She balls her hands into fists, crumpling the paper, then smooths it out again to jot down her response.NO! Not in a million years—that’s what she wishes to write. But Lieutenant Sowerby is Harriet’s friend and the twin corsets of propriety and custom dictate her polite acceptance.I should be delighted,she writes. She hesitates, feeling as if she should say more, but not finding anything, she folds the note and hands the boy two pennies for his trouble.
In the garden, she stands watching the river, the point where it shifts into the sea, her hands at her back. She takes in the choppy waves, the smell of seaweed, and the white flashes of gulls circling the boats and holds the view in her mind, the way one holds one’s breath, until she exhales, pushing away all thoughts of Lieutenant Sowerby and what he may wish to discuss with her.
The morning of Harriet’s dinner party dawns in a ruffle of sudden nerves. She belongs at Weatherston Hall, she tells herself as she struggles with the hooks on the back of the muslin gown. One of them slips for the second time and she groans. Whom is she trying to fool? She doesn’t belong in a place like that, not anymore.
Lieutenant Sowerby arrives a few minutes before three and they set out along the coastal path together, him leading his horse, her trying to hide the swirl of nerves and distaste inside her. “I’m so very pleased to accompany you,” he says after a while. “I’ve given much thought to your situation since our last meeting.”
When you snuck around my house at night,she thinks. She says, “Have you?”
“Indeed I have. It grieves me that you are forced to live as you do.I ask you, madam, would your late husband not wish to see you protected…provided for, cared for, even, by one capable of defending your person?” He pauses to wipe his face with his sleeve, then adds fervently: “And by one who holds the deepest admiration for your character, your virtue and rank?”
Her gaze falls on his hand, holding the horse’s rein; the same hand that put the noose around Jed Ferries’s neck. She says, “Forgive me, I cannot—I could not consider—”
“I beg your pardon, my dear lady. I understand you’re still filled with grief for your husband, a hero of Trafalgar; indeed, if I may say so, one of Lord Nelson’s band of brothers. I shall not encumber you with a formal offer at present—would not wish to presume…But if I might see more of you, I am sure that—”
“Look, a ship!” she blurts. They’re at the point where the land falls back and the wide, blue-gray expanse of the ocean stretches to the horizon. Far in the distance, a small fishing boat with a single mast tacks its way back to the mouth of the river. Watching it, the yearning rises in her, overtaking her—if only she could sail away on that boat, on any boat, or swim and feel the water’s tranquillity settle under her skin as she escapes.
Tearing her gaze away, she starts up a mindless chatter—anything to keep Lieutenant Sowerby from revisiting the subject he has just broached. She doesn’t stop until they reach the gate of Weatherston. The wall around the grounds is of old stone, but it’s well kept and there’s hardly any moss on it. The guardhouse stands empty, two stories tall. They walk up the long drive, which loops around a terraced rose garden and comes to rest in front of the house’s facade.
Four stories of blind windows and admonishing chimneys stare at her from the same gray stone as her cottage, but it’s all so well arranged the effect is one of light rather than darkness. The house is as large as Woodbury. The windows are tall and grouped together in the Elizabethan style, and behind one of them there’s a movement, a flicker of something, a looking glass, perhaps, or a piece of silverware catching the light.
A black carriage stands in front of the steps leading to the double-fronted entrance. A man in livery opens the door and helps out first a stocky, gray-haired lady in a maroon velvet gown too hot for the weather and then a bewhiskered man holding a wooden box, whom Lieutenant Sowerby greets enthusiastically. Isabel hangs back, battling the desire to turn around and run home.
But then Harriet, resplendent in peach-pink silk, steps out saying, “I thought that was you, Isabel, I’m so pleased you’re here,” and, “Let me introduce you to our friends,” as she throws her arm about Isabel’s shoulders and ushers her through the doors.
Inside, one of the footmen takes her bonnet and the silk gloves she was so glad she kept. There’s a flurry of introductions, first in the cavernous, black-and-white-tiled entrance hall to Mr. and Mrs. William Tredinnick of the Lanart mine, then in the light, open space of the drawing room to Mr. Frederick Pickford, a portly man in his early forties who looks as though he’s carrying twins under his waistcoat.
“Mr. Pickford owns Tregowran mine, six miles from here,” Harriet says. She takes Isabel by the arm as she sweeps through what she calls the green room, suggesting a rainbow of other drawing rooms elsewhere in the house.
Harriet’s husband, Sir Hugh Darby, proves a bit of a shock. Isabel expected a young man, perhaps a few years Harriet’s senior, as handsome as Harriet is lovely. But Sir Hugh is at least thirty years older than his wife, with a face as lined as a shelf of ash wood and a manner as austere as his unadorned black coat. He could be her father. Grandfather, almost.
Isabel glances at Harriet and her new friend gives her a small smile, as if to say,now you know why I didn’t want to be late for dinner.She remembers Harriet’s comparison of her marriage to a walled garden and feels all the bitter luck of her own freedom.
The silk wallpaper shines in the late afternoon sun dipping through the windows. It’s a vivid grass green, with furnishings to match: green silk brocade seat coverings, a settee of cream and green satin. A marble fireplace reigns over one side of the room, the other holds aselection of paintings spread across the wall, ancestors of Sir Hugh in doublets and codpieces, in a variety of uniforms, in long coats and tall powdered wigs. The room smells of tulips arranged in large vases on various tables and sideboards and of the sweaty perfume of the guests. The servants are in a dark blue livery so similar to what they used to wear at home in Greenwich she half expects to look up and see a familiar face filling her wineglass. But no, it’s a different servant, with a different smile, polite, detached. She feels like an imposter standing here with her glass; she had her arms up to her elbows in dirty washing not four hours ago.
The sinking feeling in her stomach deepens when she spots Lieutenant Sowerby making his way across the room with another officer of the Revenue Service at his side. They each carry a gold-colored drink in a small crystal glass. She looks for an escape—perhaps she could go stand by the window and admire the view of the garden, but before she can move, Harriet takes her elbow and turns her in the direction of the two men. “May I present Lieutenant Charles Sullivan?” she says. “Lieutenant Sullivan, this is Mrs. Isabel Henley, come to grace us with her presence all the way from London.”
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,” she murmurs, scanning the room as she curtsies.
Harriet says, “Isabel, I believe you’ve met Lieutenant Arthur Sowerby.”
Lieutenant Sowerby pops a comfit into his mouth and chews. Drops of perspiration stick to his hairline. “Mrs. Henley and I came together, my dear Lady Darby.”
“Did you?” Harriet says, raising her eyebrows.
“You look awfully becoming tonight, Mrs. Henley,” Lieutenant Sowerby says, chewing. “Pray, is that true Indian muslin?”
“I…yes. Thank you.”
She half turns away, looking for something, someone, and Harriet is saying, “That’s everyone, my dear Isabel, apart from…Oh, there you are, Mr. Carlyon. May I present my dear friend Mrs. Isabel Henley. Isabel, this is Mr. John Carlyon.”
Isabel pivots, steps, stumbles, and there is Jack, saying, “Mrs. Henley, it’s an honor.”
He has caught her by the shoulder and lets go the moment she steadies herself. She searches his face—he is as surprised as her, she thinks, but has recovered quicker. There’s a flicker of pain, too, as he straightens up, but he masks it instantly.
What is he doing here? Should he even be out of bed? Three weeks’ rest, the doctor said. It has only been two. His eyes are bluer than she remembers, his face both more angular and more deeply tanned, and standing like this, he’s taller, too. It’s as if in the bright light of the late afternoon sun pouring through the windows everything about him has become intensified—so, too, the way he’s looking at her. She feels it in her stomach, a low, liquid-like fluttering. The room spins. Two worlds have collided and she’s reeling from the impact.
Her mind reaches for his name—his full name, she realizes with a second jolt. She knew it’d be John, as Jack is the usual diminutive, but there are so many Johns, she never expected…“Mr. Carlyon,” she says, curtsying. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. I…” Again her thoughts stretch and reach. “Have you had the pleasure of visiting Weatherston Hall often, sir?”
