She did not see Jacob when she finally emerged to scan the teeming crowd of beaming neighbors wearing their finest. Or any other Eversea, for that matter.
But she saw Isaiah at once. Mainly because he was standing next to Miss Fanchette Tarbell’s vast powdered hair.
At the picnic earlier today, Isolde had learned Miss Tarbell employed two maids specifically to tend to it. Miss Tarbell’s smile had been small and remote when she’d been introduced to Maria and Isolde, but then her flawlessly lovely features probably frequently made strangers stare impolitely. Perhaps she was hoping to forestall such an eventuality.
Regardless, she’d expended no superfluous charm on the Sylvaines.
Twice during the picnic, a guest had needed to say “Miss Sylvain. Miss Sylvaine?Miss Sylvaine!” to Isolde, because she hadn’t heard a word they’d said. Her head had been clamoring with drama and her senses had remained kiss-stunned. As it was, she’d needed to ask a footman whether she could hang her apron up in the house, as she’d arrived wearing it. She’d surreptitiously transferred her celandine from the apron pocket into her bodice. When she arrived home again, she’d found the shape of it indented faintly against her breast.
It had taken a good deal of effort to avoid Diana Redmond’s eyes through the entire event.
But Isolde fancied she could still feel two icy spots left on her soul by the Redmond patriarch’s penetrating green gaze. It was if he’d known exactly what she’d just done with his son.
Whereas the elder Mr. Redmond was as warm and familiar to Miss Tarbell as if she was his own daughter.
Isaiah did not appear at the picnic.
“He likely felt he shouldn’t intrude when it’s just us ladies,” Miss Diana Redmond explained to Miss Tarbell, nervously.
Atingof foreboding had penetrated Isolde’s distraction. Why would Miss Tarbell in particular be concerned about Isaiah’s whereabouts?
The nebulous suspicion hovering on the periphery of her awareness all week was finally solidifying and Isolde’s head began to feel perilously light.
“Miss Sylvaine. May I have a private word?”
Isolde whirled about to see Diana Redmond, lovely in stylish green, a rope of pearls gleaming at her throat.
Just like that, Isolde’s foreboding amplified from a low hum to a screech.
“Of course, Miss Redmond.”
Diana drew her aside to the wall opposite the entrance, took a breath, and spoke in a trembling rush.
“Miss Sylvaine, I wasn't certain whether it would be kind or unkind to tell you. Or whether it was even my place. And then I thought—if I were you, I should like to know.” She paused for another breath. “Isaiah intends to propose to Miss Fanchette Tarbell. He has been courting her for months. I know he once intended to announce their engagement tonight. I do not think he has yet proposed, as she has only just arrived. But I don’t know for certain.”
All feeling flashed away from Isolde’s limbs. Her entire being jolted as though the floor had just dropped from beneath her feet.
Diana added hurriedly, “I will deny it if you ever say that I told you. I love my brother and I am loyal to him and I will be loyal to his wife. I don’t know why he has behaved as he has. It’s so unlike him. But I don't believe you deserve such treatment. I will never know if I did the right thing by telling you. And I likely will not be able to forgive myself for betraying him.”
Diana’s eyes were beseeching.
How odd that she seemed to be seeking absolution from someone she’d just devastated.
Oddly, for the first time in a long time, Isolde felt almost brutally sober, which is how she realized she’d been in a lovely, dangerous haze for days now.
“You did the right thing, Miss Redmond. Thank you.”
Diana nodded shortly and took herself hurriedly away.
Fanchette had blushingly takenIsaiah at his word when he’d replied, “splendid, especially now that you’re here,” when she’d asked after his health. Fanchette was stunning even when travel-weary, delighted to see him, and full of talk of her new dresses and the events of their journey. Their parents circulated about the two of them in fond, hushed, conspiratorial glee, for they considered the conclusion of the next few days foregone. Isaiah was gently attentive to all, and somehow he said the right things and wore the right expressions and Fanchette gave no sign of noticing that turmoil churned beneath his every word.
He’d walked almost blindly through the woods during the picnic, reverberating from kissing Isolde, excruciatingly aware that a personal Armageddon was fast approaching. His acts of cowardice—kissing her only to run away, then staying away until well after the picnic was over—haunted him.
A swift movement snagged at the corner of his eye: his sister was moving rapidly away from someone.
And that someone was Isolde.
His heart gave a sharp leap. Oh, she was lovely in pink silk. His breath caught when he saw that she wore the rose at her waist.
