Page 68 of Engaging Sir Isaac

“And?” Jacob prompted quietly.

Isaac turned, slowly, and saw the hopeful expression upon his friend’s face. “And come to you when I struggle.”

“I imagine Esther would be of help, too. And Silas. All of us you count as friends. You are as a brother to all of us.” Jacob rose from his chair. “Will you do that, Isaac?”

Hours of talk had loosened the hold Isaac’s fear, his guilt, had upon him. He was not yet entirely free. But his soul felt lighter than it had since his return from war. “I will. But you may have to remind me, from time to time.” The admission humbled him, and he had to swallow back another display of emotion.

“What of Miss Wedgewood?” Jacob raised his eyebrows and folded his arms over his chest.

“I don’t know.” Isaac shoved a hand through his hair, examining his heart. “I love her. Esther would have me believe—she would say to fight for what I love.”

“I suggest, instead of barreling straight into the thick of it as you did, you give the matter some thought.” Jacob’s smile turned amused. “Those of us who know you best know that you are prone to charge into a fray rather than consider a better strategy.”

A laugh coming from his own throat surprised Isaac, but it dispelled the fog around his heart. “You are right, of course.”

“Of course. I am a vicar.” Jacob grinned. “And your friend. Never forget that.”

“Never,” Isaac promised.

He left without all the answers he sought, but at least felt himself prepared to find them. Prepared to form a plan and to wait, if necessary, until he knew how to approach Millie again.

Because he would go to her again. He would declare his love. New as it was, Isaac was too stubborn to give up on his heart and on her.

Chapter 26

The early morning light did little to settle Isaac’s mind on the matter of Millie. Despite finding a measure of peace in speaking to Jacob the night before, Isaac’s heart still ached. He stayed in bed later than usual, merely thinking.

His heart belonged to her. It did not matter, how little time they had spent together. Nor did it matter that she had trespassed upon his land that first time in order to spy upon him. He knew her and recognized the beauty of her soul, the fiery spirit she possessed, the kind heart she kept guarded.

Jacob had advised him to strategize. Strategize, then, Isaac would.

After he had dressed and eaten enough of a breakfast to stave off hunger pains, Isaac went to his study and started writing out lists. The only practical purpose his work served was to help focus his thoughts. First, a list of things he knew about Millie. Her family, where they lived, how old she had been when her sister eloped, all her little comments about people she knew or wished to know in Society.

Then he made a list of all the reasons he had given his heart to her, and another of all the ways he might help her and her family from their predicament.

Silas would have to be involved, but Isaac would give up his solitary life for her, too.

He stopped. What did that mean, to give up solitude?

Isaac started another list of everything he might do in Society, everything he wished to do, and it was dismally short. He hated crowded ballrooms and parties. Theater boxes would not be so bad, he thought, though the noise of the audience might prove difficult.

His hand started shaking as he imagined it, pictured himself in a box above a hoard of men and women laughing, whispering behind fans. The scents of perfumes, powders, and bodies all stuffed together in one room.

He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes.

“What a joke.” He spoke to the empty room, to himself. “I cannot even pretend to be in that place without falling to pieces.” Sweat had broken out along his brow.

The familiar building pressure in his chest warned him of an attack. Not an attack of French soldiers, but of the enemy within. His own fear. Esther had described her own dark moods as melancholia. But this was not the same. His sister fell into bouts of sorrow, from time to time. But Isaac was not sorrowful.

He was not fearful, either. Merely aware of every little detail in his life that could send him spiraling out of control, into headaches, into a panic.

What the deuce was wrong with him? He need never face war again. Britain would rout Napoleon.

He looked down at his lists. Meaningless drivel, most of it, except what he had written down about Millie. He could not take her into Society. Not as he was.

Isaac went to the largest window in his study and threw it open, hoping the fresh air would take away the smothering thoughts in his head.

Were other soldiers returned from war as plagued as he? Was anyone helping them?