Izzy nodded, unable to speak. Tears prickled at the back of her eyes again. Mrs. Purdey had been thinking of her, saving these things for her, knowing how precious they were to her and keeping them all these years.
“And wasn’t it kind of Lord Salcott to bring them to you?” Clarissa added.
Again, Izzy only nodded. He couldn’t know how much these things would mean to her. He probably didn’t even know what the parcel contained. But Clarissa was right—it was kind of him to bring her a gift from a poor old countrywoman so far below him in rank.
Except that he had gone there in the first place to dig for dirt.
And found it.
***
Leo warmed his hands at the fire before thrusting them into his pockets. He left his aunt’s place via the back door, as usual. The sky had cleared and a watery-looking sun was out.
What did that parcel contain? Isobel certainly seemed to value it. He was glad now he’d brought it, even though in a sense even knowing about the neighbor damned him.
He walked in a leisurely manner along one of the curved paths, enjoying the scent of moist earth and rain-dampened herbs and flowers drying in the sun. His boots crunched on the crushed limestone pathway. Birds chattered noisily in the trees and the bees were out already, buzzing from flower to flower. Where did they live, so deep in the city?
He’d apologized. It hadn’t been easy, but he was glad he’d done it.
And she’d accepted it, in a manner of speaking.
While I suppose I can forgive you, I don’t think I would be able to forget it.
Was it a mistake, showing her Studley’s damning letter? It had certainly upset her—understandably. But he’d wanted—no, needed—to explain why he’d had such a prejudice against her at the start. To get everything out in the open.
Again he wondered about the man who could treat his own daughter so. And the daughter’s mother.
Sixteen when he’d seduced her. And not a penny to support her and the babe. His own child. Unconscionable.
Reluctant to go inside just yet and feeling embraced by the peace in the garden surrounds—you’d never believe this was in the heart of the biggest city in the world—Leo found his way to the rose arbor and sat down.
The scent of roses, released by rain and sun, surrounded him.
Despite her angry reaction, he was glad he’d shown Isobel the letter; he’d never have learned the truth about her mother otherwise.
The truth? One of them.
For any one story there were several truths, depending on the source and what they believed. He thought about the mother Isobel had portrayed, and the varied portraits painted by Sir Bartleby’s letter, the old codger in the village inn, the grateful nanny and old Mrs. Purdey, each of them telling a different story, showing the same woman in a very different light.
He thought about Isobel’s passionate defense of her young mother, and a line from Shakespeare came to him: “In thy face I see the map of honor, truth, and loyalty.”
Honor, truth and loyalty...
Loyalty is a quality Mama and I learned to prize. In this world, it’s very rare and precious.
It was a quality Leo prized as well. He might not have hordes of friends, as some fellows he knew claimed to have, but he could rely absolutely on those few he had. He hoped they felt the same about him.
Isobel had said she’d forgiven him, but had she really? Only time would tell.
Not that Leo could talk. He’d never forgotten a betrayal...
He watched a small spider traversing an intricate web, the delicate threads hung with crystal drops of dew. They quivered and some fell with the spider’s movement.
You really need to get over your mistrust of women.
He’d been annoyed with Race at the time, but Race had only spoken the truth as he saw it. He’d been right about Leo’s mother and Lavinia Ledbetter, and the effect they’d had on him, but he wasn’t right about everything.
Lavinia’s behavior had been a ghastly shock, but seeingthe evidence of her blatant faithlessness with his own eyes had radically changed his view of her. Lavinia had been relatively easy to get over. His mother was another matter.
