Page 26 of Isabel and the Rogue

Thankfully, Sirius eventually found a book to hold his attention. With a boot propped on his desk, a glass of brandy dangling from his fingers, and his thoughts now occupied with the tale of a silly Frenchwoman squandering her life by always wanting more, Sirius did not note the knock on the study door for several moments.

Swallowing a sigh, he slid his finger in between the pages to mark his place. “Yes,” he called.

The door opened to reveal Stanley, his butler. “There’s a man at the back door.”

Closing the book with a thud, Sirius set it aside and rose to his feet. “Did you tell him he’s welcome to visit at the front door?”

“I did, sir.” Although Stanley’s expression and tone changed not one whit, he somehow managed to infuse his words with censure. “But the fellow insisted on meeting you in the back garden.”

Sometimes pride was all some men had. Sirius repeated this mantra as he made his way through the darkened halls and down the servants’ stairs to the kitchens. Cook had already stirred the fire in the stove and put a kettle on the grate, and he flashed her a smile of thanks as he passed. As Sirius stepped through the back door, his eyes took a moment to adjust to the scant lighting in the garden before he spied a tall figure near the gate. He made his way in that direction without a word, gravel crunching under his boots. Coming to a stop several paces away, Sirius planted his feet as he linked his arms behind his waist. He wanted to appear approachable and friendly, but nighttime visits also warranted discretion.

“I’m Captain Sirius Dawson. I was told you asked to speak with me.”

The man snatched the hat from his head and pressed it to his chest, swaying back and forth on his feet. “Wilson mentioned you help former soldiers. That true?”

Swallowing, Sirius nodded. “I try.” Whether it was helping veterans from the Crimea, or any of the other conflicts the military had participated in, he did his best to help the men find employment or lodgings or even access to medical care. A steady stream of former soldiers found their way to him, referred by other men he’d helped. It wasn’t something he advertised, but nor would Sirius turn away a man who needed assistance. Almost every person he employed at Dancourt Abbey was a former soldier or the family member of a former soldier, the old nunnery providing the idyllic place to recover and thrive. The Crown did so little to help those who had protected it, whether on English shores or abroad, and Sirius considered his efforts one small way to atone for having returned when so many others did not.

“Me name’s Jack. Jack O’Brien. Rifleman, Fifty-Sixth Regiment.”

Sirius bit back a whistle. The Fifty-Sixth’s most notable action was in the siege of Sevastopol, where they earned great honors. That a soldier of the Fifty-Sixth needed his help was a travesty because the allied forces should have rewarded him as a hero.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. O’Brien.” Sirius looked over his shoulder to spy Stanley lingering on the back steps. Cook must have refreshments prepared. “Would you like to come inside for a cup of tea? We can speak further in some comfort.”

The Irishman shuffled on his feet for a moment, glancing down before he finally nodded. “I’d be obliged.”

With a nod, Sirius led the way back up the walk, his mind now absorbed with how he could assist O’Brien. He was thankful for the distraction.

• • •

Isabel kicked off her slippers and fell face-first onto her bed, a multitude of emotions churning through her blood.

After almost two weeks of receiving no word from her parents, the sisters had been summoned to have breakfast with Tío Arturo, who had news from Mexico, at his residence on Halkin Street in Belgravia. Over a meal of fried huevos, frijoles, bacon, sausage, and fruit, her uncle read aloud the letter he had received from their mother. Isabel had linked hands with Gabby and Ana María as her mother’s missive explained that Presidente Juárez and his officials had found refuge in northern Mexico, but she did not specify where. Thankfully, they were safe if a bit exhausted. Gabby had promptly burst into tears at the news, and Isabel envied her ability to openly express her feelings. Ana María had wrapped Gabby in an embrace…and Isabel had longed to join them. She had ached to be held by the two people in the world who understood the terror they had experienced as they waited for word of their parents’ safety. To give comfort and receive it in return.

But Isabel did not ask, and although Gabby had clung to her hand as if it were a lifeline, neither she nor Ana María had made any attempts to embrace her. Her rational mind told her this was because they did not wish to make her uncomfortable. Isabel appreciated their regard…but if she had ever longed for an embrace, it was in that moment.

Their mother’s letter ended with her customary prayers for her daughters, and Isabel could almost hear her voice as Tío Arturo read the words. There was no inscription from their father. Not that Isabel had expected one. The only time Elías Luna deigned to write his daughters was when he had reprimands to impart or instructions to give. Isabel counted herself lucky that he seemed to forget about them the rest of the time.

They left their uncle’s house in lighter spirits than when they had arrived. After saying goodbye to Ana María and Gideon, Isabel and Gabby returned to Yardley House, where they were granted a short respite before they departed yet again for a picnic. Lady Vale was known to be a consummate gardener—although Lady Yardley confessed on the carriage ride to Vale House that the countess did not actually garden herself but hired others to do it for her. “As if Eleanor would ever pull a weed or touch a ladybird willingly,” Lady Yardley had scoffed, much to Gabby’s delight.

But even the viscountess and Gabby could admit that the gardens at Vale House were impressive. Terraced flower beds overflowing with blooms of every shape, size, and color snagged the eye wherever one looked, and the air buzzed with the sound of bees and the chirp of birds that flitted here and there, snatching insect morsels where they could. Isabel quickly learned to be careful when she sniffed a blossom, as an older gentleman was stung on the nose by one such startled bee.

The terraced steps eventually gave way to cobblestone pathways that led through a small grove of oak trees to a grass clearing on the river Thames. Strands of creeping thyme and the occasional wildflower sprouted in between the stones, while others were hugged close by springy moss, giving the pathway an otherworldly feel.

Isabel had lingered at the back of the group as they meandered down the trail, determined not to be rushed as she filled her senses with the beautiful environment. At one point on the walk, Isabel had lingered in a patch of sunlight stealing through the heavy boughs above, her face turned toward the heavens and her eyes closed. So much about her life in London overwhelmed her. Whether it was the busy social schedule, the feeling of constantly being under a microscope, or the always present pressure to find something—anything—to help Mexico end this cursed occupation. Her stress had only been magnified in the time since they learned of their parents’ dangerous flight, and Isabel had not been able to regain her footing.

Yet in that moment, with her face bathed in sunlight, Isabel had been at peace.

That peace did not last long, for lunch proved to be a noisy affair. Thick cotton blankets were spread out over the lawn, and footmen served mini ham sandwiches, cold egg salad, roasted chicken, and an assortment of root vegetables. Isabel choked down her meal as fast as was polite so that she might wander through the oak grove by herself again. Much to her frustration, though, she had been roped into a conversation with Lady Vale. The countess had heard talk that Viscount Westhope was paying her court, and the older woman had plied Isabel with questions that left her prickly with embarrassment. Isabel had done her best to deflect, stating that she and Lord Westhope were merely friends.

“I heard he’s come to call several times.” The Countess of Vale had looked at Lady Yardley with a twinkle in her eye. “Have you ever heard of a man calling so frequently on a young woman he considered a friend?”

Isabel had sent the viscountess a dirty look when she stated she had not. And Gabby proved no help, for she regaled the elderly countess with stories of Lord Westhope’s attentions toward Isabel, and her head had been filled with daydreams about pushing Gabby into the Thames.

Thus, the conversation about Lord Westhope and the time they had spent together over the last fortnight was on Isabel’s mind as she weaved her way through the oak grove at Vale House, and later as she dressed for the Westhope ball. She had never had a man pay her any particular regard. With a charming older sister and a vivacious younger sister, Isabel was used to being overlooked.

As she considered her reflection in her dressing table mirror now, Isabel thought of her abuela Sesasi. Isabel’s earliest memory was of her. She couldn’t be certain of the setting, for in her memories it was an obscure, colorless space. But she would have recognized her abuelita anywhere. Perhaps because Isabel saw so much of her whenever she looked in the mirror.

Rarely had Isabel and her sisters visited Abuela Sesasi at her home in that small mountain village in Michoacán, for their father was loath to be away from the capital city. Yet some of her happiest memories had been in her abuela’s casita nestled in the terraced steppes her tíos farmed. In the mornings, Isabel would awaken to the scent of flor de mayo in the thick, moist air, and she knew it would be a good day. Abuelita Sesasi had taught her how to prepare tortilla dough and the delicious champurrado that she always craved, as well as how to mix the dyes for the rugs she weaved expertly on her handloom. And every night before bed, she would brush out Isabel’s hair. She could close her eyes and still hear her abuela whisper to her in Purépecha, “You have my hair, mi hijita, but it’s so much more beautiful on you.”