“Did he actually help today with the work in the churchyard?” Maria’s delivery was half an octave higher now. “Withyou?”
Isolde nodded slowly. She didn’t dare meet Maria’s eyes.
“Oh my good heavens. Do youlikehim?” This was dramatically whispered.
Eventually Isolde nodded again.
Maria scurried ahead of her, then walked backward so she could look at Isolde’s face. Her own face was a picture of astonishment.
“Isolde, did Mr. Redmondknowyou would be there?” Her sister sounded deadly serious now.
Isolde bit her lip. “I mentioned it under the oaks the other evening,” she admitted.
“Isolde….” Maria breathed a universe of awe, trepidation, glee, worry, and warning into that one word.
“Iknow,” Isolde replied in precisely the same tone.
ChapterSeven
Isaiah departed the churchyard feeling lighter in every imaginable way. Lighter, as if relieved of a burden. But also, as if he could either too easily be blown off some pre-determined course, like a feather, or soar, like a bird.
Lighter, as if his very heart glowed inside him.
He didn’t trust any of this. All of it was wildly new. None of it seemed within his control. All of it therefore felt dangerous, even traitorous to the person he was just yesterday morning, when he’d looked forward to seeing Fanchette Tarbell and her family and to the start of rest of his life.
He’d last seen Fanchette in London a mere fortnight ago. Compared to the vivid reality of Miss Sylvaine’s heart-shaped face, the notion of Fanchette seemed like a half-remembered dream.
His groin tightened at the thought of Isolde’s soft-looking mouth. He swiped his hands restlessly down his face and released a hot, shuddering breath.
Just after the Sylvaine girls departed, the vicar had casually mentioned to Isaiah and Mrs. Sneath that he’d be visiting with an elderly parishioner in her home at about two o’clock for the rest of the week.
So the best and most honorable thing for Isaiah to do would be to stay away from the churchyard tomorrow.
He resolved to send his apologies to Mrs. Sneath.
He realized he had reflexively walked the whole of the way up the hill to Tingle’s Bookshop, so he stopped inside to see whether Tingle had gotten in any recent foreign newspapers.
As he counted out pence for an Italian broadsheet, he was arrested by the sight of a book on the shelf behind Mr. Tingle.
He stared at it in silence for so long that Mr. Tingle was compelled to prod him with a gentle, “Mr. Redmond?”
Isaiah lost the battle with himself. “I’ll have that book as well, Mr. Tingle.” He pointed.
Mr. Tingle’s slight hesitation revealed his surprise. “Very good, sir. A bit of a change from your usual fare, isn’t it?” He pulled it from the shelf and slid it over to Isaiah.
“If you would be so kind as to put it on the Redmond account?” was all Isaiah said as he tucked it under his arm. He was out the door before he finished his sentence.
Isolde clappedthe dirt and moss from her gloves, then stood and stretched. She’d arrived a little after noon, and for the first hour in the churchyard she’d worked companionably yet separately with the vicar, who cheerfully chattered about the virtues of manual labor until he departed at just before two o’clock to visit an elderly home-bound parishioner. She’d assured him she’d be safe enough walking the short distance home soon after; heaven forfend young ladies should remain unchaperoned for more than three seconds.
But she dawdled.
Even so, Mr. Redmond had not appeared at all today. She’d been so certain he would, after yesterday.
The answer to whether she was relieved or devastated by this—a question she’d been entertaining for the past few hours— was moot when she heard the creak of the churchyard gate. Because her heart shot skyward as if it had been smacked with a Pall-Mall mallet.
Her whole being justknew.
He’s calculating, George had said.
