Slowly, into the emptiness, like smoke, seeped a bracing fury.
How. Bloody.Dareshe.
Who the bloody hell did she think she was, to cast aside his heart? To shun this opportunity to be aRedmond? The littlenobodyof a girl who had made himwhinny. Who had nearly caused him to bring shame upon his family, to defy his father, to shirk his duty? She had made himridiculous.
He suddenly had a vision of how pathetic he must look standing there: Look at that fool who had written a love letter throwing away his future, only to be rejected by a silly girl!
He was as choked with rage as if he was trapped in a burning room.
He fumbled in the pocket of his coat and found the small knife he always carried with him. He viciously tugged his hand free of his glove and touched the blade to his fingertip until blood beaded.
And then he whirled and with a grunt plunged the point of his knife into the tree as if it was his own heart. As if in so doing he could excise it from his body, and with it, all pain, all grief, all hope, all love, anything at all that meant Isolde.
He dragged the knife down, down, gouging a deep, straight line.
Heaving with ragged breaths, he stared at it.
It looked like an “I”.
He traced it with his bleeding finger.
And then he knew what to do.
One after another, he deliberately, deeply scarred the tree with six letters.
I-S-O-L-D-E.
High enough up on the trunk, deep enough into the branches, small enough so that it would be disguised from the road. So that likely no one would ever see it, apart from a squirrel or two.
But for the rest of his life, every time he walked by these trees, he would be reminded of this shame, this folly, this narrow escape.
He stood back. Sweat glued his hair to his forehead; his harsh, swift breathing seemed deafening in the dark.
He absently rubbed at his chest. As if he could feel those letters permanently carved into his heart. A secret mutilation.
He took himself home.
Isaiah awokeon top of his bed a few hours later. The maids had not yet been in build up the fires, and silvery dawn light was pushing through the gap in his drawn curtains. He was fully clothed, down to his boots. His eyelashes were sticky and his cheeks felt rough from salt. He had wept like an exhausted child when the blessed, numbing fury, a temporary defense, eventually proved no match for the enormity of his grief. For the slashing pain and disbelief of loss.
He wasn’t quite sure whether he’d wept from relief or devastation or some shameful combination thereof. Either way, his heart was broken.
And he wasn’t going to bloody weep ever again.
He lay still for a long time, familiarizing himself with the heaviness of his body in this new world. This was the version of himself he would need to live with for the rest of his life.
It seemed his decision about what to do next had been made for him.
ChapterTwelve
Jacob’s father and mother sat alongside each other on a gold brocade settee, wearing matching frowns. Jacob sat in a chair across from them, nursing a cup of coffee.
His parents had returned from Hampshire early yesterday evening, ecstatic to find their beloved son home and eager to hear all about his trip. They had decided to rest instead of attending the assembly.
And yet, somehow, magically, they’d heard all about the uproar with Isaiah Redmond before Jacob was even out of bed this morning.
Jacob’s head ached. He’d scarcely slept five hours in the past several days.
“I heard you wereastrideRedmond. As though he was a horse you were trying break.” This was his father.
