Page 36 of The Lover's Eye
Marriane’s words were like a blow to the face.Isobel had travelled all this way in anticipation of her sister’s counsel as her friend, her confidant, her ally.She was the one person in all the world Isobel had expected to understand.
“Pray, do not be cross with me,” Marriane said, a deep breath expanding her velvet breast.“I can assure you I am not pleased it is I who must disillusion you.The nasty truth is this world is not kind to women, and a Season will not alter that for you.”
“I am not asking for much,” Isobel said, the words tripping defensively out.“I only do not wish to not fear my husband’s touch.”
Marriane’s hands stilled on the pillow tassels.Her expression was inscrutable beneath fine black lashes.“Isobel.Most women loathe the touch of their husbands.Dread it, in fact.Most husbands take a mistress—or many—and still demand to take their wives.In turn, some wives take men of their own.At least, once they have provided a sufficient heir.”
The fine hairs on Isobel’s nape rose.“Why, do you fearhim?”she asked, dropping her voice to a whisper.
“I don’t fear his hand, if that’s what you mean to ask,” Marriane said flatly.“I fear he cares very little for me, while I … I love him terribly.”
“Marriane, I demand to know.”Isobel edged closer to her sister.“Do you suspect he’s taken another mistress?”
From this nearness, Isobel noticed how her sister had aged.Not in her impeccably powdered complexion, or thick, luscious hair, but in her eyes.They held a distinctive weariness, as though they had seen things—bad things, that would not let her go.
“I do not think so,” Marriane said, her voice scarce above a whisper.“But he spends so much time away from home, out sailing or at that damned fishing cottage.I find myself in fits, plagued by fears, often stupid fears, like wanting to turn his whole study out so that I might learn what really goes on in his mind.He won’t open to me, Isobel, and I—I cannot trust him.”
A charred log burned through and rolled off the grate with a sparking crash.Both women jumped.
Marriane rose to her feet, swiping at her eyes with the backs of her hands.“You ought to get some rest.I have already sent letters to two potential sponsors for your Season.We are beginning the whole business far too late, but we shall see what comes of it.”
Before Isobel could say a word, her sister was disappearing through the drawing room doors.From behind, she looked like royalty: impeccable posture, a gliding stride, miles of glossy hair held up by pearl-topped pins.But Isobel had just glimpsed the truth.
Her sister was a broken, suffering woman, and knowing it broke her heart, too.
♦
Isobel did not have to face Lord Pemberton until the next morning, when they all sat down to breakfast.She half expected him to question her about the inconveniences she was causing, disrupting his household and sending Marriane into a fit of Season planning.But the marquess only gave her a brief greeting, and feasted over his plate.
Heaping forkfuls disappeared into the large abyss of his mouth, noisily washed down with steaming tea.He did not speak another word to Isobel, and she found herself relieved by the same apathetic manner that usually offended her.
“I was thinking of going into the village this morning,” Marriane said, looking from her sister to her husband.“Would either of you like to come along?”
Pemberton did not lift his bent head.“I’m sailing.”
Marriane’s dark eyes lilted back to her plate, which was largely untouched.Isobel hastened to intervene.“I would be delighted to join you,” she said, her voice cheerier than she felt.
The proposition did not thrill her.After so many hours pent up in a coach the previous day, she would have much preferred a walk.The morning sun was pitching in through the windows, casting brilliant gilt light over the polished table.It was almost uncomfortable to stare at, but after a harsh winter, all three of them seemed unwilling to temper the brightness with curtains.
“Very well,” Marriane said, her smile tense.“Perhaps we can visit the dressmaker.You’ll be needing a good many gowns if you’re to have a Season.”
After breakfast, Betsey helped Isobel into a walking dress of celestial blue cambric and began drawing a sharp center part down the middle of her head.
“Oh, please do not,” Isobel said, wincing.
Betsey sighed.“But it is the fashion.”
“I do not care.It makes my nose look the size of Westminster Hall.”
The lady’s maid reluctantly offset the hair parting to one side, only to promptly cover it up with a bonnet.
Lord Pemberton’s carriage was pulling away a moment later.Isobel was glad to be alone with her sister, who seemed to be in better spirits.
“I apologize for Martin this morning,” Marriane said, coloring up faintly.“He’s a bit like Papa, you know.When he’s cross, he doesn’t bother to hide it.He thinks I am overtiring myself.”
Isobel couldn’t find words to say, and followed her sister’s gaze out the window.The carriage was following the main road into the village, which now offered a glimpse of the coastline.There were no cliffs here, but a soft, flat plain of mud and marsh, stretching out a good distance before meeting the gentle lap of blue sea.
“At least the sea looks calm today,” Marriane sighed.“Foolish man.He acts as if he has nothing to lose.”She mumbled the last words, almost as though she hadn’t intended to speak them aloud.Her hand had moved reflexively to her midsection.
