Page 18 of The Lover's Eye
His looks were as dull as his personality, redolent of a camaieu painting done exclusively in shades of dust.Light brown hair bled seamlessly into the shade of his weatherbeaten skin, then onto achromatic lips.The only vivacity about him was in the garish clothes he wore, and even those were in constant disagreement with the unremarkable textures of Martin Pemberton.Yes, he would be a portrait artist’s worst nightmare.After all, how many shades of brown could one create in trying to bring interest to that face?
“Without even saying good day?”Marriane asked with a scoff.“Did you not invite him to stay for dinner?”
“He wasn’t interested.”
Marriane waited there a moment before giving up.It was as she passed out the door that Pemberton finally looked at Isobel.“Welcome, sister,” he drawled.
Isobel gave a small bow, her mind rebelling against the courtesy.“Thank you for having me, Lord Pemberton.”
She rejoined Marriane, who was headed back up the stairs, albeit at a much slower pace this time.Isobel did think it strange Trevelyan had left in such a rush, particularly after he had gone out of his way to accompany her to Shoremoss Hall, but she was in no way as dispirited as her sister.
“That is most unlike him,” Marriane said for the second time.
“No doubt he was under the impression you were still ill,” Isobel said.She was trying to reason with herself, as well.“It is very likely he only came for a piece of business,realbusiness.Besides, he and I have been forced to spend so much time together, I doubt he thought it proper to—”
Isobel became aware of her sister’s absence at her side.She turned back.
“Oh,” Marriane squeaked, clasping a finely boned hand low on her stomach.
“What’s happened?”Isobel rushed down the steps and gathered up her sister’s arm.
“Nothing, I-I think I may have overdone it a trifle in my excitement.”
“I shouldn’t have let you rush about,” Isobel said, feeling a slap of guilt.“I knew you weren’t well.”She urged Marriane to progress up the stairs, but her sister remained as stiff as a granite statue.Her eyes were downcast, their mahogany depths seeming to look through the stairs and beyond them.
“Come now,” Isobel said, her tone and touch increasing in urgency.She would go to any lengths to catch her sister should she faint right here, but could think of no more dangerous place to be light-headed.
Marriane took a tentative step up.
Isobel heard the whispering drip of blood before she saw it.A patch of crimson pooled on the navy carpet, turning slick black as it soaked in.
7
Isobel paced the stuffy drawing room, stifling a sneeze.If it had felt oppressive during the light of day, it certainly did now, with the curtains drawn and a fire blazing hotly in the grate.She fanned at her face with a hand.
She was surrounded by trinkets, unrelated stacks of books, and piles of decorative pillows.The room would be a daunting one to clean properly, but rather than pity the housemaids, Isobel silently rebuked them.It was all the skipped over dust and clutter that irritated her breathing now.That, and of course the wait for the old physician to emerge from Marriane’s bedchamber.
Dr.Dunn had been with her sister a long time now.Too long for comfort, Isobel decided.
After getting Marriane to bed and pulling the bell with fervor to summon her lady’s maid, Isobel had rushed to find Pemberton.She found him in the same position, with boots atop his desk.The only difference was he had folded his thick hands over his waistcoat and begun to doze.
Isobel had raced down the length of the room without care.She cleared her throat loudly, asking, “Is there a local physician you can call for?”
When it did not awaken him, she glanced around in mounting fury.She would do anything to avoid touching him to rouse him.Ah, she thought upon seeing the cut glass decanter of brandy.She popped the stopper on it, and at the first utterance of the sound, Pemberton was rising, wide-eyed and thirsty-looking.
“Marriane has taken ill again.She needs a physician at once.”
The tassels tangled as he sat down his booted feet.He took several seconds to comprehend Isobel’s words.“She especially asked me not to call on Dr.Dunn this time,” Pemberton had said at last, staring off.
This time.
That was the phrase Isobel thought of now, some hours later.It had taken her own urging, and an account of Marriane’s condition from her lady’s maid, to convince Pemberton to send for the local physician.
It pained Isobel to confront the undercurrent of those words, and the relative calm of everyone around her.Marriane was frequently ill.So much so, that those in close proximity to her had begun growing immune to it.
Her pace was interrupted by the tinkering of a door handle and the murmur of a male voice in the corridor.Dr.Dunn had just closed the door when Isobel rushed up to him, her chest heaving.She had not stopped moving since the incident on the stairs.
“Oh,” Dr.Dunn said, his wispy grey brows raising in unconcealed condescension.“And who might you be?”
