Wherefore Art Thou. Read online

  That wasn’t to say it didn’t hurt that she hadn’t had the chance to bid her two elder sisters farewell on a journey they would surely never return from. And it didn’t mean that she didn’t miss both her sisters terribly already, despite only just now learning of their parting. But she was glad for them all the same.

  Rose might suffer from a broken heart, but at least she would have the comfort of knowing that she had done what was right. One could live with a broken heart. But one not properly able to care for themselves could not live alone. Jackie was going to be shipped away, alone, and who knows what would have happened to her; she certainly wouldn’t have ever seen her family again. But now, she had Rose. Forever.

  The second message was not in the form of a letter, but Lord Brighton’s recounting of her papa’s ultimatum and Rose’s whispered wishes.

  If Lord Brighton wanted his land back, he would have to marry Isabelle.

  Or Lord Brighton would no longer be allowed to use the fields and farms that were rightfully his to begin with, lost by the former duke to Lord Blythe in a game of cards.

  Lord Brighton needed that land, and so he had to marry Isabelle.

  Which was absolute madness!

  How could she marry the man her sister so clearly loved? And who so clearly loved her sister?

  Just because Rose went away and left Lord Brighton behind with a letter giving the two permission to wed did not mean that she did not love him passionately. It only further proved just how much strength, at the age of seventeen, her dear sister possessed.

  Isabelle could not marry him. It was a matter of principle.

  Or was it the perfect solution?

  She didn’t think nearly enough time had passed for her to see the silver lining in the rain cloud that now shrouded her life. So much was changing so quickly, it was almost unbelievable. But there it was just the same, this needling idea forming in the back of her mind, that perhaps this was the answer to all her prayers she had—for once—been diligently saying.

  Marry Lord Brighton? The thought was absurd.

  But in the end, that didn’t matter. What mattered was that she needed to marry him.

  And he needed to marry her.

  Chapter 4

  Lady Isabelle Hayes did not have much experience with the world outside the solid doors of Whitefield Abbey. None at all, really, other than what she had read in books.

  But if Rose could do it, then so could she.

  And she found herself jumping into it, head first. Because, if she was going to make a splash, she might as well do it wholeheartedly, without reservation.

  Head first seemed the most logical option. That way, if things didn’t go exactly as planned, at least it meant a quick death.

  That would not be necessary, however, as her plan would work. It was practically foolproof. Or as much as any plan could be, having been put together so last minute.

  Isabelle had procured a carriage from the stables at the insistence of Lady Blythe who required Isabelle’s presence in London. Immediately. Or at least, that was how the forged note read, handed to Hermann just hours after Lord Brighton had departed. According to the missive, the matter was of the utmost urgency and so it was that the carriage departed at dawn on the following morning.

  Of course, Isabelle would not be in the carriage for very long, certainly not long enough to be delivered to London. Isabelle had no desire to see either Lord or Lady Blythe. No, she had somewhere much more important to be.

  So it came to pass that when the carriage departed the Egg and Chicken Inn in the town of Pinehaven in Derby, it was carrying one less passenger.

  She felt rather guilty for slipping the accompanying maid the laudanum in her refreshment, but it was the only way for the girl not to notice Isabelle’s absence and not give alarm. And, as she had told the coachman that the they would be resting and not to disturb them, her presence wouldn’t be missed until they stopped for the night or upon their arrival in London, whichever came first. Either way, Isabelle planned to have a several hours’ head start on them, and she intended to use that time wisely.

  Buying a seat upon a stage coach, Isabelle kept firmly in mind the direction upon which she was going. She had procured the address from one of the upstairs maids. One she had paid quite handsomely to forget the discussion. So handsomely, in fact, that the maid had gone and immediately turned in her resignation for her position in the Blythe household.

  The coach was packed and smelled foul, as though none of the other passengers were inclined to bathe weekly. The smell was so odious that when Isabelle finally stepped down from the carriage—unassisted—the stench of the dirty little inn she had been deposited in front of in Hollyfield was a relief, practically a breath of fresh air. Air that only got fresher the more distance she put between herself, the inn and the coach.

  She didn’t bother to hire anyone to take her the remaining distance. She would be less likely to leave a traceable trail by finishing out her journey on foot. Besides, it wasn’t a very great distance—a mere three miles. She would make quick work of it and be back at the inn and heading home by nightfall. No one would be the wiser. No one would know exactly where she had disappeared to, and no one needed to know. She had plenty of time to forge a story as to her whereabouts on her return home.

  Maybe she would say that the carriage had departed without her and that she had lost her way. It was rather uninspired, but she normally had an elder sister to take care of these matters for her. If Rose were here she could easily convince their parents that it was she, not Isabelle, who had snuck off and would take the punishment proffered. Isabelle was the one content to watch and listen, and then secretly revolt, not create her own cover stories.

  But Rose was no longer here to protect her, now Isabelle was on her own, left to her own devices and this time she had to get herself out of trouble.

  Isabelle would be the first to admit that hers wasn’t the best plan, but it was what she had to work with. She needed to do this, and this was the only way she could think of going about it.

  Marriage. It was the best solution to her problem. And Robert would be a good husband, she knew that. And it wasn’t as though they had nothing in common…

  They had both found and lost the love of their life. Could they ever really dream of replacing that? It might not be ideal, but they had their circumstances in common and, in the very least, they could become a comfort to each other’s misery. Together, they would not be in their heartache alone.

  However, in rationalizing the situation, the dreaded “but” kept bubbling up in her mind.

  But…

  But Rose was in love with Robert.

  But Rose had left. She had broken Robert’s heart, and Isabelle understood why, but it didn’t change the fact that her sister had left Robert alone and miserable… and in need of a wife.

  And in the wake of their despair, was it so wrong to seek something that could make the pain just slightly more bearable?

  They had her sister’s blessing, after all. And even though her conscience told her that marrying the love of her sister’s life was wrong, she couldn’t help but dwell upon her own unfortunate circumstances. She needed him, and her sister was gone.

  She really didn’t have a choice. And neither did the Duke. They had to marry. And she had to do this. It wasn’t as though she could marry the duke in the condition she was in at present. She couldn’t marry anyone like this.

  However, it became quickly apparent that there was a flaw in her plan. The three-mile stretch of road was a bit more arduous to traverse than Isabelle had originally expected. She was, after all, a lady who wore half stays and who was unaccustomed to the outdoors. And by the time the haggard barn from the maid’s description came into view, Isabelle’s appearance was that of a weary traveler in need of a decent rest, and an equally decent meal.

  She received no such hospitality.

  When she rapped upon the rough wood door, she was not met with a salutation, or even a
kind face peering out at her through an opening. The door did not so much as give the slightest indication that it was going to budge. All there was to greet her was the barked command from inside, “Come in!”

  Isabelle stiffened as fear rioted through her. But she could not give that emotion a place. If she did, then it would open the door for the other, much more powerful emotions to emerge, and she didn’t believe she could survive them if they did.

  So, Isabelle straightened her shoulders and pushed open the heavy door that creaked with every inch it moved. The sound was eerie and spiked her senses. She was all too aware of where she was, what she was about to do. What was about to take place.

  She swallowed convulsively, wringing her hands together, trying to find some semblance of the calm demeanor she was so easily able to normally display. But when she spoke it was only to find her voice sounding as anxious as her nerves. “H-Hello,” she stammered, closing the door and stepping into the room. “I don’t know if you received my, um, my letter. I sent it along before me, yesterday.”

  “I got it,” the large woman barked, not turning from her work table to face her.

  “Okay,” Isabelle said hesitantly, waiting uncomfortably for the woman to turn so that she might converse with her face rather than her back.

  When she still did not, Isabelle started, “Well, my name is—” but she was cut short with the woman’s loud, “We don’t deal in names here.”

  “Um, okay, then, well, I suppose you know why I am here.”

  “I do.”

  “Okay,” Isabelle repeated, more unsure of herself than she had ever been, and more than a little bit annoyed with the woman’s distasteful manners. “So should I wait here or do I—”

  She was again cut off by the woman, who stood, coming to her full height, which towered over Isabelle even from across the space.

  Isabelle couldn’t help the gasp of surprise from passing her lips.

  “You are certain this is what you want, yes?”

  Isabelle’s eyes fell to her boots peeking out from beneath the hem of her dress, now flecked with flakes of wood pellets that covered the timber floor. “Yes.”

  “You understand there are certain dangers to this procedure.” A fact, not a question.

  Isabelle looked up abruptly, meeting the woman’s eyes. Of course she knew there were dangers, but this woman’s grave tone made it seem as though her death was almost surely certain. Or maybe that was simply the tone of her voice. Either way, Isabelle didn’t like the implication.

  Isabelle answered cautiously. “I… um—I do.”

  “Good. It will hurt, but nothing in life is without pain,” the woman remarked.

  It was surprising to Isabelle just how philosophical the giant of a woman sounded in that moment.

  Nothing in life is without pain.

  Isabelle’s eyes scanned her dim surroundings, landing on the stained wooden table in the center of the large room. It looked as though it had belonged in a field hospital during the war.

  The table, the room, was swarming with flies.

  Isabelle lifted a handkerchief to her nose.

  Nothing in life is without pain.

  Yes, the procedure would be painful, but how much pain was she sparing herself from long-term? How much pain and disgrace would she be sparing her family from? Her sisters?

  Nothing in life is without pain.

  But life wasn’t supposed to be easy or without pain. It was meant to be difficult. If moving mountains was meant to be easy, they all would have been flattened years ago. And then where would they be? There would never be a top, a summit for people rejoice on once they reached it.

  How dull life would be without that motivation.

  The woman directed her to move further into the room, adding, “I require payment in advance.”

  Isabelle backed up unconsciously, knocking into a small table covered with metal instruments that jingled against each other as the table teetered on its spindly legs, before it tumbled, tossing the equipment to the floor. She stood staring at them lying there, the bits of them that weren’t rusted twinkling in the sunlight filtering in through a break in the roof.

  Bile rose in the back of her throat at the sight, at the sound, at the movement, at the thought.

  The woman cursed loudly and strode over to her, which broke Isabelle out of her trance. She jumped at the sudden nearness of the Titan of a woman who reduced Isabelle to feeling every bit the size of an ant. Beads of sweat bubbled to the surface of her brow. Terrified, she thrust her purse of coin into the woman’s chest, muttering, “I have to go. I must go.”

  She was off like a shot, not caring in which direction she headed, just needing to be away.

  Nothing in life was without pain, and yet the most difficult decision of her life was also the easiest.

  For in her belly grew the last link to her love.

  Six weeks. That’s how long it had been. Six weeks since she had fallen in love and let her swollen heart make a reckless mistake.

  Captain Andrew Carver of the King’s army had accompanied her brother, Charles, when he’d stopped at home weeks before her mother’s house party in April. The visit had been brief, but Isabelle had already known it was love. She knew it from the moment of their introduction. And it was confirmed in their private interludes together. And reconfirmed when he returned.

  He been an unexpected addition to the house party her mama had thrown nearly three weeks earlier and had come at her explicit—and clandestine—request. He’d arrived with her brother the day before the rest of the guests were due. And, as her mama would not let the ratio of gentlemen-to-ladies remain off balance, and it was too late to attempt to find another respectable lady to even out the numbers, Lady Blythe had allowed Isabelle to seize that coveted spot on the young Captain’s arm. Isabelle could not have been any more grateful than she had been in that moment.

  Love started from nothing, a mere attraction, and developed into a breath-taking sense of awareness, a knowledge that she simply could not live without this other person. It was like he was a part of her. As though she all of a sudden had two hearts, only one of them was beating in another’s chest so that she felt Andrew’s happiness, his dreams, his love. And in the future, she knew she would feel his pain, his sorrow, and that when he died, so would she.

  And then he did die.

  And while Isabelle had not died physically, like Andrew, it felt as though something within her had. As if his broken, dead, rotting heart had been placed in her chest and was eating away all of her own organs.

  She swallowed against the painful memories that were forever surfacing.

  It would be easier if love was something tangible, something that could be broken, killed, buried, burned. But it wasn’t. Love—or the loss of it, rather—rotted her to the core, tortured her slowly, painfully, but never finished the job, wouldn’t actually kill her.

  Love was cruel.

  She held her belly as she ran through the thick forest, branches scraping at her face and arms.

  How cruel it was, indeed.

  Why had she been allowed to fall in love for it all to be taken so swiftly away?

  He had been taken away.

  It was really too soon for Isabelle to know for certain about the predicament she was in—it had not yet been six weeks since their intimacies on that first visit. But Isabelle knew.

  Her courses should have started a full week earlier. Her body was as reliable as a clock, always on time. She had never been late. Not for anything, and certainly not for this. She couldn’t entertain the false hope that this was merely a coincidence.

  Besides, this was exactly what would happen to her.

  She had always been a troublemaker, always going against the rules, against the grain. And for years she had allowed her elder sister to protect her, allowed Rose to accept punishment in her stead, while she pretended to be innocent. But Rose wasn’t here any longer and, even if she were, she couldn’t protect Isabelle in this
.

  It was just as well. It was high past time for Isabelle to face up to her transgressions and receive her just desserts.

  What more humiliating a punishment than to bring into this world a child with no father to speak of? A father who was buried six feet deep in the soft May earth, taken from this world because of a foolish, reckless mistake, for riding too fast on an unfamiliar road.

  She closed her eyes as she pictured the horrific accident that had stolen the love of her life from life. Picturing his spilled blood and imagining the carnage of the scene made bile rise up her throat as her feet stumbled along the uneven earth.

  He was dead. Could it really be?

  It seemed like just yesterday he was following her father to London to ask for her hand and with promises made to her to return immediately after his permission was granted. But he never came back. The only thing that returned was her brother’s response to her own letter, her inquiry as to his welfare and that of his kind friend, Captain Carver. Could the news that her brother’s missive bore really be the truth? Could Andrew really be gone?

  But of course she knew the truth. She could feel it. The man she loved was gone, dead, but she was not alone.

  Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision.

  What was she to do now? Where would she go?

  It wasn’t as though she could go home. Her parents would have her thrown out as soon as her condition was brought to their attention—which would no doubt be soon indeed as their spies among the servants were legendary.

  And where else could she go? She had no connections in the world beyond the bonds of sisterhood she had forged with her siblings within the walls of Whitefield Abbey. And her sisters were either gone or no more experienced in the world than she.

  She was on her own this time.

  She supposed she could go to her brother and beg him for help, but there was no guarantee he would provide it. The truth was that she really hardly knew him—Rose was the only one of their siblings that Charles communicated with, at least with any sort of regularity. And how would he react to his sixteen-year-old sister he barely knew turning up on his doorstep, a bastard child growing in her unmarried womb?