“I have spoken with both Colonel Archer and Lord Milmouth about a marriage contract.” Gray changed the topic.
“Oh. Have you?” Isla hated the faint tremor in her voice.
Botheration. With Tavish consuming her thoughts, Isla had rather lost the plot on her week here.
“Yes,” Gray said. “Nothing official, naturally. Nothing binding. But all is in readiness.”
“I see.”
You said you would wait for my consent before acting, she wanted to add. Events were moving faster than she had considered.
“Are you going to tell Colonel Archer about your involvement with Balfour?” Gray turned for the door.
“Of course. He deserves to know. But as it is my secret to tell, I thank you for letting me be the one to tell it.”
Gray nodded. Just once. “See that you do. As you said, Malton Hill is your goal. Only my approval will see the estate safely into your hands. I am trusting you to act properly, Isla. Do not disappoint me.”
And then he was gone.
Hours later, Islasat reading before the fire—hair dry now and tied into a thick braid, heart quiet after an evening spent free of her brother and the other house guests.
The hallway floorboards creaked outside her bedroom, and a note appeared under the door.
Isla stared at the folded foolscap, white and damning against the wood.
No need to wonder who it was from. Only one person in this house would be slipping her a note.
She contemplated not reading it. Just tossing it onto the fire and pretending she had never received it. After all, no good would come of deepening her relationship with Tavish at this point.
She had her sights set on Malton Hill and her life there—the laughter of Mrs. White over dinner, the comfort of Dr. Sumsion’s sermons and Mrs. Sumsion’s wry commentary afterward. Isla’s community and the place where her decisions made an impact.
After some pondering, she had decided on a course of action for the now-widowed Mrs. Tippets and her children. The local seamstress, Mrs. Bolton, was in need of a new assistant, and Isla knew Mrs. Tippets to be skilled with a needle. Surely with the right encouragement, Mrs. Boulton would hire her. Moreover, Mrs. Bolton had a wee apartment above her shop where Mrs. Tippets could live and work. Isla would write Mr. Cranston in the morning and propose the solution.
Any interaction with Tavish Balfour threatened to upend the very real good Isla did at Malton Hill.
But the bit of foolscap, stark against the dark floor, caused her heart to pang. Its presence indicated concern and, perhaps, tenderness.
Soft footsteps sounded overhead.
Capitulating, Isla picked up the paper.
YSQ DJO NQWW? VYK . . .
She translated:
Are you well? Tap the ceiling with a poker once if yes. Twice if you require rescuing. Three times, and I shall bring the cavalry.
Isla didn’t wish to smile. She didn’t wish to be charmed.
And yet . . .
Here, again, were shades of her Tavish. Just as in the lake earlier, the moment felt disorienting. A ghost of the past transposed over the present, rendering her light-headed.
The Isla of seven years ago would have tapped three times, daring him to act outrageously.
Now . . .
She picked up the fire poker and, standing on a chair, tapped the ceiling with the handle. Just once.
