Isaiah nearly flinched when his father’s hand fell weightily on his shoulder. “All those leaves on the trees. So pretty. And new. And thesame. Indistinguishable from each other in their prettiness. Like most young girls. And most young girls, if they're lucky, will age into comfortable, rather squashy, motherly women, all nearly indistinguishable from each other. We love those kinds of women! They are the bedrock—nay, the featherbeds!—of England! They help make our greatness possible. But that kind of 'pretty' is ephemeral andcommon, Isaiah.”
Common. The word thrummed with pitying scorn.
He gave Isaiah's shoulder a squeeze, then dropped his voice into the confiding, impassioned hush of a man imparting state secrets.
“Now....the value of realbeauty is power. A beautiful wife—a wealthy, exquisitely well-bred, coveted woman, that once-in-a-generation type, the kind your mother was—confersmorepower to an already powerful man. There is no circumstance a man can't conquer with a woman like that at his side. And the envy and admiration of other men—envy and admiration are yet more tools, don't you see, that a clever man can use in business—to persuade, coerce, to beguile. Imagine how you'll look walking into any ballroom with a woman like that by your side. All the eyes...on you. Wanting tobeyou.”
It was quite a speech, as his father's speeches went. Isaiah wasn't unaffected.
For the first time, he wondered why his father so badly needed him to believe it.
He'd always assumed he was being taught about life by a master. And why would he, for instance, question what his fencing master, or chess teacher, taught him? Why should he feel anything but gratitude?
“Was?” He said finally.
His father blinked. “I beg your pardon?'
“You said the kind mother 'was',” he repeated evenly.
He knew a dark, small satisfaction when his father hesitated a heartbeat, clearly nonplussed.
“Yes. Still is, of course,” he replied smoothly.
“I thought beauty was in the eye of beholder, and so forth.” Isaiah furrowed his brow.
His father's jovial expression devolved to cold incredulity, then to disdain, then to slackly dismissive. As if he'd always known, deep down, that Isaiah was bound to disappoint him.
Isaiah braced against a reflexive clutch of panic. He knew it for the tactic it was, but God help him, it found its mark every time. If nothing else, he had learned from his father how effectively someone's love and admiration could be wielded as a weapon against them.
“Surely you're not implying that you find Miss Fanchette Tarbell something other than beautiful, Isaiah.”
Unease uncoiled like a snake in Isaiah's gut.
Had anyone said something to his father about Isolde Sylvaine?
Surely not his sister?
No. He found that difficult to believe.
His father simply had an uncanny talent for sensing weaknesses, and for any changes in circumstances that might affect him. He was fishing. Surely that was all it was.
“Of course not.” Isaiah smiled slightly. “She's not only extraordinarily lovely, she's an exceptionally fine person. I suppose I am merely in a... philosophical mood.”
“I see. Did I send you to school to become a philosopher?”
“I thought I was sent to school to be sequestered from the tawdry influence of the Pennyroyal Green proletariat.”
“Ha!” His father lit with delight. “Proletariat! Do use that word in company, Isaiah. You’d be amazed how many men of business are frightened of words over three syllables! Makes 'em squirm. Although it's true that itdoesn'tpay to mingle overmuch with the Pennyroyal Green proletariat. They're fine people on the whole and it's of course the finest place in all of England to live outside of London, and it's a joy to have merry girls about when they're young. I suppose anyone could take notions, even you, in spring. You've always been such a good son, and I know you'll continue to make me proud.”
He punctuated the last three words with one vigorous back pat each.
Even you.As though he was, of course, exceptional when compared to everyone else who wasn't a Redmond.
It was the strangest sensation. How he'd strived his whole life for his father to view him as exceptional. How he'd always craved his words of approval. He could always count on them to warm him like brandy.
But this time his entire gut had gone cold.
“I can think of no greater honor than to make you proud,” Isaiah told him after a moment.
