1818_Isabel Page 8

  The cat stood, padding forward to bump her nose against Isabel’s before she jumped down from the bed and made her way to the door.

  “That looked like agreement to me,” Jane conceded. “And she is quite lovely, all gray tabby stripes and those big green eyes.”

  “She is a beauty, isn’t she? I’ll give her up if someone comes to claim her, but in the meantime, she’s Mist.”

  Isabel stood as well, made a quick check of her appearance in the dressing mirror, and opened the bedchamber door for the cat. Well, she’d had no luck finding the famous orb, but she had discovered a kitty. And Adam hadn’t scoffed at her idea for an orangery. In fact, he’d seemed to think it rather brilliant. All in all, a good place to be on her third day at Nimway Hall.

  Downstairs she selected her breakfast from the sideboard and sat at the table to eat. Mist the cat found a sunny spot beneath one of the windows and curled into a gray striped ball – which Simmons stepped over with exaggerated care to present her with a silver platter.

  “A missive arrived for you earlier this morning, Miss Isabel,” he said, lowering the salver with great ceremony so she could pluck the folded piece of paper from it. “And Mr. Driscoll awaits your convenience in the garden.”

  “Thank you, Simmons.”

  With a curious glance at Jane seated across from her, Isabel broke the wax seal, some sort of flower and a fish, and unfolded the letter. “It’s from Lord Alton,” she said, dropping her gaze immediately to the signature at the bottom.

  “The viscount from yesterday?” her companion asked. “You must have made an impression.”

  “Please, Jane.”

  “Well, you said he was handsome.”

  And so he was. Also very self-assured, especially in comparison to her. She shifted her attention to the top of the letter. “Dear Isabel,” she read to herself, “I am writing this immediately upon my return to Blackbridge. Indeed, the words I mean to put down have dogged me for the entire duration of my ride. I—”

  “What does he say?” Jane asked.

  “I don’t know yet. He’s still talking about when he wrote it. Hush.” Isabel settled in again. “I knew you to be a young lady, but I had no idea you would be a reincarnation of the goddess Aphrodite.” She stopped, looking up again. “He says I’m Aphrodite,” she reported.

  “That’s a fine beginning, then.”

  Yes, it was. Fine and flattering. And just so perfect she had to force herself to be at least a little skeptical. “It could also mean he thinks to flatter me because he wants something.”

  Jane lifted an eyebrow. “Of course he wants something. Your hand in marriage.”

  “If that’s so, he’ll have to spend more than three hours in my company,” Isabel noted. There. That sounded very practical. “And half of those were him distracting me while I tried to listen to Adam and the blacksmith.”

  “You’re just teasing me. I know you liked him.” Her companion waved a hand at the missive. “Go on, now.”

  “I’ll just read the rest of it aloud, then, shall I?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Stifling a smile, Isabel cleared her throat. “’In my sudden, overwhelmed admiration, I fear I stepped too far,’” she read, noting that Simmons had ceased even the pretense of straightening things in favor of baldly listening. “’Of course I could not expect you to join me for luncheon without first giving you the opportunity to discover my character and reputation from those around you whom you trust.”

  “Very sensible,” Jane said approvingly.

  “Yes, well, I thought the overstepping to which he referred would be when he suggested I replace my steward with someone of his choosing.” He’d actually inferred someone more competent, but Isabel wasn’t about to say any such thing in front of the servants.

  “Well, he’s more concerned about how you feel toward him, which is understandable.”

  “Are you trying to convince me to swoon for the first man to say hello? Because he needs more to recommend him than having the prime place in the queue of gentlemen callers.” She was a woman of property, after all. Everyone had warned her she would have men at her front door. It just so happened that the first one to appear was very easy on the eyes.

  “Keep reading, then.”

  “Fine. ‘In the hope that you will have done so and that you approve of my character, I will be in East Pennard for market day on Monday next. If you would join me to walk among the stalls, I will be most pleased, and will consider that my initial misstep has been forgiven. If I receive less – a nod, or nothing at all – on that day, it will be enough for me to know that you cannot forgive me, and we’ll speak no more of possibilities. Yours in hope, Alton.’”

  Jane slapped her hand against the tabletop. “Now that is a true gentleman. And a romantic.”

  It did sound very sincere. And a suggestion of possibilities that seemed much less…confining than what she’d felt from him yesterday relieved her greatly. “In retrospect, the suggestion of a luncheon doesn’t seem so very unforgivable,” she said aloud.

  “Indeed.”

  “If…If he passes muster with those here who know of him. Simmons?”

  The butler cleared his throat, straightening from the sideboard. “I…Ah, I cannot speak of my betters, Miss Isabel.”

  “Of course you can. What do you know of Geoffrey Spratt-Bell, Viscount Alton?”

  “If you insist, Miss Isabel. From what I’ve heard first- and second-hand Lord Alton keeps a neat house, divides his time between here and Alton Park in Wells, was once betrothed to a young lady who died of…influenza, I believe, and is generally well-respected by his tenants and staff.”

  “Well, that was very concise,” Jane said, putting her hand over her smile.

  “Indeed, it was,” Isabel seconded. “Do you have a paragraph ready for all the local gentry?”

  “If I did not know your neighbors, their politics, and their culinary likes and dislikes, I would not be a very efficient butler,” the butler returned, lifting an eyebrow. “I could even tell you that he takes a splash of milk and two sugars in his tea, but I believe that knowledge is only of import to the footmen, should Lord Alton come calling.”

  “I am most impressed, Simmons.”

  He inclined his head grandly. “Miss Isabel.”

  It seemed she was going to market on Monday next. Isabel finished her breakfast, her heart much lighter than it had been yesterday, and went off to find Adam.

  He wore a shirt and waistcoat this morning, which disappointed her a little. She was the daughter of a famous sculptor, after all – it might not be proper, but she couldn’t help noticing a fine, well-muscled chest and back when she saw them. And Adam Driscoll was a very fine-looking man.

  Last night walking beside him beneath the stars had been, well, very close to magical. And he’d held her hand twice, assisting her over the rough ground. It had been well after dinner before her mind seized onto reason again enough to remind her firstly that he worked for her, and secondly that he wasn’t the sort of man he’d imagined for herself. A polished, proper husband, someone whose strengths lay in her weaknesses, would be much more beneficial to her standing and reputation with her neighbors – and in London.

  Aside from that, while he’d sent her a few looks subject to interpretation, he’d only touched her when strictly necessary for her safety. He treated her very properly, in fact – warm and friendly but also professional and competent. And that was how it should be.

  Adam would remain for as long as she needed him, and then she would send him away with a very positive letter of recommendation. And whatever she might momentarily dream about his calloused, capable hands or his rare, infectious smile, that was for her to reconcile.

  “You wanted to see me?” she asked, before anyone could accuse her of staring. She stopped above the half-ruined back steps above him.

  He looked up, the furrow between his brows smoothing as he met her gaze. “Yes. Might we sit down somewhere and discuss what
you want in an orangery? With your permission I thought to write up your ideas and my notations on size and location and send them to an architect of my acquaintance in Glastonbury. Or I could deliver them to him myself – unless you had someone in mind.”

  “Perhaps we could both go meet this architect, or invite him here. Whatever we decide must match the architecture of the Hall.”

  He nodded, easily hopping over a pile of rubble as he made his way up to her through the debris. “Yes. A good idea, to have him come here. Nimway Hall is unique and tends to defy description. Without seeing it himself, I doubt he could match its charming, timeless quality.”

  Abruptly she was glad she’d thought of the orangery now, rather than after she sent him away. It wasn’t about extending his employment and keeping him about, of course; while she learned how to be a steward – a guardian – herself, his appreciation for the house and his thoughtfulness about preserving its qualities could only help her do the same later, on her own.

  “The music room?” she suggested. “We can see the steps from there, as well as the lake. All we need is a table beneath the windows.”

  “Excellent. Shall we divide and conquer? Give me a few minutes to direct the lads about where we’re moving the rubble, and I’ll join you there.”

  “I’ll see to the table, then.” And she liked that he’d assumed she could manage a task, even if it was a terribly simple one. Did he know, then, that she meant to take over his position? If he did, it didn’t seem to trouble him – or he was too polite to show any resentment. She hoped it was the former. And she hoped he did realize this wouldn’t last forever, because she didn’t want to see the surprise on his face when she had to tell him.

  For two hours they sat in the old music room, table and two chairs as close to the windows as they could manage. Isabel claimed to have inherited none of her father’s artistic talent, but as Adam watched her sketch delicate wrought-iron filigrees for the doors and windows, he decided she was either unaware of her own skill, or she was being too modest. Given her forthright manner of speaking, he tended to favor the former.

  “Is it too much?” she asked, wrinkling her nose at the latest sketch. “I don’t want anyone pointing at it and thinking, ‘Well, someone’s full of themselves’.”

  Adam chuckled. “It matches the scrolling on the fireplace, which matches the filigree on the wainscoting. It links the house together.”

  She blew out her breath. “Oh, good. I did want to give some additional work to Mr. Coopering, since I pulled the iron railing order out from under him.”

  God, she was perfect. Blinking that abrupt thought away, he took the sketch to make a few more notes about scale and quantity. “With your permission I’ll write Mr. Hodgins the architect and invite him to come out on Monday. You’ll likely be expected to lodge him while he draws up the plans, if that’s acceptable.”

  A muscle in her cheek twitched. “Tuesday would be better. I’d like to see the East Pennard market on Monday.”

  How had he managed to forget the market? Idiot. “Of course. The market will give you a good sense of your community, I think, and I can introduce you to whomever you haven’t met by then.”

  Her cheeks reddened. “Actually, Lord Alton has already offered to escort me, and I’ve accepted.”

  “Ah.” Adam clenched his jaw and decided a few more notations were necessary.

  “What does that mean?”

  “What does what mean?”

  “’Ah’. If you have a specific complaint about the viscount I would like to know it. The two of you clearly share some sort of animosity.”

  That transparent, was he? “As a gentleman, I have no answer to give you,” he returned.

  She glared at him, clearly exasperated. “You’re generally more forthcoming than this, Adam. Has he done you an ill turn?”

  As much as he wanted to declare that Alton’s ill turn was an unforgiveable sin, that had always been a matter of philosophical and moral interpretation. And stating that in general he disliked the man because Bell-Spratt viewed no one with as much care or affection as he did himself, smacked of smallness.

  Adam liked Isabel, but he couldn’t precisely claim the high ground in a battle of propriety firstly when he had nothing to offer a woman of wealth and property, and secondly when using his position in her household had begun to appeal to him. “That is a matter of some debate. He and I would give you opposing answers, and no doubt each of us believes he is in the right.”

  When Isabel reached over to grasp his hand, he flinched. “I don’t know you well, Adam Driscoll, but you do seem an honorable man with a great measure of common sense. Is there something about Lord Alton that troubles you? Surely you have a reason for your dislike.”

  Reasoning out what he wanted to say, Adam slowly looked up to meet her stormy gray eyes. Three days, and he was already lost at sea, drowning in the depths of that warm, clever gaze. Honor demanded that he hold onto the shore, and he gripped the shifting sand with all his might. “I do have a reason. But he may have changed. He seems to admire you, which is a point in his favor. His… The way he views life and those who cross his path doesn’t match well with my own views. You may not find that to be so.”

  She studied his face for several hard beats of his heart, while he held himself back from the mad desire to lean across the table and kiss her. He very nearly broke before she abruptly released his hand.

  “I believe you to be an honest and true gentleman,” she said quietly, and patted the back of his hand as if he were her doting grandfather. “And I hope you will always be so honest with me.”

  Obviously she saw this as a great compliment, an oath of sorts to be given and received seriously. An honor. And he was honored that she trusted him. Being relegated to eternal friendship, though, was another matter entirely, and one he didn’t like. At all. Even so, he nodded. “I will always speak the truth to you,” he said aloud.

  There were merely some things he wouldn’t speak of at all.

  The next two days flew by, with Adam showing Isabel her property and introducing her to every servant, worker, and tenant they could fit into the day. And considering that everyone they met had to share a meal or a drink or at the least a story about their ancestors and hers, the days filled quickly. It slowed them down massively, but the introductions clearly delighted both her and the residents surrounding Nimway Hall. As he listened to each tale, he began to understand how deeply the connection between these tenants and the succession of women in Isabel’s bloodline truly went.

  For a hundred years, two hundred, perhaps a thousand years, Nimway Hall in one form or another had stood, and a woman had been present as caretaker and guardian. And according to nearly everyone, that female was the reason the land had flourished. Some of the stories were so ancient they fell into the realm of myth – and it was in those he first heard about the connection between this place and Merlin, along with his so-called Lady of the Lake. Of all the things Adam might have expected to learn about Isabel de Rossi, a connection to a fairy tale hadn’t been one of them.

  “So the legends have you as a direct descendant of Merlin and the witch Nimue,” he commented, carefully steering the wagon they’d had to borrow up the steep, switch-backed path climbing the escarpment. Orion and Fiore were tied at the rear, the former doing his best to reach the baskets of vegetables that sat among the other gifts from the farmers and villagers.

  Isabel kept her gaze on the widening view of the valley below them. “We should use all this for a feast. They’ve given me far too much, but I didn’t know how to refuse without seeming rude or haughty. Could we host a luncheon in the next week, do you think? Or a breakfast?”

  “With some time to get canopies and extra tables and chairs from Glastonbury, we could. Give me a day or so, but they’ll all need to know as soon as possible.” He considered it. “A luncheon after church might be best; everyone should be free to attend.”

  “Let’s do that, then. Thank you.”

/>   “You’re welcome. But do you intend to let them go on thinking you’re related to myths? That might have been believable two or three hundred years ago, but this is the nineteenth century.”

  “I am related to them. Nimue’s hut was here, where the house stands now. The stories are old, but that doesn’t make them false.”

  “You actually believe that?” She seemed so practical, and well-read, and intelligent. Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked that question aloud, but Merlin and magic? The world wasn’t magic.

  “You say that like you think I shouldn’t believe it,” she said, facing him. “The house, the property, is named after her. The spelling’s changed over the years, but it’s the same Nimway. And Merlin was her love.”

  “And the Giant’s Causeway in Ireland and Scotland was made by the giant Fionn mac Cumhaill tossing rocks into the sea,” he retorted.

  “That’s a tale to explain the odd shaped stones,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “And while I’ve never seen a giant, I’ve never seen stones elsewhere that look like those, either.”

  “Then you believe in giants and Merlin?”

  “And you don’t?”

  “I believe ignorant people make up stories to explain things they cannot make sense of. I do not believe that a wizard can wave his hands in the air and cause one man to take on the face of another, or snap his fingers to light a candle unless he’s secretly holding flints in his fingers.”

  Even as he spoke, he had the feeling that he’d just stumbled into a bog, and that no matter which way he turned or what he said next, he was about to fall in over his head. At the same time, how else was he supposed to react? Going along with this nonsense would be an insult to both of them.

  Her lips tightened. “So you think me an ignorant fool,” she said flatly.

  And the mud closed in around him. “I don’t think you either. I’ve seen evidence to the contrary.”

  “A silly child, then.”

  “Naïve, perhaps,” he hedged. “If you grew up with such tales, of course you must have believed them as a young girl.”