Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance) (31 page)

“
Just be happy it hasn’t rained or
the trip would be nearer two weeks than one,” the driver said as he
helped her back in after a stop to change horses.

They traveled quickly, stopping at inns where Isobel
got very little sleep during the six nights they spent on the road.
On what proved to be their last day out, they stopped for a fourth
change of horses, and Isobel was so weak that, this time, she did
not have a chance to make it into the small public house. Doubled
over at the side of the road, she waved Bridget’s hands away.

She was back in a moment with a tumbler of water.
“Here, Lady Hartforde.” Bridget pressed the water on her.

“
We can stop here for the day,
milady,” the driver said, his voice edged with concern. “We can
make the trip to Hartforde Hall tomorrow.”

“
Are we close?” She held out her
hand and Bridget helped her up.

“
Two or three hours.” He
shrugged.

“
Please, let us go, then. I am
sick to death of traveling. I want to be done with it!”

“
I doubt you are up to it, Lady
Hartforde.”

“
Please! I don’t want to spend the
night here. I want to sleep in a real bed and eat real food and
have a real bath!” She could not keep the wavering note from her
voice. I want to see Alexander, to explain to him, she
thought.

“
Yes, milady,” he said softly. He
picked her up and carried her back to the coach. When he put her
back inside, she leaned back into the corner of the seat and gave
Bridget a wan smile that was meant to be reassuring. As soon as the
horses were changed and the men gathered, they left.

Isobel felt her eyes drooping, and though it seemed
incredible that she could sleep through any small part of the
bouncing, she balled up her wrap and, putting it between her cheek
and the side of the carriage, closed her eyes.

II

“
Wake up,” someone was saying,
while gently shaking her shoulder. “At least move your head! My
leg’s asleep.” She was jostled some more and she struggled to sit
up. “We’re here.”

“
Where?” She looked around, trying
to shake off the effects of her exhaustion.

“
Hartforde Hall.”

“
Oh,” she said, as the door to the
carriage was opened, and a footman held up a hand to help her out.
“But it’s practically a castle!” she cried when she stepped down.
The hall, built of a dull grayish stone, had no fewer than six
turrets. Two rose up on either side of the massive front doors, and
the other four stood toward each of the four corners. The walls
between the towers were crenellated all around, and there were two
domes rising up from the middle of both north and south wings, with
a third dome in the center. The multi-paned windows at the ground
level were narrow but rose until they were even with the top of the
front doors. The windows of the first floor were wide, while the
rest of the windows were narrower and, like those below them, had
not yet been converted to the increasingly popular
sashes.

“
Not so long ago, it was a matter
of necessity to be well protected from the Scots,” the driver said,
while Bridget reached into the carriage to get her cloak. It
snapped in the breeze when Bridget shook it out before putting it
around Isobel’s shoulders. The hedges and lawns were neatly
manicured and there was a circular pool with an algae-covered nymph
rising up from the center. They were met at the door by the
steward, who looked surprised when he saw Isobel.

“
You may inform the staff that
Lady Hartforde is unable to meet them today but will do so tomorrow
morning,” Bridget ordered imperiously. “She shall be having supper
at eight tonight. Nothing heavy, just some soup and perhaps some
chicken.”

“
Is my husband here?” Isobel
asked.

“
No, my lady. He’s not expected to
return from the Continent for several months.”

In spite of Alexander’s determination that the
Continent should cure his wretched condition, he was constantly
tortured by the image of Isobel locked in an embrace with the duke
of Mallentrye. She had lied to him. The duke had clearly known who
she was. Not even Paris could distract him from his misery.

He returned to London in time for the opening of
Parliament in October, and although he threw himself into his work,
he managed to remain isolated, seldom going out and rarely
consenting to see anyone. The only social function he attended was
his sister’s wedding, and he made himself scarce even then because
Julia insisted on questioning him about Isobel.

He met Angelica Vincent purely by accident one
afternoon but he discovered she no longer held even the slightest
attraction for him. She was surprised when he left not half an hour
after arriving at her apartments. “But, my lord!” she cried out.
“Everyone knows you had to marry her!” It unnerved him that she had
so easily divined the reason for his leaving and he scowled at her.
“It doesn’t mean you can’t be with a woman you do want,” she
cajoled.

“
I married the woman I want,” he
responded, without even thinking.

“
Don’t tell me you’re in love with
that American?” She stared at him openmouthed. She must have seen
the answer on his face, for she had burst out laughing. “Go on,
then, go back to your little wife!”

The first thing Alexander did the next morning was
to visit his solicitor to inquire about beginning a proceeding for
divorce. But for some reason he never went inside the office.

As the days passed and her child grew inside her,
Isobel became more and more unhappy. It was awkward to sit down and
nearly impossible to get up without help. Her ankles would
sometimes swell so she could not even walk out to the garden
without discomfort. As the weeks passed into months, she was less
often nauseated, but still the simple task of washing her teeth
made her quite ill. Eating was unpleasant for though she might feel
ravenous, after only a few bites her stomach was uncomfortably
full. She was beginning to think she was going to be with child for
the rest of her life.

She had finally taught herself not to think about
Alexander; she half believed she would never see him again. If it
wasn’t for her music, she was sure she would go mad. At least what
she wrote while she was in Hartfordeshire seemed to have benefited
from her melancholy. During her enforced solitude, she had written
a third and fourth symphony. They were by far her best works, but
she had to wonder if they would ever be performed or whether they
were doomed to grace only the inside of her leather case.

The increasing discomfort of her pregnancy finally
began to slow her down. Whereas during October she had written some
five pieces for fortepiano, in addition to completing a violin
concerto, during November she wrote only one: a piece for cello and
orchestra. By mid-December she had ceased writing altogether.

Isobel was sitting in the back gardens, pretending
to read while a cooling breeze gently turned the pages of the book
lying abandoned in her lap. Bridget was hovering over her,
constantly asking if she was comfortable, if there was anything she
could get her, when she only wanted to be left alone. For a moment
she thought she heard the faint sound of hooves clattering on the
cobbles of the front drive and she listened intently for a few
minutes, straining to hear. What if it was Alexander instead of one
of the servants? What if he had finally come for her? She
resolutely put away the thought. He was never coming back. It was
quiet, there was nothing to hear, and certainly nothing to hope
for. She settled back in her chair and pulled her cloak around her
shoulders.

“
Come inside, Lady Hartforde,”
Bridget said, “it’s getting cold.” She wished there was something
she could say to make her smile. She was becoming concerned at her
mistress’s deepening depression. Isobel did not eat nearly enough
these days. Bridget hoped, as she helped Isobel stand up, to coax
her into eating a little extra at supper that evening.

They walked slowly—Isobel did everything slowly
these days—to her room, where Bridget insisted that she rest. She
agreed only because it meant she could be alone. It seemed to take
forever for the baby to quiet down enough for her to sleep.

“
My lady!”

Someone was trying to make her wake up, and she did
not want to.

“
Lady Hartforde! Wake up. He’s
here.”

Isobel opened her eyes.

“
He’s here and he wants to see you
now.”

One of the men Alexander hired for his trip to
Hartfordeshire was a short, stocky man, by the name of Jack
Wickenstand, who kept a pistol tucked into the waistband of his
breeches. His skin was pockmarked, and when he grinned there were
two gaps where teeth had formerly been. He was addicted to snuff
and was frequently required to wipe his nose, a task he
accomplished by using his sleeve in the place of a kerchief. His
hair was longish and ill kempt, but he spoke tolerably well and
knew how to handle a gun. To a man, Wickenstand’s companions
thought it odd a cove so recently out of the Fleet could have come
by the grand snuffbox he made such a show of twirling about.

I

“
Tell Lady Hartforde I wish to see
her in my study immediately,” Alexander instructed the steward
curtly as soon as he came in the Hall. The several days’ coach ride
to Hartfordeshire had not improved his sour temper in the least.
Anger seemed to be his only defense against his infatuation with
Isobel. He had almost let himself fall in love with that woman, and
she had betrayed him! He refused to have a wife who cuckolded him.
He had been that road once before and he had no intention of being
so foolish a second time. He meant to put a quick end to whatever
insanity it was that had made him think there was no need for an
immediate legal separation.

After spending some time in his rooms, he went
directly to his study and paced until Isobel was announced. He was
struck by how pale and drawn she looked. It was late in the
afternoon and he realized she must have been sleeping. Her eyes
were dark with fatigue and he steeled himself against the sudden
tenderness he felt when he saw her. It was difficult to keep from
rushing to her side when she grimaced and placed her hands on her
stomach.

“
I am sometimes kicked to
distraction!” she murmured.

There was no telling how long she had been carrying
on with the duke. “I have something to tell you,” he said. He
seated himself behind his desk and clenched his hands into fists.
The thought of her with the duke filled him with such a rage he was
completely unable to see the matter in a calm light, though he
thought he was being perfectly rational. His very calmness was
proof of his clearheadedness.

“
I’m listening.” She shrugged her
shoulders.

“
Am I the father?” It was only one
of the fantastic accusations he had come up with to feed his anger
since leaving her.

“
Of course you are!”

Before she could give vent to the anger he saw his
question had caused, he asked in an acid voice, “Are you quite
certain?” The scene was unpleasantly familiar. He had gone over it
in his head time after time, he knew exactly what she would say,
and he knew it would be nothing but lies.

“
I’ve never been with the duke,
Alexander. You never gave me a chance to tell you what you really
saw.” She sat down, holding a hand to her back, as though it
suddenly pained her. There was something very much like panic in
her eyes and he took it as a sign of her guilt.

“
I know what I saw. You forget,
madam, I have had this experience once before. I will not be the
fool twice. You are no more capable of fidelity than she
was.”

“
But I’m not Sarah! If you weren’t
afraid of loving me, you could see that.”

“
I came here only to tell you I am
petitioning Parliament for a divorce.”

“
Will you just listen to me for a
minute?”

“
I’ve told your maid to start
packing your things. You’re to leave here at first light
tomorrow.”

“
The duke had—”

“
There is nothing more to
discuss,” Alexander snapped. He could feel his anger fading and he
desperately wanted her to leave before he gave in to his insane
desire to take her into his arms. More the fool he, if he did; it
would only be so she could hurt him again.

Isobel struggled to stand up. She was too tired to
fight, too certain that it would make no difference if she tried.
“Do you know something, Alexander? For months I’ve been praying
you’d come back. I was going to tell you what you really saw, but I
can see now how silly that would have been. I don’t think it’s
worth the trouble. You’ve proven how stubborn you are. You’ve won,”
she said as she closed the door after her.

By the time she was back in her room her anger had
cooled only a little. “I’ll show him what he’s lost!” she cried out
to the room. She pulled the duke’s letter out of the leather case
where she kept it and went back to Alexander’s study.

“
Read this.” She tossed the letter
on the desk. “Fortunately, when the duke caught me leaving his
study, he did not know I had taken this.” She wheeled around and
walked out of the house, too angry to think about where she was
going. She stopped for a moment, then began walking down the shaded
drive.