On Gentle Wings (3 page)

And, as she personally evidenced a few nights ago, he was
hardly remorseful. No, indeed! He was too busy ogling French court vixens to
spare those back at
Ambergate
a thought.

Isobel was bewildered by this sudden change in a man she had
known and admired for over eight years. She’d been only ten herself when she’d
first come to
Ambergate
, shortly after Anne’s birth. Cousin Elspeth had
sent for her in order to help out with the children, and since Isobel was an
orphan and her prospects were dim in Cornwall, she’d come to London to serve as
temporary nursemaid and proxy mother.

The “temporary” assignment had extended to a more permanent
arrangement after Grace and Maggie were born. Elspeth had proved unable to cope
with the children in any degree and had turned them over to her more capable
cousin.

Isobel quickly came to adore the Tanner girls. All three
were clever, redheaded charmers like their sire and constantly kept her on her
toes trying to anticipate their antics. She loved them all the more for their
high spirits and secretly envied them that inborn confidence. Perhaps it was a
Tanner trait.

Heaven knew she hadn’t any backbone herself. How many times had
she sat down in order to compose a severe, censorious letter to Kit, chiding
him for his neglect to visit
Ambergate
these past few months? Yet for
some reason her urgent missive had never made it past those amber-studded
gates.

She was hoping Kit would gallop one day soon through those
same gates on his flashy golden steed, grinning, ear-to-ear as he tossed the
reins to his groom, Jem.

Like old times, he’d stop to visit a moment in the hall with
the servants. Kit might have been knighted last year by the queen at Greenwich,
but he never forgot his own humble roots, nor did he lord it over any common
fellow. This was one of the things Isobel most admired about Kit, his
down-to-earth nature and generous heart.

Finally, Kit would holler upstairs that he’d brought
presents for them all. Then three urchins would rush down and swarm their
courtly sire while he in turn, smothered them with kisses, perhaps tossing each
of them gaily in the air or catching them all in a great bear hug.

At least, that was the way it used to be and the way the
children prayed it would someday be again. I, too, Isobel had to admit. But
when Kit came last Christmas, he had not stayed more than a single night, just
long enough to attend church services and then soberly bid them all farewell
again in the morning.

How the girls had cried after he had gone. Isobel’s heart
ached just remembering the crushed look in their eyes. Yet she could not hate
the man who had taken her in when she herself was orphaned, treated her
generously, and — as Cousin Elspeth had always been so quick to remind her — the
same one who had also provided a roof over her head.

Nay, if she resented anyone, it was her recently departed
cousin, not Kit or his daughters. She knew Kit must’ve hurt at times, too. How
could he not, after the way Elspeth had treated him?

It had been nigh impossible to ignore all the malicious
digs, thinly veiled insults, and cruel comments Madame Tanner had hurled at her
husband over the years. The couple had never created scenes in public, for
Elspeth was nothing if not conscious of propriety, but the tension in the house
had been razor-edged for eight long years. Isobel overheard more than her fair
share of arguments.

So had the children, when they were not themselves the recipients
of their mother’s blistering tongue. Isobel suspected they had gotten over Elspeth’s
death much more quickly than their father had.

Children were amazingly resilient, she knew, while adults
often clung to the past. Not that Kit surely wished his wife were back to
torment them all, but there was some small comfort to be had in routine, even
if it were a miserable one.

At least the girls still had Isobel, and she them. Many
times over the years, they had begged to call her “Mama”; but sensitive to Elspeth’s
disapproval, and her own sense of right and respect, Isobel had firmly
forbidden them the loving moniker.

“You know I am not your mother,” she scolded them gently
each time, cutting off their wheedles and pleas.

“Oh, but we wish you were, so it’s the same thing. Mayn’t we
call you ‘Mama,’ please?” she recalled Anne begging her prettily.

“No, dear. You have a mother. I am simply Isobel.”

Simply Isobel. What did it mean? It meant these darling
children would never be hers, not even now that they’d lost their natural
mother. She could hold them in her arms, tuck them in at night, croon lullabies
to her heart’s content, but always, always, there would be that deep, cruel
hunger that was destined to remain unsatisfied.

Isobel sat up in the grass and surreptitiously wiped a stray
tear from her cheek, but Grace was quick to notice.

“Poor Isobel! You’re crying now. Do you miss our Nimmie,
too?”

“Yes, poppet. But for your sakes’ rather than mine.” There
was no point in lying, especially since the girls knew she didn’t ride, though
they didn’t understand why.

It was the only thing Isobel steadfastly refused to do with
them since she’d been thrown and kicked by a horse during her own miserable
childhood in Cornwall and still recalled the terror and pain of clutching a
bleeding head.

Their father had always been the one to ride with them. Isobel
smiled at the memory of watching Kit, the consummate horseman, tearing across
this same meadow more than once on Aurelius, his favorite mount, with his own
blazing mane tippling in the breeze.

She’d noticed at
Summerleigh
that he’d let his auburn
hair grow longer over the winter, and she liked it. It suited him. She
remembered he’d worn it in a stylish queue, neatly tied with a black velvet
ribbon. When Kit smiled he was devastatingly handsome.

The forbidden thought startled her into action, and she
quickly rose and brushed the grass from her fustian skirts.

“Time for your French lessons, girls. Madame Rouissard is
surely waiting up at the house. I think I heard a carriage turn up the lane a
moment ago.”

Isobel ignored the collective groans and gathered up the
remnants of their picnic in a wicker basket. Looping it over one arm, she took
Maggie’s hand in her right and Grace’s in her left for the long march back to
Ambergate
.

Anne, of course, fancied herself far too adult now for
hand-holding and malingered behind them, clearly reluctant to exchange fresh
air and sunshine for a stuffy day room and Madame Rouissard’s choking attar-of-roses
scent.

Had Isobel any small talent for French, she would have
attempted teaching them herself, but Elspeth had frowned on excessive education
in her case, pointing out that it would only be wasted on a poor drab like
Isobel.

Her cousin had been right, of course. Any girl who’d
inherited the Weeks’ hair and ordinary features could not be expected to marry
well, if at all. There was no need for lessons in French, deportment, courtly
dancing, or any such frivolous things.

Besides, there was no dowry for Isobel. She’d been orphaned
young, and only through the intervention of her maternal uncle and his wife had
she received any sort of early home life. But it had hardly been the loving
home she’d craved.

Rather, she had helped look after Uncle Simon’s ten
rambunctious children in exchange for room and board in a mean cottage, so being
invited to live at
Ambergate
instead seemed almost paradise by comparison.

Certainly, Cousin Elspeth had never let her forget whereby
she owed her gratitude. Isobel’s steps slowed as she and the girls neared the
family cemetery, situated roughly half a mile from the house. It would be far
quicker to cut through the plot, skirting the headstones, but something in her
rebelled at the notion of doing so. It was mere foolishness, of course, but of
late Grace had complained of nightmares about her mother, and after several
traumatic nights, Isobel had finally relented and let the child sleep with her.

Grace’s nightmares seemed centered on this place. Isobel
herself had to admit the cemetery could be daunting, especially at twilight. A
stand of overgrown alder and willow trees cast flickering shadows over the tall
grey stones, even at noon.

Only a handful of Tanner ancestors were buried in the plot,
including Kit’s parents, but this place had not seemed to bother Grace at all
until her own mother was laid to rest with them.

Isobel was secretly relieved when Maggie tugged her hand
free and veered off the other way, chubby legs pumping beneath her sky-blue
taffeta dress as she seized a last moment of freedom.

“Maggie,” she cried in exasperation, letting go of Grace to
pursue the toddler instead. Within moments, all the girls had escaped her
clutches, shrieking with mischievous laughter as they dashed back across the
meadow.

Isobel ran after them a short ways, then halted and clutched
a painful stitch in her side, cursing the whalebone stays that made women so
ineffective in a physical world.

“Miss Isobel. Miss Isobel!”

Someone was calling her back at the house. She turned and
shaded her eyes against the midsummer sun, recognizing the stout figure of the
downstairs maid, Susan.

Well, she couldn’t very well catch all three urchins now.
She would head back anyway and pray Anne, at least, would be reasonable and
return for her lessons, hopefully in time to pacify Madame Rouissard.

Catching up her dragging skirts in order to move more
swiftly, Isobel eventually arrived at the house, and Susan hurried to meet her
at the edge of the garden.

“Oh, Miss Isobel,” the little maid gasped, wringing her
freckled hands in her apron. “I’ve been lookin’ fer ye ever so long. The
carriage came awhile ago.”

“Aye, I imagine Madame Rouissard is furious at the delay,”
Isobel said, trying to catch her breath. “Don’t fret, Susan. I’ll go in now and
have a word with her.”

The maid shook her head, sending black curls bouncing
beneath her mob cap. “Oh, but Miss Isobel, ’t’isn’t the great French lady here
to see ye.”

“Who, then?”

Susan gulped for air and rushed on, her eyes wide with
excitement. “Why, it’s yer da, Miss Isobel. He says he’s come to take ye home!”

“My father? Susan, you must be mistaken.” Isobel stared in
bewilderment at the maid. “Both my parents died when I was only two, of the
botch. How can — ”

“Ah, there you are, child.” A familiar voice cut crisply
across her speech, and Isobel gasped with surprise at the sight of an elderly
man hobbling from the house.

He leaned on a beech cane and wore the simple garb favored
by men of the lower classes. His outfit consisted of a severe, unadorned black
gown with full sleeves, slashed in the front so they hung fie below the hem.
Thick, iron-colored hair sprouted from beneath a soft, black worsted cap with a
turned-up brim.

“Uncle Simon. Is it truly you?”

“In the very flesh.” Simon Taggart greeted Isobel far too
heartily, and though he had aged a great deal in eight years, she was instantly
taken back to that miserable cottage, crowded with ten other children ranging
from newborn to seventeen, her every day and night hemmed with backbreaking
labor, pious prayer, and endless hunger.

Suppressing a shudder, she forced herself to step forward
and buss his cheek in welcome. “Faith, what a surprise,” she exclaimed as
evenly as she could. “I never dreamed I’d see you again after all these years.”

“Nor I, dear niece,” he said, eyeing her with a peculiar expression.
Isobel stepped back, immediately assuming be had found some fault with her
attire. She was dressed modestly by Tudor standards, but perhaps her
bright-yellow gown was too colorful for his taste or he found her lace-edged
sleeves frivolous.

In the Taggart home, she recalled ruefully, modest dress meant
kirtles of coarse russet for the girls, a plain leather jerkin and black serge
trousers for the boys, and many long, miserable hours between meals.

She wondered why Uncle Simon had traveled all the way from
Cornwall. Surely not to inquire after his long-lost niece or offer his
condolences on her cousin’s death? His acquaintance with Elspeth Tanner had
been fleeting at best, since the Taggarts hailed from the other side of the
family, besides which the woman had been dead six months now. A short note of
sympathy was far more practical than a visit in person.

She was suddenly afraid. Her uncle’s rheumy eyes were
searching hers, and she sensed he knew something she didn’t.

Why had he told Susan he was her father? Or, mayhap the maid
had merely assumed the relationship. Oh, Isobel knew she was plain as a pike
staff, but to be likened to this dreadful old man with his warty chin and
perpetual squint ...

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she invited him as
graciously as she could, “Won’t you come inside and take some refreshment? I
assume you are passing through London on business.”

“Of a sort, of a sort,” her uncle murmured, waving aside her
suggestion. “Thank you for the kind offer, but I’ve already supped at a nearby
inn. Nay, Isobel, I would far rather visit with you.”

Uncle Simon’s gaze flicked briefly away from her in order to
appraise the elegant house and beautiful grounds. “The garden here is most
pleasant. Shall we sit in the sun?”

Reluctantly, Isobel turned to dismiss Susan, handing the
maid the picnic basket and whispering for her to take over the hunt for the
girls. Susan nodded and disappeared.

Moments later, Isobel uneasily occupied a stone bench beside
her uncle amidst the riotous blooms of
Ambergate
’s glorious garden.

“Ah,
rosa gallica
,” Uncle Simon mused, cupping a
nearby red bloom to inhale its scent. “The Apothecary Rose. How fondly I recall
its delightful fragrance from my youth.”