But minutes later, she stood before the stables anyway. Her limbs shook. She waited several seconds, staring at the doors she was too afraid to open, glancing back to make certain she was not followed. What in the name of good sense was she doing? Was this not the very essence of a scandal?
Yet she could not allow him to leave.
Not without seeing him and speaking to him.
Even if it was goodbye.
She entered the darkness of the stables, but this time, he was not seated at the long workbench with a glowing lantern. Disappointment fissured through her. He must be abed. She was too late. He would arise early in the morning and depart before she had a chance to see him.
She turned back but could not make herself leave. Her heart raced. She felt and bumped her way through the blackness, overturning a bucket of grain, until she reached the splintery door to the harness room.
The smaller room held scents of leather, vinegar, and wood. Moonlight filtered in through a window, brightening a flight of wooden stairs.
She ascended them with bated breath. This was insanity. Father would positively murder her for—
Her foot missed a step. She groped for the banister and caught herself then hurried up the last few steps with greater caution. In the narrow hall, she found three doors. Had not William once mentioned looking out his chamber window?
Which meant only one chamber could be his. The last one.
Drawing her cloak tighter about her, she tapped her knuckles against the rough door and pressed her teeth into her lip.
At first, no one answered. Then soft thuds came from inside the room and the door cracked open an inch or two. “Isaac?”
“No. Miss Gresham.”
The crack widened. “What are you doing here?”
“I must have a word with you. I shall not be long.” The darkness concealed his features, but she sensed his hesitation. “Please, William.”
“Very well. Give me but a minute.” He closed himself back in the room then returned seconds later with a lit tallow candle. He led her back down the flight of stairs then guided her along the back wall, where endless tack hung from pegs or rested on shelves.
She took a step back to place distance between them.
Sleep softened his eyes and lent his masculine face a boyish look. Dark blond hair was disheveled across his forehead, and one cheek was pink with a welt. “What is this about?” he asked.
“You must be angry with me. Terribly angry.”
He shook his head.
“I have shown you great unkindness. I have been dreadful to you. And now Father is sending you away—”
“You have showed me no unkindness. At least not any that was undeserved.” His throat bobbed. “As for what your father has done, it is best.”
“How can you say that? You were happy here at Sharottewood.” She searched his face with desperation. “Were you not?”
“Let us not pretend.”
Air rushed out of her.
“We both knew it could not go on this way. We were not happy. We were dreaming.” He glanced away in the candlelight. “We are awake now.”
“I should have spoken in your defense against Lord Livingstone.”
“It does not matter.”
“I should have cried and pleaded with Father until he relented and let you stay.”
“Isabella—”
