Page 4 of The Lover's Eye
And then, at the very last of the stack …
Lord Trevelyan is a perfect gentleman, and I believe you would find him most handsome.I cannot help but feel terribly sorry for him, as he’s lost his bride in a sudden, very mysterious fashion.He is Martin’s particular friend, but since this tragedy befell him, he’s scarce been seen by anyone at all.I shall tell you all about him, when you come to visit me—if I do not scheme about, and introduce you personally.
Just what Isobel had been looking for.
2
Isobel descended the stairs, dressed in a warm redingote of lavender wool.Her trunks had already been loaded into the coach and four waiting outside; all that barred her way was exchanging farewells with her father.
He was seated in his usual place, behind the rosewood desk in the cluttered study.Beatrice was stretched out on the chaise longue, cracking an orange eye at Isobel as she passed.
“Are you off, my girl?”Lord Ridgeway asked, removing his spectacles and rubbing one eye.He still wore a flannel dressing gown and his white hair was unruly.
“Yes, Papa.I shouldn’t keep them waiting in the cold.”
He made to rise.“I shall see you off.”
“Oh, that’s quite unnecessary,” she said quickly.
Her father stilled, raising a brow.“If you think I haven’t seen the conditions, I have.Brook made me aware of them.Wasn’t sure I’d still want you to go.”
Isobel’s pulse quickened.Overnight, a light but steady precipitation had fallen, swathing the hills in a mix of snow and ice.She said nothing, but met her father’s gaze steadily.
“Bah.I can see it in your eyes; you’ll throw a dashed fit if I forbid it.I’ve been considering all the morning if I should at least take Lady Sempill up on her offer.”
“Offer?”
“I was going to tell you last night, had you not hurried off.She offered to accompany you—as chaperone, of course.”
Isobel smiled, but her hands clenched into fists behind her back.“I daresay she would not wish to travel in these conditions.”
He walked over to one of the large windows and rubbed the back of his hand coarsely against a foggy pane.“No.You’re correct on that end.I supposed it would not be necessary, your needing a chaperone.You should be safely to Shoremoss Hall by nightfall.”
His white head remained in front of the cleared pane, studying the landscape with scrutiny.He said, quiet enough to be speaking only to himself, “It is looking dashed messy, however.”
“We are getting such an early start,” Isobel said with a small, anxious laugh.“There is time to spare for the damp conditions.”
Lord Ridgeway at last drew his head away from the window.His lips were bent into a frown as he escorted his daughter to the front steps.An aged black coach was waiting below, the four horses shaking out their manes and stamping their feet, excited by the brisk temperature.
The snowfall had eased for the moment, with only the barest flakes falling as the viscount squinted at a sky of uninterrupted grey.Isobel had been holding a partial breath since awaking to the wintry scene.It stifled her chest now.
“Brook,” Lord Ridgeway called to the coachman.A middle-aged man in black livery padded up the stairs, his feet seeming to slide a little on the stones.“I trust you will turn back, should the conditions not be suitable once you reach Kittwick?”
The nearest village.Isobel’s hands writhed inside her fur muff.
“As you wish, my lord,” the coachman said with a bow.
The spot where Isobel’s father kissed her cheek was colder than the rest of her skin as she made her way down the slick steps, a passing gust of wind gravitating to the wettened spot.A footman handed her into the vehicle, and before the door closed, she turned to give her father a parting wave.
“How did you get him to agree?”Betsey, Isobel’s lady’s maid, whispered once the door was shut.
Isobel blew out the pent-up breath, molding into the stale smelling velvet cushions.“I’m still not sure I have.Brook may turn back once we reach Kittwick.”
But the snow had stopped by the time they reached the village, and the party travelled on, crunching over roads hardened by the freeze.Isobel had brought a beaten volume of Wordsworth’sLyrical Balladswith her, but found the rough sway of the coach not conducive to reading.She rested her head against the squabs, willing her stomach to settle.
“Try not to worry, miss,” Betsey said, when they reached the midpoint of their journey.The horses were resting outside while the group took lunch inside a clean little coaching inn.“The letter said she was comfortable, did it not?”
“Yes,” Isobel said, idly spinning her spoon through a bowl of stew.But I don’t know whether to believe him.I don’t knowhim.
