Chapter 4

4

Lady Blanche and her daughter Eleanor accepted Isabella's excuse of a headache without the slightest sign of suspicion; they were all a little out of sorts, they agreed, after the excitement and exertion of yesterday's ball, and she promised she would rest while they paid their dreary duty visit on an elderly FitzHenry cousin who was, in any case, no sort of relation of hers and could have no interest in meeting her. She did not care to deceive them, but it was necessary, and, if her plan worked, would continue to be necessary. I must learn to be ruthless , she told herself. The new Isabella is a ruthless woman. I have so little time before I must go home.

She dressed with care and sat waiting for Captain Winterton in a state of suppressed nervous agitation. Again she wore one of her new gowns; this one was olive green, with long sleeves that were slashed in fashionable Elizabethan style to reveal the fine, almost transparent habit-shirt she wore beneath it. She knew – she did not care to think just now of how she had gained that knowledge – that sometimes a few tantalising glimpses of naked skin, or the suggestion of naked skin, could have a more powerful effect on a man than large expanses of bare flesh. Although he hadn't seemed to object to her low-cut, short-sleeved gown last night. He had seemed to like it, rather. When his fingers had brushed the skin of her shoulder… But she couldn't dress like that in the daytime, for it would present a very odd appearance. She was aiming for subtlety, in her dress at least, though she would be obliged to say some truly outrageous things before she was done today.

She sat pretending to sew, waiting. How she hated sewing. Recovering from being ill had seemed to involve a lot of sitting around sewing with her mama – she had understood after a while that it was a sort of public sign that she wasn't mad any more, since presumably a woman who could set a straight stitch couldn't possibly be deranged – and she wouldn't care if she never picked up a needle again.

He arrived on the stroke of four; she was listening intently and heard Lady Blanche's butler climbing the stairs in a slow, stately fashion to enquire if she was at home to Captain Winterton, who had brought Lady Blanche a present from the Duchess of Northriding, he said. His normally impassive face showed disapproval, but not of her, she soon realised, nor even of her visitor himself. The ducal gift, he informed her, occupied a box, and appeared to be moving within it, and making noises. ‘Goodness,' she said calmly. ‘Whatever can it be? I think you had better show the Captain in, Hodge.'

When her visitor entered the room and the door closed behind the rigid back of an offended upper servant, she saw that the gentleman was indeed carrying a fairly substantial container: a bandbox, which had at a previous period of its existence apparently contained a hat, but obviously did so no longer. ‘I think I'd better open it before I explain,' said the Captain after he had greeted her punctiliously, his firm mouth quirking into an infectious smile.

‘Please do,' she replied, intrigued, and glad to delay for a moment the extremely awkward conversation they would soon be having. At her invitation he sat, setting the box down on the floor and lifting off the lid; carefully he reached inside and to her surprise extracted a small ball of black fluff, which was emitting furious squeaking noises and appeared to take grave exception to being held, however gently, in the Captain's large, capable hands.

‘This,' he said gravely, ‘may appear to be a decoration for a lady's winter hat in some outlandish new mode, but in fact, is nothing of the sort, but a mouser of an illustrious Yorkshire line. I was to tell Lady Blanche, or you, that his name is Billy Biter, and although this means nothing to me, I can vouch for the accuracy of the sobriquet, for his teeth are like needles. May I set him down? Please say I may, ma'am, before he draws blood.'

She was laughing at the comical expression on his face. ‘Of course! Billy Biter is a figure of Yorkshire legend who killed a dragon. Does Blanche expect such a ferocious guest?'

‘I believe so. I understand that any person of discernment should know that mere London cats are vastly inferior to Mauleverer cats from Yorkshire and that Lady Blanche greatly desired one for her household, and will be delighted to receive him. Whether she will be equally delighted to see him climbing her sitting room curtains, I cannot say.'

Isabella had been taking tea, and now had the happy inspiration of pouring out a dish of milk for the tiny creature. After a few moments' coaxing, he paused in his perilous exploration, descended from the pelmet, and condescended to lap from a saucer set down for him, with a miniature pink tongue not much bigger than Isabella's fingernail. His attitude suggested that he regarded Lady Blanche's precious Sèvres china as nothing less than his due. Once finished, he performed a thorough set of ablutions and fell asleep on the satin sofa next to her, white paws tucked neatly in, but not before glaring at Captain Winterton, whom he clearly regarded as a vile abductor who would not soon be forgiven or forgotten.

A slightly charged silence fell. Then they both spoke at once, and entangled themselves in apologies as a result, but in the end, Captain Winterton prevailed and insisted that Isabella should speak first.

She found she unaccountably had an obstruction in her throat, but she cleared it and pressed on. ‘As you know, sir, I am a widow, and my husband died very suddenly. You might say that I should have expected to lose him, since he was a soldier…'

‘I would never say that,' he responded quietly. ‘No one truly expects to lose a dear one in battle; it is simply impossible to accustom one's mind to such an idea, or to live in the constant expectation of bereavement. Anyone who says that they have reached such a state of resignation in advance is merely lying to themselves. But I'm sorry, I did not mean to interrupt.'

‘Thank you,' she said. ‘You're right, I think. Of course, I knew in theory that Ash could die, but I had not expected it. Not really. All the more because of the bizarre circumstances of our life in Brussels last summer. I had been dancing with him at the Duchess of Richmond's ball that very evening before the battle – he was all but wrenched from my arms, it was almost impossible to comprehend and still seems like a fever dream when I think of it. I know so many other women of all ranks and nations were bereaved in those dreadful days, and I know too that many of them were left in want and destitution as a result, whereas I am fortunate enough to be financially secure. I am aware that I am very lucky, in comparison with so many. But… for the longest time, I did not feel lucky.'

‘You told me of your illness.' She could see that her words affected him, but she had no time to dwell on the significance of this; she went on before her courage deserted her.

‘I did. But I did not tell you of the resolutions I took that helped me to feel better.' She was silent for a moment, choosing her words. ‘I was married quite young, by my own most happy choice, and – as most women do – passed from the care of my parents to that of my husband and his family. I have never met with anything but kind concern from any of them, and again I know I have been excessively lucky in that too, but I have never known independence. As a man you probably cannot understand that. I was not aware of it myself, until I began to climb out of my illness, as out of a pit, and realised how little control I had over my life. For a long time, my mother did everything for me, obeying the orders of my doctor, and she decided when I rose each morning, or if I stayed in bed, what I wore, what I ate… She is the best mother in the world; do not think I am ungrateful for her care, and her motives were the most unselfish possible. But I resolved at last to take a little, just a little control for myself.'

‘I believe I can understand you, ma'am. But I must ask, and forgive me if I seem unduly blunt, what this has to do with me.'

‘I will explain. I am aware that it is not obvious. I have two courses open to me, that must be clear. I can accept my widowed state, or I can remarry.'

It seemed to Isabella that her companion was regarding her with the most intense attention now, though she was not sure why. Perhaps he was concerned that she intended to entrap him, or otherwise manipulate him into offering for her – that seemed quite likely, and she hurried to reassure him. ‘Please understand that I have no desire to remarry; Ash was my love, and I cannot look to find another. I can never contemplate it, and I never will.' She too was watching him intently. Did he suddenly grow pale under his tan? It must be relief. ‘I am resigned to living and dying as a widow, and when my stay with Blanche is done I will return to my parents' house near Harrogate and take up that quiet life again. I will. But…'

She hesitated for a moment, and he supplied, ‘But…?'

‘I want a little something for myself first. Perhaps it is selfish, and probably it is immoral, but… When Ash and I last kissed, last… held each other, I didn't know any of it was the last time. I didn't know it was the last time ever .' Her throat closed up with tears and she was obliged to pause for a moment before continuing.

‘You are so young,' he said in a low voice that resonated with some powerful emotion; she hoped it was not pity. She had had enough of being pitied.

‘I don't mind that, or not very much. But I would like to have some last times that I know are last times. I can see that many people feel terribly sorry for me – my own parents do – and this is perfectly understandable, but I don't like it. And to help me cope with it all I want to have something that I can hold to myself and think, Ah, but you do not know. None of you knows. I want to have some choice in what and when my last times are, and I want to have a secret or two. Something that is just mine, for the long, cold years ahead. Can you understand that, sir?'

He was not meeting her eyes now, and she could not read his face. ‘I… I think I begin to perceive what you want from me, but I am not completely sure, and so although it is indelicate I believe I will have to press you to be a little clearer, ma'am. You said…' He swallowed, and his voice was a little hoarse when he continued, ‘You said you had a list, if I heard you correctly.'

‘I did.' It was almost a squeak, and the kitten stirred indignantly in his sleep before settling to slumber again.

‘And what exactly is the nature of this list?'

It was her turn to drop her eyes. ‘The first item was kissing.'

‘And the second?'

She could not make her voice any louder than a whisper, but she continued bravely on. If she could not so much as utter it, how could she expect to do it? ‘Kissing with… tongues.'

‘I hardly dare ask what the third is.'

‘It's probably best you don't. I'd rather not have to say. But do you grasp the idea?'

‘I think I do. Good God. But… but, forgive me for asking this, why me?'

‘I have another list, this time of possibles. Possible men. Obviously, they had to be unmarried, unattached, and not, not disagreeable in any way, and I had to find them reasonably attractive, and trustworthy, as far as I could tell. And it had to be men who seemed to find me attractive too. So it's not a very long list. And I thought you were the best.'

He let out a dazed sort of a laugh. ‘Thank you, ma'am. I think. And how far, I'm sorry, but I have to ask this, how far does this list go? Do you just want?—?'

‘It goes as far as you can possibly imagine.'

Now their eyes did meet. They were both blushing furiously, and the room seemed very small, and very hot. ‘You don't know anything at all about my imagination, and how far it might go,' he said huskily.

‘Some of the items on the list are illegal,' she whispered resolutely, her cheeks burning. ‘Some of them are things I couldn't possibly have believed, before I was married, that people would do to each other.'

‘To each other…'

‘Oh yes,' she said urgently as she apprehended his meaning. ‘I don't mean to just… tell you to do things to me. I promise I don't. That would hardly be fair.'

He shifted a little uncomfortably in his seat. His cheeks were quite scarlet; he seemed deeply affected. ‘Fair. Good God,' he said again. And then, ‘And if I said no? What would you do?'

She had been prepared for this question and shrugged with a fair assumption of carelessness. ‘I will be sorry, of course, but I will approach the next man on my list, and put the same proposition to him.'