After Isobel had finally agreed to the building, the duke had claimed pressing business in London and gone. He’d galloped off, leaving Isobel, heart pounding, cheeks flushed, standing beside the Turnip and Tea, pretending not to memorize his retreating form.
When he was out of sight, when she could no longer feel the warm, firm press of his hand on the small of her back, or smell the woodsy scent of him, she had drifted inside the tearoom and dropped into an empty booth. Even before a fresh pot of tea arrived, she’d taken out her parchment and pen and scrawled out a letter to her mother.
One benefit of having an actress for a mother was never having to pretend to be So Very Good. Georgiana Tinker was bored to tears by Very Goodness.
Instead, Isobel’s mother functioned as a listener, an encourager, and an absolver. For as long as she could remember, Isobel’s mother had helped her reckon with the whipsawed realities of life.
Dearest Georgiana,
Brace yourself, Mummy, I’ve been compelled to put off my September visit. I’m sorry. I can anticipate your maddened state of perishing despair. I’m disappointed too. But pause five minutes and take in the reason.
I’ve been approached by a duke—the Duke of Northumberland (look him up in the papers if you are not familiar)—to assist with rescue efforts on behalf of a lot of stranded English merchants.
Actually, the duke refers to the undertaking as a “mission,” I believe.
We are to assist the stranded countrymen and smooth any ruffled feathers with locals.
The effort should take a little less than a month and will occur mostly in Iceland (yes, you read that correctly).
The duke, who has served years in the Foreign Office, is a decorated officer of some merit. He applied to Uncle Jeffrey and learned—among God knows what else—thatI speak the language and have some knowledge of the culture. Add to this my position as a wholly anonymous Nobody from Nowhere, and apparently I am a dream addition to the duke’s mission.
I was very resistant, said no a hundred times, and was very difficult to convince. In the end, I was won over by a very fat bribe. (Although some measure of coercion and even seduction did figure into the arrangement. He is very handsome and charming, etc., etc. In fact, the duke embodies so many of your favorite qualities. I include this tidbit just for you; pray do not fantasize beyond this observation anddo not gossip about it. We are to be professional colleagues.)
But I digress. The bribe he offered is a small office and flat in Hammersmith, which, as you may know, is a smart village just west of London. The duke owns (for all practical purposes) the high street, and he allowed me to take my pick of unoccupied properties. The gift of the building means that Samantha and I may abandon Everland Travel and Drummond Hooke forever. I may set up my own agency and run the business exactly as I see fit. I can provide for myself, and you, and pay Samantha a decent wage.
I cannot guess which part of this note will give you more joy, but I trust you’ll not begrudge my missed visit. I’ll have you to Hammersmith instead, conveyed by private coach, and you may see the shop and my new flat for yourself.
I’ll remember every moment of my adventure and recount it in colorful detail when we are together again. And I’ll bring back a handful of Norse crystals for your windowsill.
In the meantime, my letters will become sparse as I rush to set sail. Samantha will be available for anythingyou may need—do not hesitate to send for her if necessary. I’ve written separate letters to Mrs. Bean; your staff knows I am unreachable for a time. Carry on as usual; do not think of me except in anticipation of the stories with which I’ll return.
One final thing: the fearlessness required to do this comes only from you, my dear. Please be aware.
What did you always say? “Be memorable, not respectable”?
This adage has rung false to me for so long, as well you know. But here I am, giving it another go. I cling to the hope that there is value in a journey that terrifies me.
What else did you always say? “If a cart blocks the road, and you cannot go around it, or over it, or beneath it, climb into the driver’s seat and take it for a ride.”
Witness me taking up the reins, God help us.
Alright. Enough of that. Please wear your gloves and wide-brimmed hat in the sun—and no more stray dogs. Mummy, please. Mrs. Bean writes me weekly and she is at her wit’s end.
All my love,
Bell
Isobel and her mother got on best in small doses, but their correspondence had always been lively, honest, and thorough. Isobel had begun traveling alone at age fifteen—traversing Europe with a merry band of youths, the children of other actors in her mother’s company. Even in those early days, she wrote her mother daily, extolling all she’d seen and done, spilling out feelings she would struggle to confide in person, accounting for her wild, unfettered life.
When that freedom caught up with her, when she was heartbroken and alone, she wrote to her mother still. Even while Isobel’s aunt and uncle did the difficult work of recovering her and nursing her back to solvency, the correspondence with her mother had been another sort of recovery.
If her mother could not give prudent advice—which, God help her, she absolutely could not—at least she was a loving, adoring sounding board.
Now, watching a docker haul her trunk up the gangplank, she told Samantha again, “I want to go.” Her voice had risen. It was a proclamation.
“Useful—that,” said Samantha. “Because that’s exactly what you’re doing.”
The docker tipped the trunk at an angle, endeavoring to fit it over the lip of the plank. Samantha gasped and shouted at the man. “No, no, no. Not like that. Stop,stop.”
