The Wrong Woman (18 page)

On the third day after her fever, Miles could not stand to be dismissed anymore. He could not face another day of roaming around at loose ends and beating himself up with regret and responsibility. So when Cat met him in the parlor and began to report that nothing had changed with Isobel for the third day in a row, he spoke his mind. His words tumbled out with a haste and desperation he had not intended.

“Cat, I cannot stand this any longer. I must be useful in some way. I feel responsible for what has happened and I cannot bear to be idle. I
need
to be useful.”

“You
have
been, Miles,” she assured him.

“I must do more.” He was embarrassed at the pleading in his voice. “Please. I visit you each day and you tell me I should go home. But when I am anywhere else, I am thinking of her. This is all my fault. You must let me help in some way.”

Cat was silent as Miles finished speaking. Had he said too much? She looked at him intently and then spoke.

“I understand, Miles.”

“You will let me help?”

“Of course.”

Miles felt relieved. “What can I do?”

Cat thought for a moment. “You might sit with her for awhile. That would allow Aunt Hetty and I to attend to some other things. My aunt needs to rest. She has been going without sleep for many days now and I fear it is beginning to tell on her. On me, too.”

“Of course I will sit with her. As long as you need me.”

* * * * *

How long had he been here by Isobel’s side? The silence of the room was beginning to oppress him.

He rose from the chair and paced around the room. For the first time, Miles examined all that was here in Isobel’s room. Here was her wardrobe. He ran his hand over the dark wood. It's bulk seemed so solid. The coolness of the smooth wood comforted him, as if this had stood in the same place for an age. It would not move now. It only gazed on what happened and sighed.

Miles looked out the window. Isobel, he thought, would like light. He turned toward the bed and looked at her. Someone had bathed her, even seemed to have washed her hair. The sheets were tucked up around her. She had not even moved enough to rumple them. Her skin was not as pale as when he had attended her with the fever, but the spark of life that had lit her blue eyes and made her cheeks pink had disappeared. It was only now that these things were gone that he realized he missed them.

Outside the sun shone and people walked by on the street, unaware of him looking down to them, unaware that here in this room lay a woman he cared for. He blinked rapidly to clear the water that had risen unbidden to his eyes and turned back into the room. He knew he was being a sentimental fool.

Next to the window, on the opposite side of the wardrobe, was a small desk. Placed neatly in a row were a series of pens. A bottle of ink sat next to them. A stack of paper lay there all in a neat pile, undisturbed by the events of the past few days.

Alongside the writing supplies there was a stack of books. He ran his fingers along the bindings. The titles seemed vaguely familiar to him as he read them.

Endymion
.
Pride and Prejudice
.
The Mysteries of Udolpho
.
The Corsair
.

He stopped.

That title was more familiar than the rest. Miles tried to remember where he had heard it. He picked up the volume and ran his hands over the smooth leather cover. The title was engraved in gold letters on the front. He ran his fingers over it.
The Corsair
.

Miles opened the slim volume to the first page. Clearly, Isobel had read this one many times. Miles turned back to the first page.
The Corsair, A Tale by Lord Byron.

Isobel. He turned quickly toward her. Isobel had called him that name in the grand hall on that day that they had spent together. The portrait. She had called it — and him — a Corsair.

She must know this tale well. He took the volume across the room with him and settled back into the chair.

He read the first lines to himself.

O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,

Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free

Miles stopped. He should read it out loud, read the tale to her. It would at least fill the silence even if she could not hear him. He began again with those first lines, reading them aloud in a voice that was too quiet.

On the next lines he spoke louder.

“Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,

Survey our empire, and behold our home!”

And on and on he read. His voice moving swiftly and surely through the story of Conrad, the dark-browed pirate. How Conrad returned triumphant from a conquest, treasure in his hands, to be met by his faithful love, Medora.

But glory and treasure called him away again. And so he left his true love to wait. Miles read breathlessly of Conrad's capture and his escape, aided by a beautiful slave. He gasped when Conrad kissed the slave and rejoiced when the pirate realized his own heart lay with Medora.

Miles paused in his reading leaned back in the chair. The book lay open and abandoned on his knee. His eyes drifted to Isobel's face. A kiss and the Corsair knew. A kiss and Miles knew. That night at the ball hadn’t been a mistake. He had meant it. It had burned within him to kiss her. It still did.

“Isobel,” he sighed. Another minute passed as he looked at her face, lost in his own memories. Then he idly picked up the book and returned to the story. Conrad was rushing to tell Medora that he loved her. But her home was dark, not lit as it usually was to celebrate his return.

“No,” Miles whispered to himself, anxious for the pirate.
No. Not like this.
Conrad had only just realized he loved her. She could not be gone...

Miles read as Conrad entered the tower. His heart grew heavier with each step, afraid of what he would find. Her light had always burned for him. But now it was dark. Conrad climbed to her room to find that he was too late. Medora, despairing of his return, had died only hours before.

Conrad fell to his knees. Heartbroken, he wept for his Medora. He was too late to save the one woman in the world that he truly loved.

No!
Miles was angry. He leaned forward in the chair, tears pricking at his own eyes. No! Where was the redemption? Conrad had realized his error. He had returned to his love. Why could they not be happy?

He laughed at his own anger. It was a story!
Why, Miles Shepherd, do you care so much about what happens to Conrad in this piece of silly fiction?

The answer came immediately.
Because Isobel is my Medora.

The truth winded him. Isobel is my Medora, the woman I love. He did not know how or why it had happened. God knew, he had not set out to
love
anyone.

But there it was.
I love Isobel.
The older sister. The determined spinster. The woman who's chances he himself had ruined all those years ago.
I love her
.

The pirate's story was his own. She had said on that afternoon that seemed so long ago, Isobel herself had said that he reminded her of the pirate. Had she seen the man he wished to be? Had Isobel seen that Miles, like Conrad, contained something more than just a scowling look and a gruff demeanor? Had she seen that underneath the pirate was a man waiting to love?

He placed the book on the bed next to her and took her hand in both of his. Miles raised it to his lips and felt the smooth, cool skin, so different from the fever he had felt there before. He kissed her hand gently and held it close to his cheek as he whispered.

“Isobel. I have discovered the strangest thing. Though I had determined to make your sister my wife, I find that it is you I love. Quite unexpectedly. Please wake up so I can tell you.” He looked up to her face and was disappointed to find that she did not stir.

For a few moments, his heart beat fast in expectation, hoping the force of his love would wake her.

But it did not.

Chapter 24

“Miles, we are friends now, are we not?” Cat stood facing Miles in the parlor later that afternoon.

The poor man looked concerned. “Of course, Cat.”

“Good, then you agree that we may talk to each other of anything?”

“Yes, of course.” He paused. He was clearly unsure where she was going with this line of questioning.

“Then I must speak to you of something that has been puzzling me these past few days.”

He nodded for her to continue.

“Miles,” Cat hesitated to ask the question. “Miles, do you intend to marry me?”

He blinked a few times rapidly. Cat knew the question had taken him by surprise.

“I beg your pardon?” he said.

“Do you intend to marry me?”

“Umm...” He stammered. Cat felt a little bit sorry for him. “I mean... we are friends. And we became friends by spending time together. But only on the premise that you intended to take me as your wife. The whole town expects it. You have apparently made no secret of it, as many of the ladies of my acquaintance have been quick to inform me.”

“Well, I --”

“I know you and I have never talked of such a thing, but it has occurred to me these past few days that the town will talk of your being here at the house. And they will say that you are here because I am your intended.” Cat finally paused, having spoken the whirling thoughts that were in her head.

Miles did not speak for many moments. When he did, it was slowly and deliberately. “Thank you for speaking so frankly with me. It is somewhat unusual in a lady.” He smiled. “You are correct that I did not make a secret of my intentions with you. I had determined at the beginning of this Little Season finally to take a wife and settle down as my friends have done.” Again, he paused. Cat waited.

“Though we have not spoken of it together, I see now that you knew my intentions. And I realize how my presence here will be talked of in the town...” Miles took another long pause before he spoke again. “I will, of course, marry you if you will have me.” He did not look at her.

For a moment Cat stood quietly, but she could not hold her laughter for long. She could not speak she laughed so heartily. It was the first genuine mirth she had expressed since Izzy's accident. It felt very good to laugh almost until she cried.

Finally, she took pity on Miles who was looking quite confused. What must he think of her? The man had probably never before offered a proposal of marriage. And Cat was sure that he never imagined he would be laughed at when he did!

“Oh, Miles. I am sorry to laugh so much. But,
really
.”

He looked wounded and entirely confused. “Really, what?”

“Was that the best offer of marriage you could make?”

Miles protested. “But –“

“Miles, it is a good thing I am not a
very
silly girl or you would be in a lot of trouble right now.”

“I do not understand you, Cat. What can you mean?”

“I mean that you are a very unromantic man. Quite unlike any hero I have ever dreamed of.”

“So, you do not accept my offer?” The confused look had not left his face.

“Oh, no!” Cat nearly went into peals of laughter, only holding on by a very disciplined sense of will and a clear understanding that Miles was entirely at sea at the moment.

“Oh Miles, just admit it, to yourself and to me.”

“Admit what?”

“That you do not love me like a husband should love his wife. As a sister, perhaps, but never as a wife.”

“I might love you like that,” he protested.

“No, I have known almost from the first that you might admire me, but that you could not love me. Not as I wish to be loved, that is.”

“Oh,” Miles did not seem to know how to respond, so Cat continued.

“You see, I have grown up reading entirely too many story books. And I have perhaps an unhealthy propensity to desire that my husband – whoever he may be, but certainly not you – will love me truly and madly.”

“I might do.”

“I think not. And since we are friends, I have no fear of admitting that I do not love you in that way.”

“But perhaps you might come to love me,” he tried to reason.

“No,” she interrupted him. “I think I never shall. For, you see, I have come to suspect something quite interesting about you. It has made you much more likable and intriguing. But it has also confirmed for me that I shall never love you like a wife should.”

Miles was pacing around the room. Cat was sorry to see him so agitated, but she knew what she had to say would be for the best.

“And what is it that you suspect about me?” Miles stopped and looked at her.

“Can't you guess? I have not been so blind to you this past week as you believe.” Cat smiled at him, but Miles still looked serious. “In short, Miles, I know that you do not come to this house for me.”

Miles let out a slow breath.

“You did not spend the night of the Duchess's ball worried about
me
. You did not rush to
my
aide when I was in trouble. You did not spend the night nursing
me
through a fever. Nor have you spent the afternoon reading aloud to
me
.”

Miles had looked away from her as she said all of this. He seemed to be embarrassed or unwilling to show her what was on his face.

“Miles, look at me.” He did, though he looked distressed and uncomfortable. “Am I right?”

Cat watched him closely. He was trying hard to hide the emotions crossing his face. Trying, but failing. Cat watched as his look went from a creased brow to a small smile and back to a creased brow. Finally, he looked directly at her and nodded.

“It is true?” Cat asked.

“Yes.”

“Oh, Miles!” Cat yelled as she launched herself toward him. She embraced the stunned man. It was a moment before he wrapped his arms around her, too. And another moment before he spoke in almost a whisper.

“So... so you are not upset with me?”

Cat stepped back from him and laughed. “Of course not!”