Time After Time (291 page)

“How is it you are back now?” Isabelle asked. “If you were told never to return under pain of your death and mine … ?”

Justin exhaled a laugh. “It’s a curious thing. Two months ago, I received a letter from Monthwaite. The third and final epistle in this saga.”

“Two months?” Isabelle’s eyes drifted to the window. For Justin to have received the letter two months ago, Marshall must have sent it after Isabelle left Bensbury.

He pulled another letter from the interior pocket of his coat. As he unfolded the paper he said, “He apologized profusely for accusing us of … ” Justin’s face reddened and his eyes cut to his wife.

“He said what I knew all along,” Rebecca announced stoutly, “that Justin hadn’t done anything wrong. Or you, ma’am,” she added.

Belle twisted around in her mother’s arms. She lunged toward Isabelle, who took her from Rebecca and jostled her on her knee. The little girl gurgled in delight.

Isabelle bent her neck to breathe in Belle’s scent. Her hair smelled faintly of powder. All the upset of the last few minutes faded and the world receded to a hazy background. She could have happily held her friend’s child for the next twenty years.

“Isa?”

Justin’s voice pulled her from her blissful daze. “Hmm?”

“Can you look at this letter? This is what I wanted to ask you about. The handwriting doesn’t match the others. I thought perhaps this most recent letter was a forgery, but the bank draft was good, so it seemed safe.”

“Those first two aren’t Marshall’s hand,” Isabelle said simply. “He did not write those threats. I’m stunned that anyone would, but I knew at once it wasn’t Marshall. He would never kill in cold blood. And he most certainly would never threaten me so.”

Calm certainty spread through her as she spoke. Marshall might be capable of horrible blunders, but he was no murderer.

He frowned. “A secretary, maybe?”

Isabelle snickered. “Really, Justin, how many gentlemen do you suppose have their secretaries scribe their criminal communications? No, Marshall neither wrote nor dictated those.”

Justin extended the third letter. “How about this one?”

She recognized his distinctive hand in the salutation. “That’s Marshall, definitely.”

“Then who wrote the first two?” Justin mused.

Isabelle blew her cheeks out. “If I were a betting woman, I’d put my money on the dowager. She’s gone to excessive lengths over the years to punish me for overstepping my station and marrying her son.” She rolled her eyes. “Obviously, whoever wrote those wanted you to think they were from Marshall. She has easy access to his stationery. I don’t think anything would have actually come of these threats, but even thinking to write them is ghastly.”

Isabelle lapsed into a brooding silence, pondering the depths of her mother-in-law’s malice. Justin seemed to detect her mood and merely handed her Marshall’s letter, as Belle slipped to the floor to try walking again. Rebecca serenely picked up her daughter and took her outside.

Eventually, Isabelle began to read. Marshall’s smooth voice spoke the missive in her mind. A shiver coursed down her spine.

My dear Mr. Miller,

I cannot imagine how you will receive this letter, but please believe that I approach you now humbly, with the deepest sorrow and regret for the turmoil you have experienced on my account.

Circumstances have led to the renewal of my acquaintance with Mrs. Lockwood, my former wife. Through a series of communications, I have determined that I was in the most egregious error when I accused her and yourself of wrongdoing. The pain this realization has caused me cannot be overstated. I have begged her forgiveness, and I must beg yours, as well.

It would be trite of me to assume that a few words dashed upon parchment would suffice for the years of separation from your family, friends, and homeland you have endured. While I sincerely hope you have made a satisfying life for yourself in America, I would like to extend an invitation for your return to England. I trust the enclosed bank draft will prove sufficient for your expenses. Renew your ties with family. Take up old friendships again. There is one friend in particular, dear to us both, who would welcome you back with open arms; certainly there are others.

The unfortunate circumstances surrounding your departure from England are beyond regrettable. I alone shoulder the full responsibility for your exile. Therefore, I extend the full measure of my support by any means necessary to facilitate your repatriation or whatever else you may desire.

Yours,

Monthwaite

Isabelle swallowed.
Dear to us both.

Marshall would have found Justin regardless; this she did not doubt. He was a true gentleman, and he brought Justin back. For her. For Justin, too, of course, but he had her in mind.
There is one friend in particular, dear to us both …

She missed him so much. He haunted her waking thoughts. He dwelt in her dreams. He made love to her in those dreams, sometimes tenderly, sometimes urgently, always passionately. She daydreamed about the children they might have had, but when she opened her eyes again, her arms were empty. But not her heart. It was always full of pain and longing. The longing was her constant companion. It never went away.

“Isa?”

Isabelle opened her eyes. Justin knelt on the floor in front of her. “Are you all right? You look faint.”

He picked up one of her hands and lightly slapped her wrist.

“Everything’s gone wrong,” she whispered.

“Monthwaite?”

Isabelle nodded miserably.

“Did he suitably atone for the divorce?” he asked.

“He had an article printed in the paper.”

Justin whistled. “Sounds serious.”

“It was,” Isabelle answered. “But I don’t know if I can trust him. He hurt both of us — ”

“But he’s made up for it,” Justin pointed out. He patted her cheeks. “You still look pale.”

She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. “There was someone else.”

Justin’s face darkened. “Another woman?”

Isabelle shook her head. “No, there was another man whose life Marshall ruined.”

“Ruined is a strong word.” Justin lifted her chin with a finger. “You suffered, Isa. I did, too. But I wouldn’t say my life was ruined.” One side of his mouth pulled up in a lopsided smile. “To be sure, it’s taken some unexpected twists, but I’m happy. And it turns out he didn’t even send me packing to begin with — his mother did, and we already knew she was a harpy.”

Isabelle’s shoulders jostled with her exhaled laugh.

“I do note,” Justin said, “that he takes responsibility, even though his mother sent threats in his name. Very stand-up of him. And,” he raised a finger, “when Monthwaite learned of his mistake, he made it up to both of us, didn’t he?”

She nodded again.

“You loved him then,” Justin said quietly, “when you were an eighteen-year-old girl. You still love him.” It wasn’t a question, and Isabelle didn’t try to deny it.

“Do you know whether he’s remedied things with this other man?” Justin asked.

Isabelle’s fingers tightened around Justin’s. Her brow furrowed. “He has,” she admitted. Her lower lip trembled. “Oh, Justin. I think I made a mistake.”

• • •

“Good God! Justin Miller!”

Isabelle looked up and Justin awkwardly turned on his knees. Lily stood in the door in a royal blue traveling costume, her fingers paused in the act of untying her bonnet. She looked from Justin to Isabelle, and back to Justin again.

“My word, are you proposing?”

Justin barked a laugh. “I don’t think my wife would thank me if I did.” He hauled himself to his feet.

“I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow. Justin was trying to keep me from fainting,” Isabelle explained, rising to take Lily’s hands in greeting. “It was something of a shock to find him in my parlor,” she said in an over-bright voice. “He brought his lovely wife and daughter, too. They’ve gone for a walk. I’ll have them called in, shall I? Mrs. Miller is
American
, Lily. Our Justin went and married an American!”

Lily raised a lace-gloved hand. “Isabelle,” she said in a stern tone, “the prospect of meeting Justin’s wife and child fills me to the brim with rapture, I assure you, but there’s something I have to tell you first.”

The commanding edge to her voice brought Isabelle’s frenetic recitation to a halt. The firm set to Lily’s mouth aroused a queasy feeling in Isabelle’s middle. “What is it?”

“I had a note from Naomi yesterday afternoon, and I left as soon as I could to reach you.”

Pure, unadulterated fear sprang up in her very blood, coursing through every inch of her. “Marshall. What’s happened to him?”

“He’s leaving tomorrow,” Lily said. “He’s going to South America.”

Isabelle shook her head, not understanding. “His expedition. I already knew about that.”

“It’s supposed to be only for six months, but Naomi found notes indicating he never intends to return.”

The final bit of color drained from Isabelle’s face. “Tomorrow?” she whispered harshly. The full meaning of Lily’s information pressed down on Isabelle like a load of stone. A life without Marshall. Forever.

“Isabelle!” Lily snapped. “Listen to me.”

Isabelle lifted her head from where it had fallen against Justin’s shoulder.

“It’s time to come clean,” Lily said. “Naomi and I have been keeping an eye on you two, hoping you’d come ’round on your own. It appears you’re both bull-headed ninnies who would rather be miserable and alone for the rest of your natural lives, rather than simply put the past behind you and move on.” She drew a deep breath and lifted a brow.

Isabelle had seen her take such a tack with others, but she herself had never felt the full brunt of Lily Bachman’s ire. It was not a pleasant experience.

“Buck. Up. You love Marshall. He loves you. And if you don’t do something about it right this instant, I shall be subjected to your insufferable malaise for the rest of my days. Spare me that fate, and do the right thing.” She glanced at the clock on the mantle. “If you aren’t already too late to get there before the ship sails.”

Isabelle grabbed Lily in a fierce embrace. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Lily said in a softer tone, “go. Go!” she insisted, shooing Isabelle out of the parlor.

As she dashed for the stairs, Isabelle heard Lily behind her: “And just where in the blazes have you been all these years?”

Isabelle’s fingers shook as she changed into a traveling costume. She had to get to Marshall. She had to tell him she’d forgiven him, that she loved him, even if he wouldn’t take her back. But she couldn’t allow that possibility in her mind. Everything would work out. She just had to get there.

Chapter Twenty-three

Isabelle gracelessly stumbled out of the carriage Lily had loaned her. The footman caught her with a steadying hand under her elbow.

She took a few steps, her bunched muscles protesting and cramping. They’d stopped only to change horses. Her blue-gray traveling gown was hopelessly rumpled. She felt sticky all over from her long confinement.

Now that she was at the London docks, trepidation tugged at her skirts. The sights, sounds, and smells were overwhelming. The docks teemed with activity, and dawn had scarcely broken. Large men lugged crates and trunks up gangways. Raucous laughter erupted here and there, punctuating the ceaseless, dull roar of hundreds of voices.

The water of the Thames was scarcely visible from Isabelle’s vantage point. From where she stood, the river was a forest full of branchless trees with sails instead of leaves. Ships crowded the docks and waited in the river. Somewhere nearby, the hulks were anchored in the middle of the river — whole ships full of convicted thieves and murderers.

Even at this hour, prostitutes lurked at the fringes of activity, calling out to passing men. At the mouth of an alley, a man lay face down in a pool of vomit, a bottle of gin clutched in his hand. Isabelle couldn’t tell whether he was dead or alive, and no one else seemed to notice or care.

She shivered. This was no place for a lady. Reason shouted at her to climb back into the safety of the carriage and send the footman for Marshall.

This time, though, she had to let her heart take the lead. She had hurt him when she’d left, and she had to be the one to reach out and find him. She selfishly wanted to see the look on his face when he saw her.

He wouldn’t ever see her, however, if she remained planted next to the carriage, gawking at the bustling activity. He would be gone, forever beyond her reach, if she didn’t start moving.

With a shaking hand, she pulled from her reticule the paper Lily had given her. On it was the name of Marshall’s ship.

“
Adamanthea
,” she muttered. She looked at the ship closest to where she stood. The name painted on the hull was
Siren’s Call
. Isabelle scowled and took a few steps. A hand clamped around her upper arm. She shrieked.

“Wouldn’t you like me to go with you, ma’am?” Lily’s footman asked. “Miss Bachman would have my head if any harm came to you.”

Isabelle nodded gratefully. Together, they plunged into the morass of humanity moving across the docks and quays.

She allowed the footman to do most of the talking, asking for directions to Marshall’s ship. The first several brutes he questioned claimed ignorance. Another sent them toward the East India Company’s private docks. Yet another seaman sent them back in the direction from which they had just come.

The sun was fully above the horizon now. Isabelle stomped her foot and let out a strangled cry of frustration. She had come all this way at a breakneck pace to find Marshall, and now she was going to lose him forever because she couldn’t locate his bloody ship.

“Excuse me,” she called out to a nearby man holding a horse by the bridle, carefully guiding the animal through the crowd. He didn’t notice her. Isabelle tapped his shoulder. “I’m looking for the
Adamanthea
,” she said. “Do you know where it is?”

The man turned, revealing a weathered, hard face. Isabelle sucked in her breath. Thomas Gerald tugged the brim of his cap. “Indeed I do; I’m headed there m’self,” he said amicably. A flash of recognition crossed his face.