“Mrs. Henley,” Harriet says, her voice as small as her mouth. “I wish so very dearly I could say the same.”
At first she doesn’t catch Harriet’s tone. Or maybe she does, but the words don’t register. Her mind is racing ahead, following the same rhythm as her feet did earlier:Jack, Jack, Jack.“There’s been an accident,” she says. “Jack—Mr. Carlyon is in trouble. He—”
“Jack?Jack?Really, Mrs. Henley,” Harriet says, and now Isabel catches her friend’s tone: layers of disappointment and disapproval. Harriet says tightly, “I wasn’t aware you were on such familiar terms with Mr. Carlyon. As far as I knew you had only met him the one time, when you both dined here at Weatherston. But I see now that I was mistaken. I suppose…” She falters. “I suppose it shouldn’t come as a surprise, given the news I have had from London.”
A wobbling pause, then Harriet bursts out, “I thought we werefriends, Isabel! I thought I had at last made a friend my own age and of my own rank here in the wilderness! How could you not have told me? How could you have let me tarnish my reputation by associating with you, without warning me why you left London?”
Thatis what this is about? She cannot have this, not now. She cannot let the rumors about her and James come between Harriet and herself, endangering her one chance to help Jack. “Harriet, whatever you’ve heard—”
“No.” Harriet holds up her hands, palms out, as if to ward off a dangerous creature. She shakes her head again. “No, Isabel. I feel such a fool. Of course there was a reason you came here. Why would anyone choose to leave town and move to this godforsaken corner of the world if she wasn’t hiding something? I’m such a dolt.”
“Harriet,” she says through the tightness in her throat. “You’re not a dolt. Believe me, there’s nothing—”
“And now this with Mr. Carlyon,” Harriet says. “How could you be so—soloose, Isabel? So entirely devoid of respect for morality and for God’s laws?”
“Oh!” Through the pounding refrain in her head, realization dawns on her. “It’s not like that, Harriet dear—”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Jack—Mr. Carlyon, he’s my fiancé. I know it’s quick, but we both feel a very strong attachment. I couldn’t hide my happiness from you, my dear friend, so I called him by his familiar name when perhaps I shouldn’t have—not yet. But I’m afraid he’s in trouble, which is why I’ve come to ask for your help.”
“I should say he’s in trouble, if he were indeed engaged toyou,” Harriet says. “Pray, does he know you carried on with a common sailor in London? One who served under your late husband, no less? Did you tell him before he proposed to you? If he even did, which I highly doubt.”
“Harriet, I…no, I mean…” She’s stuttering, unable to answer her friend’s charge. Harriet is right. She did not tell Jack about James.She should’ve told him when he proposed. But all that matters now is that Jack stays out of the hands of the Revenue Service while she tries to repair the situation.Please let Harriet see sense and help her.
Harriet says, “I thought so. How could you so ill use a friend of mine, Isabel! Well, you may rest assured, he isn’t in trouble any longer on that account. Sir Hugh has availed him of the truth.”
“The truth? Whatever do you mean?”
“Mr. Carlyon paid us a visit not two hours ago.”
Isabel stares, her mouth open. Her breath is coming too fast, it burns in her throat, which still feels raw from when she ran the distance between Helford and Weatherston.
Harriet continues, “He came to beg a favor of Sir Hugh. He had just had some bad news from family up north and had to travel there at once. He was going away for a long time and was in need of pocket money for the journey. There was no time for his bank to arrange it, so he asked if Sir Hugh would be interested in purchasing any of his horses. Sir Hugh was so good as to buy all three that were to remain; the fourth, Mr. Carlyon rode north.” She clicks her tongue as if impatient. “But if you truly were his fiancée, you would know all of this and not look so thoroughly surprised, Isabel.”
“But Iamhis fiancée! What did you tell him?”
“Me?” Harriet puts her hand to her chest. “I didn’t tell Mr. Carlyon anything. But as I had only just heard the news of your shameful conduct in London from my dear friend Violet Hartley, it was at the forefront of both my and Sir Hugh’s minds. So when Mr. Carlyon mentioned he owed you a debt for the use of your shed and asked Sir Hugh to direct a portion of the payment for the horses to fulfill it, Sir Hugh wasted no time in telling him exactly what sort of woman you are.”
Her breath comes faster. The black-and-white-diamond pattern of the floor whirls under her feet. Jack was here. She wants to speak, but her throat has closedup.
Harriet says coolly, “Sir Hugh told me Mr. Carlyon was scandalized, as anyone would be, but he did not show any particular interest in the news. So you see, I don’t believe a word of you being hisfiancée, Mrs. Henley. He would not have acted as he did if you were. I believe you were after him, the way you went after that sailor, because you are what you are—a hussy. I only hope your husband was spared the knowledge before he was killed.”
“It’s not true!” The words free themselves from the cage of her throat. “None of this is true!I—”
“Of course you’d say that. I should like you to leave now, Mrs. Henley. I shall neither receive you in my house, nor call on you again.” When she merely stands there, staring, Harriet says, “Goodbye.” Turning to the door of the drawing room, she calls, “Davis! Mrs. Henley is leaving. Do see her out, if you please.”
Harriet is blurring at the edges. Her mouth is a smear of rosebud-pink as she says, “Sir Hugh will send a man with the money for the lease of your shed. If you had any decency, you’d refuse it. Mr. Carlyon won’t even be here to use it. But I believe decency is a foreign concept to you.”
Harriet turns and goes through the door of the green drawing room, her back a blur. The tiles in the hall are blending together, too, and the front steps, the beds full of roses, a few so heavy they droop on their stems, the sky heavy with the scent of them, and the long winding drive—they are all a blur.
The entire way home, she expects something to happen. Harriet will realize her mistake and come after her. The men of the Revenue Service will charge down the path, ready to question her about the events at Roskorwell. She’ll wake up in Jack’s arms in the hammock aboard theRapide,crying tears of relief.
At the cottage, her heart jumps: the door stands wide open. Someone is here. But no—she left it open in her hurry to go see Harriet. Inside, it’s cool and dark. There’s no food except for a bag of dried beans. She can’t eat, so it doesn’t matter. On the kitchen floor are Jack’s breeches, shirt, and neckerchief. She folds them before placing them on the table. After that she trails through the sitting room and out the back door into the paradise garden. Nothing has changed here. There’s maybe a little more fleabane blooming on the wall, but that’sall. The grass is the same, the well, the trees. She sits on the whitewashed bench and pulls up her knees, wrapping her arms around them. She sits very still. If she moves, she’ll cry again.
A robin lands on the table, pecking at a crumb or maybe a flake of paint. She watches the bird until it flies away, listening to the lapping of the sea-river at the foot of the wall and hearing the voices in it.Come home,they say, but there is no going home, because her home is where Jackis.
She misses him; aching, hollow. It’s only been a few hours. She isn’t sure how she’s going to get through the next day and the one after that.
