Isolde couldn’t help but give a little shout of bleak laughter. “Mustyou be prosaic when my life is a melodrama?”
“I'm sorry! It’s just that I hate to see you so distressed.”
“You are very sweet, and I’m so sorry you were forced to miss the dancing. The decorations were beautiful.”
“There will be other Pennyroyal Green assemblies, but none will be as memorable as this one, mark my words.”
Maria gave her a noisy forehead kiss and went off to bed.
By the timeIsaiah left his father, everyone else currently residing beneath the Redmond roof seem to have gone up to their rooms. The house was almost desolately quiet.
But perhaps it merely felt that way because his soul was ringing as though it had been battered with a mallet.
The clock showed half past ten.
He settled his body gingerly at his writing desk. He rested his head on his hands and breathed in and out. Raggedly. Slowly.
And then he pressed his fists against his forehead and squeezed his eyes closed and, by sheer force of will, filled his mind with the image of the stunning woman who was expecting a proposal from him.
If he married Fanchette, they would be one of the most envied couples in England.
And any man would feel honored and privileged to make love to Fanchette. Surely it would be no hardship.
Did she love him?
How could she? She didn’t know him. She did not…seehim. Shecouldnot see him. She wasn’t made that way. Perhaps this was his fault. Perhaps they weren’t made that way for each other.
But did this even matter? Was being in love evennecessaryfor a brilliant marriage? Perhaps it was even an impediment? Love could devastate and transport. He knew that now. And the potential for devastation seemed a threat to a peaceful life. He loathed the loss of control.
But what bloody cruel…travesty…of fate was it that he now knew the difference between loving and not loving? Like breathing and not breathing.
He had told Isolde the truth before he kissed her: he found the idea of her distress unbearable.
And yet he was the one who had just caused her grievous pain.
He conjured the feel of her body molded to his, and the hot, sweet taste of her mouth.
Hunger and yearning swept through him. He could not forget. He would never forget.
He placed a badly shaking hand on his chest as if he could still feel the press of Isolde’s head there.
And into that place spilled a cold terror of what life would be like if he never knew that feeling again.
His palms were sweating now.
Blindly, he fumbled for a half sheet of foolscap as if it was a rope thrown to a drowning man. He stared down at it. His breath was a roar in his ears. He reached for the quill. The plume trembled in his hand as he wrote.
My Dearest Isolde,
I have perhaps been too careful the whole of my life; I confess I've not much experience with being a fool, nor with being wrong. But tonight, I have been egregiously both. Nor have I much experience with being humble. Now, with these paltry words, I humbly beg your forgiveness. I only hope against hope that my clumsiness and inadvertent cruelty have not killed completely your feelings for me. I’ve no experience with love either, you see.
For it's true that I love you.
If you can imagine spending all of the minutes of your life with me, meet me at midnight tonight at the oak trees where first we spoke. I think this is best, as the arrival of a harnessed carriage might wake your household. Pack a valise and bring a lamp. We will go at once to Gretna Green, where we will wed. As you know, I have money of my own. Furthermore, as I am my father's only heir, he cannot and will not disown me. I am certain he will come to love you as I do, and it will be my honor to live out all of the minutes of my life with you.
I will live to make you happy, Isolde.
I regret the dishonor to Miss Tarbell but I know she will find a worthy and appropriate match.
