Page 91 of The Lover's Eye
Giles rose to full height, his face wiped of all readable expression.“I do not wish to speak with you,” he said coldly.“Not for as long as you put your stock into idle gossip, rather than the man standing here before you.”
♦
Isobel regretted her words before the door even closed behind him.As she had watched his stiff back receding from her, she had wanted to call out to him.Reach for him, apologize, something—anything.
It was as if a mist had cleared from her mind, and she saw for the first time his pain rather than her own.Her jealous outburst was forced to the background; the breadth of her guilt overwhelming everything.
He had tried to speak to her in a rational mind.It was she who had deployed her darkest fears and sharpest tongue, who had wielded her pain unfairly against him.The conversation needed to be had, but not like that.
Isobel had replayed the scene tirelessly in her head in the two days since it had happened.It only multiplied her guilt and confusion, and she was relieved when Dr.Dunn gave her a clean bill of health to resume her walks.The curmudgeonly old physician had not yet made it out the front doors of Cambo House before Isobel started dressing.
With Betsey’s aid, she placed some wrapping around the tender burnt flesh, and tied the garter loosely about her stocking, only tight enough to keep it in place.
“I would like my half boots, instead,” Isobel said when Betsey approached her with a pair of slippers.
“Are you going walking so soon, milady?”Betsey asked, hesitating.
“It has been ten days,” Isobel said sharply.“It is not soon.”
As the lady’s maid scurried back to fetch her half boots, Isobel’s guilt prickled again.She didn’t know why she had been so out of temper with everyone, snapping and scolding in a way that was entirely out of character for her.She only hoped a return to normal activities would ease her mind.
Isobel descended the stairs for the first time since the ladies luncheon.Cambo House had settled back into her own again, auspiciously quiet and feigning abandonment.But upon reaching the entry hall, she saw the cracked library door and heard the faint rustle of paper.
Her heart pulled toward it.Going two days without speaking to Giles had been crushing.Every time she heard him moving about his chamber, close enough she could have touched him had a wall not been in the way, she felt this same intuitive magnetism.If she could find the words to apologize …
She moved toward the library in slow steps, as if each stride was a building block to her courage.She had nearly reached it, her fingers knitting together in anxious anticipation, when a knubby hand reached up and closed the door from the outside.
Isobel jumped.She hadn’t even heard Mr.Finch approach.He stood beside her now, his palm still flattened against the door to bar her entry.“His lordship is not to be disturbed,” he said in a low drawl.“He requested that no one enter for the entirety of the day.”
Isobel had never stood so close to the butler before.His eyes weresodark.A seamless connection between iris and pupil, their obsidian flatness only made starker by the surrounding white of his hair.It was difficult to look at him.
“I am actually pleased to see you,” she said, forcing her eyes to remain fixed on his.“I wanted to ask what damage has been caused to the teapot, and also offer my apologies for what occurred.”
“It was shattered, my lady,” Mr.Finch said in a flat rasp.
Isobel swallowed.“Surely there is someone in Newcastle who repairs porcelain pieces?I am sure Giles would only be too pleased to send it off for restoration.”
A slow, condescending smile worked up the butler’s lips, not reaching any other facet of his expression.“No one can repair such finery.Lady Trevelyan’s mother gifted it to her.Did you know that?”
“No,” Isobel said, her eyelids attempting to flutter shut to escape his gaze.
“Did you know it was honey gilded, with every design tooled by a practiced hand?”
Giles’s voice interrupted from the other side of the door.“Finch,” he called gruffly.“Come here.”
The elderly butler shuffled back a step, giving an infinitesimal bow as Isobel turned on her heel and made for the door.She didn’t look back as the library door opened.She didn’t want to catch a glimpse of her husband; just listening to his familiar voice was heart-clenching enough.She hadn’t realized she’d been aching to hear it.
She tied a bonnet tightly under her chin and struck off down the drive.She hadn’t the faintest idea where she was headed, knowing only that Cambo House had become too oppressive for her to want to stay on the grounds.
The day was exquisite for her purpose.Sunshine beamed with fervor, piercing little holes in her bonnet as light broke between intersections of straw weave.Her burn prickled and stung as she walked, but the pain had subsided to tolerability.
She ploughed through the windswept grasses of the moors, her attention solely focused on putting one foot after the other.She soon lost all notion of time and place, and began to feel strain lift from her like a leaden cape.It wasn’t until a group of black-backed gulls careened overhead that she paused, shielding her eyes from the sun to watch their flight against a brilliant blue sky.
Oh.How far had she come?
In the distance, smoke billowed from neat rows of homes and shops, which she recognized for the village.The sea was just out of sight, but she heard the faint rush of waves lapping the shore.
Isobel’s breaths came in heaves, and perspiration gathered on her brow and upper lip.She wanted to feel the softness of the sand and the chill of the sea; perhaps sit awhile and rest before facing the return journey home.She trailed the edge of the dunes until she found a lull in height.
