Lady Isabella's Scandalous Marriage
Page 34
“They won’t let me in, they won’t tell me. I don’t know what is happening.” Tears poured from her eyes. “They won’t tell me whether Beth’s all right.”
Mac’s strong arms came around her, and the world stopped spinning. He smelled of the outdoors, of smoke and soap, the comforting scents of Mac. He said nothing at all, not wasting time on platitudes or false comfort, and for that she was grateful. Mac knew good and well why Isabella was so worried, and he knew that Isabella’s fears weren’t groundless. He simply held her like a moor in a safe harbor, and Isabella clung to him without shame.
They stood for a long time, Isabella’s head on Mac’s shoulder, while sunshine warmed them through the western windows. The dogs quieted, settling down where they could keep an eye them.
The sun was on level with the horizon when the doctor emerged from Beth’s room and said quietly to Isabella, “You can see her now.”
Isabella tore herself from Mac and rushed to the bedroom, not even waiting to ask the doctor whether all were well.
Chapter 10
The evil rumor that the Scottish Lord has taken up with a lady of Lesser Status has been refuted by all and sundry, and proven to be False. His Lady seems happy to have her Lord returned to her after another sudden absence, and the entertainments once again flow in the Lord and Lady’s home.
—January 1877
Beth lay under the covers, her face pale above a lace-collared nightgown. Ian, in his kilt and shirtsleeves, stretched out beside her, one large, brown hand splayed across Beth’s abdomen.
“Poor Isabella,” Beth said as Isabella closed the door. “I didn’t mean to give you such a fright.”
Isabella crossed to the bed, sank onto the chair beside it, and clasped Beth’s fingers between hers. “Are you all right?” she asked shakily. “The baby?”
“Is fine,” Beth said, smiling. “And I’m in good hands, as you can see.” She looked fondly at Ian, who’d not glanced up at Isabella’s entrance.
“Thank God.” Isabella bent her head over their clasped hands. The simple prayer poured out of her heart. “Thank God.”
“I really am fine, Isabella. I became overheated, that is all, first jumping up and down for the races and then sitting inside the stuffy tent. Also, my lacing was too tight, and you saw me gobbling up all those cream cakes.”
Her voice was light, ready to make a jest of the whole event. How silly I am, she was saying. And haven’t I paid the price? Isabella closed her eyes and rested her forehead on Beth’s hand.
Beth stroked her hair. “Are you crying, Izzy? I truly am all right. What is it, darling?”
“Isabella had a miscarriage,” Ian rumbled beside her.
Through a wash of painful memory, Isabella felt Beth start, heard her shocked exclamation.
“Four years ago,” Ian went on. “She was at a ball, and I had to take her home. I couldn’t find Mac. He was in Paris.”
Beth took in Ian’s disjointed sentences without question. “I see. Goodness, no wonder you two rushed me here in such alarm.”
“The child was a boy, three months gone,” Ian went on, reducing the most terrible event of Isabella’s life to short, exact phrases. “It took me five days to find Mac and bring him home.”
Five days in which Isabella had lain alone in her bed lost in the blackest melancholia she’d ever experienced. She’d thought at one point that she’d die; she hadn’t the strength to fight to live. But her body had been young and strong, and she’d recovered physically though not in spirits.
“And for that, I’ve never forgiven myself,” Mac said behind her.
Isabella raised her head to see Mac standing in the doorway, watching her with somber resignation.
“I’ve told you,” Isabella said. “You couldn’t have known it would happen.”
Mac unfolded his arms and walked into the room with slow, measured steps. “You were the person I most treasured in the world, and I wasn’t there to take care of you. You were right to hate me.”
“I didn’t . . .” Isabella trailed off. She had hated him at the time, hated that she’d had to suffer her grief alone. She’d also hated herself because she’d instigated the argument that had made Mac disappear two weeks before the miscarriage. She’d lashed out at him, telling him she was tired of his constant drunkenness and wild escapades with his equally drunken friends. Mac had decided, as usual, that the best thing he could do for her was to leave.
“I don’t hate you now,” she amended.
Mac sent Beth a faint smile. “Do you see what a very wretched life Isabella led with me? I made her miserable, alternately smothering her and then deserting her. Most of the time my head was fuddled with drink, but that’s no excuse.”
“That is why you became a teetotaler,” Beth said, understanding.
“Partly. Let that be a lesson to those who overindulge. Drink can ruin a life.”
Isabella rose with a rustle of skirts. “Don’t be so dramatic, Mac. You made a mistake, that is all.”
“I made the same mistake repeatedly for three years. Stop excusing me, Isabella. I don’t think I can take your pitying forgiveness.”
“And I can’t take your self-flagellation. It’s so unlike you.”
“It used to be unlike me. I’ve taken it up as a hobby.”
“Stop,” Ian growled from the bed. “Beth is tired. Go have your row outside.”
Mac’s strong arms came around her, and the world stopped spinning. He smelled of the outdoors, of smoke and soap, the comforting scents of Mac. He said nothing at all, not wasting time on platitudes or false comfort, and for that she was grateful. Mac knew good and well why Isabella was so worried, and he knew that Isabella’s fears weren’t groundless. He simply held her like a moor in a safe harbor, and Isabella clung to him without shame.
They stood for a long time, Isabella’s head on Mac’s shoulder, while sunshine warmed them through the western windows. The dogs quieted, settling down where they could keep an eye them.
The sun was on level with the horizon when the doctor emerged from Beth’s room and said quietly to Isabella, “You can see her now.”
Isabella tore herself from Mac and rushed to the bedroom, not even waiting to ask the doctor whether all were well.
Chapter 10
The evil rumor that the Scottish Lord has taken up with a lady of Lesser Status has been refuted by all and sundry, and proven to be False. His Lady seems happy to have her Lord returned to her after another sudden absence, and the entertainments once again flow in the Lord and Lady’s home.
—January 1877
Beth lay under the covers, her face pale above a lace-collared nightgown. Ian, in his kilt and shirtsleeves, stretched out beside her, one large, brown hand splayed across Beth’s abdomen.
“Poor Isabella,” Beth said as Isabella closed the door. “I didn’t mean to give you such a fright.”
Isabella crossed to the bed, sank onto the chair beside it, and clasped Beth’s fingers between hers. “Are you all right?” she asked shakily. “The baby?”
“Is fine,” Beth said, smiling. “And I’m in good hands, as you can see.” She looked fondly at Ian, who’d not glanced up at Isabella’s entrance.
“Thank God.” Isabella bent her head over their clasped hands. The simple prayer poured out of her heart. “Thank God.”
“I really am fine, Isabella. I became overheated, that is all, first jumping up and down for the races and then sitting inside the stuffy tent. Also, my lacing was too tight, and you saw me gobbling up all those cream cakes.”
Her voice was light, ready to make a jest of the whole event. How silly I am, she was saying. And haven’t I paid the price? Isabella closed her eyes and rested her forehead on Beth’s hand.
Beth stroked her hair. “Are you crying, Izzy? I truly am all right. What is it, darling?”
“Isabella had a miscarriage,” Ian rumbled beside her.
Through a wash of painful memory, Isabella felt Beth start, heard her shocked exclamation.
“Four years ago,” Ian went on. “She was at a ball, and I had to take her home. I couldn’t find Mac. He was in Paris.”
Beth took in Ian’s disjointed sentences without question. “I see. Goodness, no wonder you two rushed me here in such alarm.”
“The child was a boy, three months gone,” Ian went on, reducing the most terrible event of Isabella’s life to short, exact phrases. “It took me five days to find Mac and bring him home.”
Five days in which Isabella had lain alone in her bed lost in the blackest melancholia she’d ever experienced. She’d thought at one point that she’d die; she hadn’t the strength to fight to live. But her body had been young and strong, and she’d recovered physically though not in spirits.
“And for that, I’ve never forgiven myself,” Mac said behind her.
Isabella raised her head to see Mac standing in the doorway, watching her with somber resignation.
“I’ve told you,” Isabella said. “You couldn’t have known it would happen.”
Mac unfolded his arms and walked into the room with slow, measured steps. “You were the person I most treasured in the world, and I wasn’t there to take care of you. You were right to hate me.”
“I didn’t . . .” Isabella trailed off. She had hated him at the time, hated that she’d had to suffer her grief alone. She’d also hated herself because she’d instigated the argument that had made Mac disappear two weeks before the miscarriage. She’d lashed out at him, telling him she was tired of his constant drunkenness and wild escapades with his equally drunken friends. Mac had decided, as usual, that the best thing he could do for her was to leave.
“I don’t hate you now,” she amended.
Mac sent Beth a faint smile. “Do you see what a very wretched life Isabella led with me? I made her miserable, alternately smothering her and then deserting her. Most of the time my head was fuddled with drink, but that’s no excuse.”
“That is why you became a teetotaler,” Beth said, understanding.
“Partly. Let that be a lesson to those who overindulge. Drink can ruin a life.”
Isabella rose with a rustle of skirts. “Don’t be so dramatic, Mac. You made a mistake, that is all.”
“I made the same mistake repeatedly for three years. Stop excusing me, Isabella. I don’t think I can take your pitying forgiveness.”
“And I can’t take your self-flagellation. It’s so unlike you.”
“It used to be unlike me. I’ve taken it up as a hobby.”
“Stop,” Ian growled from the bed. “Beth is tired. Go have your row outside.”
