Mrs. Garrison shook her head. “We only attempted to force him into our world once. A year or so after his father’s death. We sent him to Rugby. He was bright. Clever. He deserved an education.”
“He told me what happened there. And after. How you protected him.”
Mrs. Garrison startled. “He told you that? Well. How interesting.” After a pause, she said, “I should have pushed him after some time had passed, should have fired the tutors. He would have wandered off to find more learning. I know him well enough. He was my only child, though. I”—she swallowed—“wanted to protect him, not push him. I suggested once that he befriend your brother. There are some years between them. It might not have worked, but Rowan never gave it a chance. He found a duke much too high above him. Burlap and silk, you know.”
Isabella's stomach sank. She was a duke’s sister. What would Rowan think about the distance betweenthemnow? He had told her that he did not care about the parts of her he did not know, but perhaps that had been a lie. Now that he truly knew her, he would not feel the same. A duke’s sister was a black mark indeed.
“He’s not burlap,” was all she managed to say. She felt a bit like burlap herself. Rough and scratchy and unaccountably not good enough.
“Lady Isabella Merriweather.” Mrs. Garrison’s voice echoed off the close coach walls. “You insult me. I cannot help what the boy thinks of himself despite years of the admiral and I telling him otherwise. I could not be prouder of that boy. He came to me standing tall with sad eyes, and I have loved him from that day forward. I have, perhaps, been too flexible with him, allowing him to hide himself away, not because Ithought he should be hidden away, but because he seemed to like it better, seemed to… thrive in the shadows. I have only ever wanted to see him happy, and I think… I think I saw it today.” She slumped, covered her face with her hands. “Such a short flash of it before my revelation quite killed it. I should not have let my shock guide my actions. But”—she exhaled heavily—“I have never been more shocked in my life. You. On Rowan’s lap. Him grinning ear to ear as if he… as if he…”
Isabella waited for Mrs. Garrison to finish the sentence.
It never happened. Shock apparently still shook her, stealing not only speech, but thought as well. Isabella wanted to reach out and soothe her mother’s friend, her friend, but a growing dread made her hands like stones in her lap. The consensus some years ago had been that the Merriweather sisters were not fit wives for the library ladies’ sons. They seemed to have softened since, but Isabella couldn't deny that a connection with her or any of her sisters was a risky one, potentially notorious. No difficulty understanding why a respectable man and his respectable mama might not wish to nurture such a connection.
“I understand…” Isabella tried not to sound hesitant, but it would creep into each word, the sly beast. “I am not the type of woman you’d wish Rowan to form a connection with. But we rub along rather well, and I will try to be as useful to him as I try to be for my family. I have failed Samuel, I know, but—”
“Young lady.” Mrs. Garrison snapped up straight. “You are remarkable. Do you think me ashamed he might choose you to give his heart to? I have grown in the last years. Have we not faced controversy together and survived stronger than before? If he chose you, I would not be able to contain my joy. Knowing the man I consider a son loves my best friend’s daughter. That is more important than any potential scandal. And if it comes, it comes, and we will battle it side by side.”
A breeze, airy and sweet, blew through Isabella’s heart, and tears—more cursed tears—pinched at her eyes. “Thank you.” She sounded as small as that little mouse Rowan used to call her.
Mrs. Garrison tilted her chin up. “Rowan will consider himself a hindrance, my dear, weighing you down. Nonsense, of course. He’s handsome, determined, and hard working.”
“Yes, he is.” And passionate. But Isabella couldn't say that part out loud.
“He will make an excellent husband if he lets himself. I’ve been telling him that for months. Imagine my surprise when he sends a note round saying he’s found a wife himself.Hmph.”
Oh… yes… Isabella had been gathering information for Mrs. Garrison before she’d met Rowan. Information, though she’d not known it, intended to help Rowan become a married man.
“Perhaps,” Isabella ventured, “you had someone else in mind. To be his wife.”
Mrs. Garrison's scowl could have sunk a thousand ships on its own. No cannons needed. “I had what I considered an excellent list of potential brides. I’ll have to burn it now. He’ll have none of them. Now, tell me everything. About your familiarity with Rowan. No pretending to be missish. You and your sisters are privileged… perhaps burdened… with the type of knowledge that other ladies of your station do not have. And while it can, in many situations, keep you safe, it could also lead you astray. A girl without knowledge of the body's desires may not search for them. But you…” Mrs. Garrison raised a brow.
Isabella rolled her lips between her teeth. She’d given almost everything to Rowan. And that meant everything. What had she been thinking?
Mrs. Garrison’s hand snapped out and covered one of Isabella’s. With soft efficiency, she rubbed warmth into it. With the pad of her other thumb, she wiped something off Isabella's cheek.
A tear.
“I apologize.” She shouldn’t be. Shouldn’t have to be. Rowan had said so many pretty words, and even though she’d never expected to hope for anything between them, anything lasting and real, she now did. And now Rowan seemed to have gone cold. The birth of hope and of its twin despair in the same morning. Too much. “I am a fool.” The tears came more quickly.
“Not foolish.” Mrs. Garrison was rarely soft, and the feathers in her voice hit Isabella like a deluge. “Not foolish at all. Quite natural, I would argue. You’ve read the books, girl. You know.”
“It is foolish. Terribly horrible. If it were just a night of… of cavorting”—she hiccupped—“that would not be so terrible. We did nothing that could cause a quick trip to the chapel.”
“Heavens, that’s good news.”
“It is only that…” Difficult to speak through the tears. Where did they even come from? She’d already cried once this morning in Rowan’s arms. She’d never felt comfort like that. Not, at least, since her parents’ death. “I’m horribly afraid that… I might love him.”
“Oh.”
“And while you might not be upset if he married me, I worry he no longer thinks me a good fit, and—” She could no longer speak. Her chest, her throat, her mouth, hollow, empty, aching.
Mrs. Garrison rubbed her curved back, gave her hand a firm pat. “I am not so shocked. I find him quite lovable. As his mother, I'm delighted such a strong, clever, feisty woman has given her heart to him. As your friend, as one of your mother's closest confidants before her death, my feelings are more confused. How many times have I used the word stubborn to describe that man? I could not bear to see him break your heart. And”—she tilted Isabella’s chin up and rubbed the streaks off her cheeks—“look at me. If he refuses to accept your love, it is not because you are unworthy, nor is it because he is unworthy. It is because the loveable, thick-skulled nodcock thinks he’s unworthy.”
“That does not make me wish to cry any less.”
Mrs. Garrison gave her hand one more pat, then sat up poker straight, and smoothed her skirts. “I understand. Hm. This is good. Dry your tears now. We willnotallow him to break your heart.Youwill not allow it.” For a moment, her face clicked into hard lines. “He is not wrong. He occupies a gray space in society. And there are those who will not even allow him… gray. They’d shove him from the edges where he finds his home. It will be difficult, and you will have to be clear about what you want. A husband on your arm at every social event, a man who fits perfectly at your side and into your social sphere? He may never be comfortable there. And what about you? Can you be comfortable in gray? In shadows and on the edges?”
