thought jarred her. She wanted him to love her. Very much. And it was not as if she loved him. She’d been serious when she mentioned wanting to leave. Leaving could be much happier than loving someone who gave the highest regard to a friendly marriage. A Mr Grebbins.
Sophia laughed, leaning forward. ‘You do not have to be jealous. I can assure you. Not long ago I asked him the same question. If you could have seen his face, you would have known he told the truth. He told me to bite my tongue. I have never known of any woman he has mentioned by name, although my husband has heard that William attended Drury Lane with someone on his arm.’
‘I am so relieved.’ Her shoulders dropped, but her smile might not have fooled friends who had seen her perform. William had not been in love. He’d started his adulthood earlier than many, yet had not even mentioned a woman by name to his sister.
‘Does the—?’ Sophia started, but then shrugged away her words.
‘What?’ Isabel asked. ‘Please tell me what you were going to say.’
‘I was going to ask about the ring. If he has mentioned it, or if you have it and have chosen not to wear it. I have not seen it since the night our mother died. William surely has it still.’
Isabel forced her hands to remain still and her eyes not to glance at the plain band on her finger. ‘I haven’t seen it.’
On the table beside her, Sophia touched the base of the lamp, turning it, staring into the glass. ‘Our mother always wore the ring. The night she died, I was at the door because I’d heard a flurry of movement and knew something had happened. Father insisted William take the jewellery. Told him he must marry some day and it would be his wife’s. William shouted he could not take something she loved so much. Father insisted.’
Isabel glanced at the gold band on her finger. It was like her own mother’s wedding ring and her mother’s band was a reflection of love. Now, the gloss on Isabel’s seemed a jester’s laugh, as practised as the words of songs.
She remembered the expression on her parents’ faces when they saw the other person enter the room—enchantment.
Kind Mr Grebbins and his wife had visited her parents often and both had the kindest words. Mrs Grebbins reminded Isabel of a fluffy hen clucking, preening happily in the sun, but almost unaware her husband was in the room. Mr Grebbins smiled often, in the way of a grandfather not seeing much more than a blurred shape.
Isabel had overheard her mother and father discussing how lonely the couple was. Mr Grebbins’s first wife had died in childbirth and his heart had died with her. He’d married again, but he’d never danced with the same dash as he had with his first wife, nor had he laughed so heartily. He made the best of it and didn’t bemoan his lot in life as Mrs Grebbins was a good sort, he was a good sort and that is what good sorts did. They had spent thirty years of their lives together. Good-sort years.
Mr and Mrs Grebbins had always ambled back to their home—silent—their shadows remaining alone, never touching.
Love is priceless and cannot blossom for every couple, her mother had said, and then her parents had shared a lingering glance.
At William’s town house, when Isabel had left, William had wished her well with all the courtesy of Mr Grebbins suggesting to his wife they might leave before darkness descended.
Matrimony didn’t agree with him. In fact, the whole house seemed out of sorts since his marriage. A fortnight should have been enough time for them to adjust. If it had been a manor, he would have called it Bumbling Hall. Cook didn’t seem able to adjust to the circumstance of his asking for breakfast.
‘My apologies.’ The servant bowed her head as she exited his breakfast room, after replacing the drink. ‘I brought you the mistress’s chocolate and she does not wish for hers to be spiced as you do.’
He nodded, taking a sip from the glass left behind. The chocolate still wasn’t correct. He tasted it again, drinking half of it to see if he could discern exactly what error had been made. He paused, realising why it tasted bland. His cook had not made morning chocolate for him in years. The only time he drank it was at Sophia’s and he’d got used to the way her cook prepared it. If he ended the night at his own home, he sipped a brandy as he prepared for bed.
He left, returning to his sitting room. The newspaper lay on the table, but he had no wish to read it. He preferred his news from the club, either by men who had participated or men who’d seen it. Almost always the stories varied, but he sorted out the truth from them.
He picked up the print anyway. Reading through it, he then slapped it back down. Old news. He should have taken to the clubs. He would not make such a mistake tonight. All his friends would be abed now so he had no reason to trot out.
Sylvester had congratulated William on finding a bride who didn’t curtail the nights out and said he planned to do the same.
He looked closer at the arm of the chair and pulled a bit of feather from it, then flicked the fluff aside.
William wasn’t even certain if Isabel knew he was home or not.
Isabel was not like his sisters, always managing to burst upon him with some question, or leave this or that frippery for the servants to put away.
Moving to the door, he opened it and returned to his chair.
* * *
She’d not spoken with him since she had suggested she could leave and change her name. Perhaps that had been too imaginative, but still, she’d offered.
William had left each night at dusk since their wedding night, until the last one. He’d been arriving home some time after midnight because she’d listened and he didn’t return before she fell asleep.
She could not imagine that Husband would be expecting her to provide an heir without his help. She’d also kept the smaller bed and although it had started as a rebellion of sorts, she’d considered it carefully and kept the plan. She looked at the paper in her hand, blowing to dry the inkspot she’d mistakenly made. Well, her penmanship never would win any notice.
She would not be able to send this letter to Grace. She hoped that Grace might meet William some day and draw a picture of him. Grace could sketch up anyone’s face so quickly.
After Isabel realised she was to be married, she’d written to Grace, Rachel, and Joanna. Isabel had spent the entire day writing to everyone she knew—making sure they all knew of her good fortune so they would not suspect she’d made a judgement in error. She’d only admitted to Grace that the marriage was not exactly a love match, but more of a union of two sensible people in exact understanding of each other. Isabel’s teeth had ached after writing the letters, but she was certain it conveyed a certain sophistication and a smattering of newly gained maturity.
Isabel knew she was indeed more fortunate than Grace, with the uncertainty of finding a child, and how horrible it was that Grace had not been able to keep the little one in the first place.
‘Isabel.’ William’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She started. She hadn’t heard him enter her sitting room. Her throat tightened and she nearly knocked the paper from the table. She caught it in mid-air and looked his way. His white cravat looped in a single
