He leaned close to her face, worry creasing his features, but she retreated from his touch. She followed Mrs. Morrey up the stairs. At her bedchamber door, her knees wobbled when she entered.
Bridget was waiting for her.
With a small cry, Isabella flung herself into the arms of her maid, all composure melting.Oh Bridget.She sobbed without control.Dear, wonderful Bridget, whatever shall I do? How can I ever live without him?
She did not leave her chamber. From the downy folds of her bed, or the striped wingback chair by the window, she watched the window darken and brighten with fading days.
Most always, Bridget occupied the room. She did not say anything, nor did she chide Isabella for refusing to dress and make use of the day. She merely sat by the hearth, read books, or stitched needlework, offering quiet smiles anytime Isabella should glance her way.
Father came every day.
She dreaded his visits as much as she dreaded the fall of night. Both plagued her. She knew she must recover. Whatever darkness, whatever terror had its grip on her must be released.
But she was too hurt to free herself.
In her chamber, she could forget about the seashore. She could forget about the garden. Or would she ever forget? Would she ever stop wondering if things might have been different? If William had held her closer that night in the garden—if he had whispered of running away with her instead of shaking his head that he could not?
William was too good to steal her away. He was too strong in himself. He knew right and wrong too well to do what was untoward, even if hehadwanted it as much as she had.
She was better for having known him.
She was destroyed for having loved him.
From her seat in the chair, with her face soaking in the afternoon sun, she tightened her hands around the armrests when Father entered the room.
He stood behind her chair but did not touch her shoulder or pat the side of her cheek, as he might have done before. “It has been thirteen days.”
Did he think she did not know? That she had not counted every one of them?
“I thought at first you did not speak because of what that blackguard did to you.” Emotion tore at his voice. “But it is not he who troubles you, is it, Isabella?” Seconds ticked by. “It is me.”
Leave me alone.
He came around the chair and knelt next to her. Tears filled his eyes. Had she ever seen him cry before? “In the name of all that is holy, child, what do you want me to do?”
Leave.
“Is it William? Does he mean so very much to you?”
She turned her face to the window, but he seized her chin in his hand.
“Answer me, Isabella.” His fingers quivered. His eyes bulged. More tears streamed down a face that bore more wrinkles than she had ever noticed before. “Answer me … because I shall go mad if you do not speak. I cannot bear this. My own daughter. My little …” A sob engulfed the words, and he grabbed her up into his arms, squeezed with so much angst that her own heart jolted with grief.
No.She pushed out of his hold, escaped to the other side of the room, rubbed her arms with stifled noises.I only wish to be left alone.If she had loved William less, she might have forgiven Father this trespass against her heart. She might have wilted into his arms just now, derived comfort from him again, and ceased the hurt she had caused in his red-rimmed eyes.
But his injustice to her was too great.
She had forgiven him for what he did to Mother. She could not forgive him for this.
“I shall bring him back.” The door swung open and Father’s booming voice echoed throughout the chamber. “If it is the last thing I do, I shall find him and bring him back.”
Isabella drew in air. Did he speak in truth? Could he find William again?
Even if he did, would William come back?
William climbed into the fishing boat next to Mr. Abram and Mr. Sneyd, the fisherman who had employed them for the past two months. Morning fog blurred the line between sea and sky. The pungent scent of fish tainted the crisp air, though they had not yet caught their first of the day.
The smell, however, seemed to live on them. Like an infectious sickness, it clung to the rowboat, their clothes, even the small room they occupied above the fishery cook room.
