Indeed, the only ‘visitor’ who would not be dissuaded was Noah. She had not agreed to have an audience with him, but he had left her sweet gifts every day: flowers, candied fruits, a little poem that he may or may not have written himself, and a paper crane, expertly folded.
“You must thank him,”her mother had urged, when delivering the gifts to Isolde’s bedchamber.“Use this time of sickness to at least write him a note of gratitude, so he does not lose interest.”
But it was Isolde who had lost interest in pretty much everything. She did not know where the time went, but mornings slipped swiftly into afternoons, and afternoons dove violently into night, the hours speeding by without reprieve. If months had passed, it would not have surprised her.
On the afternoon of that fourth day, a hesitant knock came at the bedchamber door.
“Izzie?” Teresa said from the other side.
Rubbing tired eyes, Isolde sat up in the window seat where she had been attempting a nap. “Come in.”
The door opened and Teresa poked her head around. “How are you feeling?”
“No better, no worse,” Isolde replied, her mouth stretching in a yawn.
“Well… Mama has had the cook prepare some of your favorites for luncheon, if you felt like coming down to eat with us all? There is lemonade, too, if you would like that?”
Isolde drew her knees up to her chin, frustrated by the lack of vitality in herself. She was not oblivious to her behavior, but it was as if a bizarre, life-sucking creature had taken hold of her, weakening her until she did not want to do anything but sit around, staring into nothingness, her mind a blank.
More than that, she knew her mother and sisters were worried about her. Teresa most of all, since she was the only one who had any notion ofwhyIsolde had retreated from company and society.
“Please, Izzie,” Teresa said quietly, her voice catching.
Isolde’s numb heart sank into the depths of her stomach, hearing that woeful sound. “If you give me… five minutes, I will come down to have luncheon with you all.”
“You will?” Teresa’s pretty blue eyes brightened, her hands clasped together as though she were praying.
Isolde nodded. “I promise. I will wash my face, put on a dress, and do my best impression of a cheerful person.”
“You do not have to do that last part, but the rest might do you some good,” Teresa said, backing out of the room. “I shall leave you to it.”
Exhausted to the point of feeling lightheaded, Isolde slid off the window seat and set about preparing herself for luncheon with her family. She splashed and scrubbed her face with cold water from the basin, neatly pinned her hair with one of her best slides, and went to the armoire to select a suitable dress for the occasion.
Her eyes settled on the sparkle of stars against the midnight blue of night, somehow captured and fashioned into a gown. She touched it gingerly, the spangles glimmering.
“I am sorry you will have to stay here, gathering dust,” she murmured, picking out a simple day dress of duck-egg blue and closing the armoire door on the most beautiful thing she would ever possess.
In truth, she knew she probably should have put it into the apple crate with the rest of Edmund’s things, but she had not been able to do it. The gown did not deserve that fate, regardless of how her own had turned out.
Ten minutes later, Isolde descended the stairs and headed for the dining room.
She had just passed the drawing room door when a voice called out, “Isolde, is that you? We are in here! We thought we would do something different this afternoon!”
Hearing her mother’s falsely cheerful voice made Isolde want to turn around and run back up the stairs, but she had made an unspoken promise to Teresa. She would not let her sister down, no matter what intensity of interrogation she was about to face from her worried mother.
With a breath, she pushed into the drawing room, wearing what she hoped was a believable smile. “Well now,thisis unusual,” she crowed, hearing the false cheer in her own voice. “I have never heard of having a picnic in one’s own drawing room. Is this the new fashion? Have I been in my sickbed for so long that picnics are now doneinsiderather than outside?”
Her mother chuckled anxiously, while Teresa beamed from ear to ear at the sight of her sister washed and dressed. Prudence, on the other hand, seemed uncharacteristically quiet, her eyes brimming with sadness as she raised them to Isolde.
“What is wrong, Izzie?” Prudence asked. “Mama said you were very poorly, and I tried to sneak in to see you, but she had the footman guarding the hallway day and night. I have been dragged across the landing at least ten times these past four days.”
Isolde’s heart wrenched for a third time. “I do not know what sickness I had, dearest Prudie, but I can tell you that I am better now. I doubt it shall be very long at all until I am completely myself again.”
“So, you do not have the deathly melancholy?” Prudence said, quirking an eyebrow. “A friend of mine said their cousin had it, and almost died of it.”
Their mother clicked her tongue. “Isthatwhy you have been so morose of late? Goodness, Prudence, why did you not say so? No one has died of melancholy. It passes. You see, this is why I do not like you spending time with those Horsham sisters. They are forever filling your head with nonsense.”
“Well, Prudie, one known cure for melancholy is a fine array of one’s favorites,” Isolde chirped, sitting down on the settee with her youngest sister, and putting an arm around her shoulders. “So, what do you say we begin feasting?”
