Isabella sniffled. “Coffee.”
“Just as you like it.” He waved a hand. “With all the cream, milk, cinnamon…I hope I didn’t forget anything. The list was quite long. But Dr. Norris said you could drink it.”
Unshed tears glistened in her eyes. “Thank you.” She inched towards him and hugged him.
The hug lacked strength, a reminder of how frail she was, but he had to swallow a couple of times. He held her, wondering how they could have a normal life after what had happened.
* * *
Three weeks had passedsince the incident, and Anthony was no less worried about Isabella.
While she’d left the bed and her health had improved, her mood remained gloomy. She was pale, quiet, and ate very little. Spoke even less. She worked in the glasshouse for an hour each day before getting too tired and sleeping for hours.
He’d caught her with puffy red eyes more than once, and he hadn’t had the heart to talk to her about Patrick. Patrick could wait. Her health couldn’t.
He observed her as she was sitting in front of him at dinner. Her beautiful pale-yellow gown with its delicate satin sleeves left her shoulders half bare, but the dress did nothing to brighten her gaunt face. She fiddled with her white soup, twirling her spoon without using it. Her collarbone protruded too much for his liking.
“Would you like something different?” he asked. “Grandmama took care of the menu in the past weeks, but if you feel better, you can order everything you like from Cook.”
“Absolutely.” Grandmama nodded encouragingly.
She nearly jolted. “No, the menu is fine. The soup is delicious.”
“You’re eating like a bird.” Grandmama’s disapproving tone was sweeter than usual.
“I don’t have a lot of appetite. I get easily tired.”
“I think it’s the lack of activity.” Anthony didn’t believe her tiredness had to do with the incident, not physically, at least. “Mrs. Fawcett is organising a public speech to raise support for the women suffrage. Would you like to go?”
“Heavens, no.” Isabella rubbed her forehead. “Too tiring, and I haven’t done anything for the movement in a while. I need to lie down. I’d better go to my room.”
A footman helped her out of her chair.
“I’ll have your dinner delivered to your room.” Grandmama nodded at a footman.
“It’s not necessary.”
“You must eat, darling.” Grandmama gave her a stern look.
She bowed her head. “If you’ll excuse me.”
He stood up as well and followed her with his gaze as she left, shoulders hunched.
“Melancholia.” Grandmother shook her head. “Nasty condition of the soul. I caught her crying in the glasshouse the other day, clenching her belly. She didn’t work at the plants at all. She sat on the bench and watched the fountain.”
“Yes, the gardener told me he’s doing the whole work.” He lowered his spoon, his appetite was gone as well. “I should take her somewhere. Go on a holiday. A change of scenery would do her good.”
“Excellent idea. Where?”
“Our property on Bjørn Island. Plenty of green landscapes, and the sea is beautiful.”
Grandmama gave him one of her incendiary stares. “You must be joking. That forsaken, rainy, gloomy island where the ground is frosted eleven months per year and it’s so close to the North Pole you need five layers of clothes in August? Absolutely not. Perfectly happy people start to suffer from melancholia after spending a couple of hours there. Not to mention the uncomfortable sailing on a boat to reach it. A dark mansion isn’t what Isabella needs.”
“The cliffs are beautiful, and the northern lights are visible from the balcony.”
“Pish. A sickening green glow that lasts fifteen minutes while you freeze to death. Some show. You can get the same effect by drinking absinthe while staring at a fire. At least you’ll be warm.” She wiped her mouth. “Take her to Mytos. The Ionian Sea, the hot weather, and the sunlight will be good for her.”
He hadn’t been on that sweltering, salty island in years. Not his favourite place. “We’ll get ready to leave as soon as possible. You may start packing as well.”
