her face.

It was a hollow miracle that made the nightmare of her life even more surreal.

But then she thought of Mr. Thorne’s handsome face and the agile light in his green eyes. Surely he had also suffered in that Indian prison, horrors he wasn’t sharing. But she would never have guessed it from his warm countenance and generous manners.

“If he can be brave, so can I.”

Yes, but his monsters are a world away and mine—could be anywhere. If Richard has hired agents to search or—

Isabel set the framed little mirror abruptly over on the table, banishing her reflection and ignoring the hysterical bubble of fear that was threatening to ruin her hard-won composure. “Troy,” she whispered. “This is Troy and I am safe within these walls.”

She left the room and headed down the hall to the staircase, wincing at the sound her riding boots made on the wooden floors. It was hardly the ladylike approach her mother and governess had always required, but even this small and necessary rebellion made her feel stronger.

The dining room table was set with covered dishes at its center for an informal meal. Mrs. McFadden was adding cutlery and putting out the serving spoons. “Ah! There you are! I’ve yet to pry the professor from his books but perhaps you can fetch him for me.”

“Are you sure he wouldn’t come at the bell?” Isabel was hesitant to interrupt her host if he was busy. “H-he might be cross at the intrusion.”

The housekeeper laughed. “He wouldn’t hear a church bell above his head if he’s got his nose against a page of that heathen scribble—and that man
never
barks. Though he comes at a cry of distress, I’d rather not give him a heart attack over beef pie. Besides, if we don’t interrupt, he’ll have a cold supper for the kindness.”

“Of course,” she said and dutifully went to the library to seek out Mr. Thorne. The door was closed so she knocked softly. But when there was no answer, she opened it slowly, ready to apologize at the first indication of protest.

But there wasn’t any. She looked to find him at his desk, but instead was captivated by the sight of him sitting on the Oriental rug on the floor, surrounded by maps and papers. Darius had his back to her as he shifted leafs of parchment and picked up a small note to study it, mumbling a bit as he went.

She stole a selfish moment to watch him in his element and admire the man. The light from the fireplace made his brown hair look auburn and set off his broad shoulders. She caught a glimpse of his profile as he spread out a map and her breath caught in her throat at the masculine beauty of him. Kneeling, he evoked the image of a man at prayer, his strong, slender fingers so careful with each sheet he touched as if they were sacred texts.

How is it you have no wife, Darius Thorne? How can you be as wonderful as you are and still be alone?

“Mr. Thorne?” she asked.

He made no indication he’d heard her.

She cleared her throat and tried again, with a bit more volume. “Mr. Thorne.”

He didn’t move and Isabel lifted the hem of her skirt to attempt to approach him without stepping on any of his papers. It was a tricky business but she smiled a little as she tiptoed across the ivory mosaic. Isabel touched him gently on his shoulder, braced for him to jump in case her presence startled him from his scholarly reverie.

But he didn’t jump. Darius looked up slowly like a man waking from a dream. “Helen! Were you . . . ?” He sat back on his heels and glanced behind her. “Did I miss the dinner bell?”

She shook her head. “Mrs. McFadden insisted it wouldn’t work and asked me to come get you for the meal while it is still warm.”

He smiled and gathered up a few papers to create a cleared path from the circle. “She’s right. I was—transported in thought.” He stood, brushing off his pants and straightening his long wool jacket. “Were you there long?”

“No,” she lied. “Not at all.”

“It’s one of my terrible failings, you perceive now, to shut out the world when I’m working, but I’m glad you’re here.” Darius held out his arm to her. “Shall we see about dinner?”

“Yes.” She took his arm and they returned to the small dining room.

“It smells wonderful, Mrs. McFadden,” Darius announced. “You’re a culinary genius!”

“I’m as plain a cook as any.” She deferred the compliment, flustered at the attention. Mrs. McFadden filled their cups with warm spiced cider. “I’ll be back with the bread, but don’t wait to start.”

Isabel smiled. “She took that well.”

Darius pulled out Isabel’s chair for her and the two settled in without ceremony. “I never know what to say to please her. She seems to think I don’t eat enough but . . .” Darius eyed the numerous dishes with a wary eye. “I don’t think the British army could finish off meals to her satisfaction.”

“Perhaps she’s used to providing for a larger family.”

“That must be it. She’s told me more than once that bachelors make for terrible employers. So I’ve tried to be as little trouble as possible, but your theory makes me wonder if I’ve been coming at this all wrong.” He began to uncover the dishes to allow them to sample the fare. “I might have to come up with an experiment or two to test out the idea.”

Isabel pushed away a silly image of Darius deliberately attempting any kind of “trouble” for his housekeeper. “What is your usual area of study, Mr. Thorne?” she asked.

He hesitated. “I would rather not put you to sleep at the subject, Helen.”

“I am very interested, Mr. Thorne. Please.”

“Normally, it would be my theory on the reflective and universal truths that can be deduced about a culture simply by looking at an example of its architecture. But these days, it seems to be a more narrow chase involving sacred Hindu objects and Indian relics.” He took a healthy serving on beef pie onto his plate and sighed. “Although it currently doesn’t feel very narrow. I’m not getting anywhere! It feels more like wearing a blindfold and having cloth sacks on my hands while trying to learn to embroider.”

Isabel struggled not to laugh. “What a fantastic metaphor!”

“I didn’t mean to speak so colorfully,” he said as he lifted out a ladle of thick creamed vegetable soup.

“From architecture to sacred objects; what is the connection, Mr. Thorne?” Isabel added food to her plate as she spoke.

“A tenuous one at best.” He sighed, but the turn in the conversation inspired him. “Every thread worth tugging takes me back to India these days. Men have spent decades there and been less entangled than we were in that brief span in the dark. Isn’t that odd? That I might live to be a hundred but still be defined by one small slice of time.”

“Not defined, Mr. Thorne.” Isabel shook her head. “By
we
, you mean your friends and yourself?”

“The Jaded,” he intoned. “A misleading name our informal club achieved after a jest at a party in London. An outsider noted that we appeared to be very exclusive and dreary without realizing our origins. There are only six of us altogether who survived the experience, and it’s probably made us a bit too serious to participate in frivolous dances and salon conversations. We prefer to keep to ourselves.”

“What a horrible name!” she exclaimed.

He shrugged. “It is apt in many ways. India changed us, Helen, and the trappings of society aren’t an easy mantle to put back on without some skepticism. A man can be hardened by survival.”

“You don’t seem hardened, Mr. Thorne, or the least bit dreary.”

“Opinions are subjective.” His face reddened and Darius adjusted his glasses.

“And how is it that you are in Scotland, Mr. Thorne, looking for Indian artifacts and not in Bombay?”

“Ah!” Darius set down his fork and knife. “It turns out that—”

Mrs. McFadden entered with a small basket of fresh rolls. “Are you entertaining her, sir?”

“I am hardly qualified, Mrs. McFadden,” Darius said. “Are you sure that’s the custom?”

The housekeeper came round to him to hand over the bread. “You’ve a guest and it’s your duty to do so. Don’t think I’ve time on my hands for parlor games and nonsense!”

Isabel’s back stiffened. “Mr. Thorne is wonderful company.”

Mrs. McFadden nodded. “Good, then. I’m sure you’ve no need of a chaperone. I can attend to cleaning the kitchen and not worry about having to stand about and encourage small talk.” She turned and left so quickly that Isabel had to swallow a hiccup of surprise.

“She is very . . . abrupt with you,” Isabel said. There wasn’t a maid in her mother’s house that wouldn’t have been packing her bags after such an exchange. Isabel’s cheeks warmed at the thought, but somehow Mr. Thorne made it seem perfectly sweet that his housekeeper was so outspoken.

“Always.” Darius held out the basket to her. “She thinks I read too much and am addled as a result, which, of course, is partially accurate. But she was attached to the property and knew the previous owner and it seemed appropriate to keep her on. The apothecary in the village told me that she was widowed at twenty and never forgave the world for it.” He sighed. “I love the way she keeps the house, and for all her noise, she makes the place less . . . quiet. I’ve asked her to hire a girl to help but the suggestion wasn’t well received. It was cold soup for three days.”

Isabel selected the smallest roll. It seemed Mr. Thorne truly did have a policy of rescuing women. “You are not fond of quiet, Mr. Thorne?”

He shook his head. “It has its place.”

“Well, your housekeeper is wrong about one thing.”

“Is she?”

“It falls to
me
to provide entertainment as a good guest to repay my host for his hospitality,” Isabel said. “Do you—have a pianoforte?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Harp?”

“This is going to lead down a meandering path of disappointment, Helen.” He sighed, then brightened. “You can read aloud to me! I’d love to hear someone else reciting some poetry for once. My own voice is gravel in my ears.”

Isabel nodded. “If you wish.”

“Or . . .” Darius’s voice trailed off in thought.

“Or?” she prompted him gently.

“I think I have a better idea. Do you play chess?”

“A more direct path to disappointment, Mr. Thorne. I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Would you like to learn?”

Isabel sat back and considered it. There had been several chess sets throughout her parents’ large house, but she had never been invited to touch them. Even her husband had possessed an ornate board in his study. But Richard had never played and she’d never asked.

“It’s a man’s game, isn’t it?”

“Not at all. It’s a game of strategy and of battle, but it is a mental game, which doesn’t limit it to either gender.” Darius put his elbows on the table, his countenance changing as he was swept up, making his case. “Two sides face each other and the goal is conquest.”

Her brow furrowed. “I have no interest in war.”

“Perhaps not, but chess is an elegant reduction of conflict and many things. It is the art of defense and offense, of tactical planning and patience. Like dancing, there are choreographed moves and predictable patterns, as well as surprises.”

She smiled. “You are obviously a great fan of the sport.”

“You should learn chess, Helen.”

“
Should
I?” she asked, mystified at his persistence.

“For one more reason I’ve yet to mention.”

“And what reason is that?”

“Because the most powerful piece on that board isn’t the armed knight on horseback or the brute soldier or even the solemn-looking fellow wearing the crown.”

“No?” She held her breath, drawn in by the light in his eyes.

“It’s the queen. The singular female on the field has more power and freedom to move than any other piece.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Imagine it, Helen. She is the strongest element on the board and every other piece is either struggling to make sure she is safe or to stay out of her way.”

“Oh my!” Isabel let out the breath she’d been holding. “Really?”

“Here, I’ll show you. Bring your plate of food!”

She almost gasped in shock at the outlandish suggestion, but when he stood from the table, she followed suit. They abandoned the dining table with their stolen plates and hurried like mischievous children back to the library, where Darius quickly rearranged the chairs in front of the fireplace and set out a table between them for the board and their dinner plates.

Isabel was given the White army to champion and almost immediately discovered what a great teacher Darius was. He patiently explained each piece’s strengths and moves but added a story with the figurines so that by the time they were ready to begin a game, she was heartily attached to each of her little soldiers, fearful of their safety, proud of her brave knights, and impressed with the haughtiness of her bishops and the righteous indignation of her royal couple at the cheekiness of their rivals’ impending invasion.