On Gentle Wings (7 page)

But what possible use would Isobel have for such nonsense in
Cornwall? She’d merely nodded, trying to look as bored and sophisticated as the
ladies at
Summerleigh
. She feared Madame Louise wasn’t fooled a bit, but
the woman was too well bred to remark on her customer’s threadbare gown or
missing stockings.

Isobel held her silence until the end, but murmured a protest
when Kit insisted on seven of everything (for good luck, he said): elegant
fan-shaped ruffs and finely embroidered collars; dainty lace caps and stylish
riding hats, even small fur muffs and fringed silk scarves. Then there were
delicate silk slippers and heeled walking shoes and hose of sheerest silk gartered
embroidered sashes in every color to match her gowns.

When they finally left the dressmaking shop, it was already
late in the afternoon. Kit remarked cheerily, “Now that’s done, all that
remains is your wedding gown. I fear I didn’t anything I particularly fancied
in there, Isobel. Did you?”

She shook her head, hoping he didn’t suspect the real reason
for her quiet misery. “Thank you for everything. But please, you’ve done far
too much already.”

“Nothing is too good for one of the family. Surely you did not
expect me to send you to the altar in that dismal brown sack?”

Kit’s playful tone revealed he was teasing her again; yet Isobel
felt far from laughter. “This dress has served me very well over the years,”
she said stiffly.

“Seven years, at least, from the looks of it. Is’t one of Elspeth’s
cast offs?”

She nodded, surprised at his knowledge. But she was still
cautious. Mayhap he was merely testing her, as Elspeth often had, to ascertain
she was not some sort of greedy baggage.

“Great Zeus! I knew I could not forget something so hideously
ugly. But I prayed she’d cast it into the rag bin years ago,” he added wryly.

Isobel almost smiled, remembering Anne’s pert comments to similar
effect. How like their sire those impertinent darlings were. “’Tis a perfectly
good gown,” she said, striving to look both serious and frugal, as her cousin
always had.

“Aye, if one favors mud, I suppose. Are you as ravenous as I
am?” Kit asked, changing the subject at a dizzying pace and clearly not
expecting an answer. “There’s a charming inn just down the lane apace called
The
Cock and Garter
. They’ve little lamby pies baked brown as you please, and
tarts that melt in your mouth like butter.”

“I usually sup with the girls,” Isobel murmured, not wanting
to admit how delicious such fare sounded.

“What, whey porridge and mashed vegetables and all that?”
Kit shook his head, determined to show her a good time. “Nay, not today,
Isobel. I want you to remember this outing for a long time to come.”

Oh, she would. But not for the reason Kit assumed. Rather,
like his kiss, she would clutch these few precious moments to her heart
forever, knowing they were all she’d ever have.

~*~

T
he impromptu
meal with Kit, despite its underlying purpose, served to restore Isobel’s
spirits somewhat. He’d always had that effect on her; however glum or
distressed she felt, it was impossible to remain so in his exuberant presence.
Her obvious delight in the simple, good fare at
The Cock and Garter
pleased him; and when she suggested they take a few extra tarts home for the
girls, he readily agreed.

“Strawberry, I think, to match your lips,” he mused,
planting his chin in his hand as he considered Isobel across the wooden plank
table. “Or, mayhap cherry to complement the bride-to-be’s cheeks.”

At his whimsical comments, she blushed and murmured, “I
imagine you should choose, Cousin Kit. After all, they’re very like you in
manner and taste.”

He seemed pleased by her remark, though he added somewhat
sternly, “Methinks you’ve called me ‘cousin’ for too many years, Isobel. Ours
is a relationship based on friendship rather than blood. Please call me Kit.”

“Kit.” For some reason, those three simple letters were as
difficult, and forbidden, as her misbegotten affection for him. Isobel steeled
herself against further emotion, hoping he mistook the catch in her voice for a
choking crumb of tart instead.

“Charming chit. You’ve a bit of jam by your lips,” Kit said,
reaching out to whisk it away with an index finger before Isobel could react.
That fleeting, velvety contact was almost more she could bear.

“’Tis late,” she said, rising so swiftly the bench she occupied
nearly tumbled on its side. “I must see the girls abed. I fear Grace doesn’t
sleep well without me near.”

“T’would appear childish fears rule the day — and night, too,”
Kit said, frowning with obvious disappointment. But his grin was as winsome as
ever when he rose to join her a second later. He jauntily plopped his feathered
hat back on his head and took her arm to escort her from the inn.

At
Ambergate
, Kit retired to the parlor to enjoy his
nightly port while Isobel went upstairs to say good night to the girls. She’d
not, however, counted on the chaos that had ensued during her short absence.
Apparently Grace had tried to her older sister into believing some fairy tale
about an angel whose specialty was finding little girls’ lost dolls.

“I’ll speak with Grace alone, please,” Isobel told the complaining
Anne, who finally removed herself from the nursery after a wounded sniff and a
final glare at her younger sister.

“Now, Grace,” she began, addressing the six-year-old as
sternly as she could manage, which wasn’t very stern at all, “you know it isn’t
proper to tell falsehoods, even when it seems so tempting and fun.”

The huge green eyes at Isobel’s waist-level widened further.
“But I didn’t make it up! Honest, Isobel. A nice man glided right through the
roses, thorns an’ all. He glowed like the sun. An’ he told me he was sent
instead ’cause he’s ’specially good at finding lost things.”

Isobel decided to play along for a moment. “I see. And what sorts
of ‘lost things’ does he specialize in? Just dolls?”

Grace looked thoughtful — or, rather, inventive. She added
excitedly, “Dolls and — and I ’member now. He said he looks for other things,
too, like lost hearts.”

“Hearts.”

 “’An faith.”

“Faith? Are you certain? Don’t you mean flowers?” Isobel
teased the child, amused now despite her initial irritation.

Suddenly serious, Grace shook her head. “No, he said
faith
.
The same thing Papa’s lost.”

Such oddly mature words coming from a young child gave
Isobel pause. “Did he say why your father’s lost faith?” she inquired, trying
to sound light and unconcerned.

“’Cause he’s been so unhappy for so long. He smiles all the
time, but he doesn’t really mean it.”

This simple yet startling observation sent a flaring stab of
pain through Isobel’s chest. “I see,” was all she could murmur.

“You still don’t believe me. Well, I don’t care! The lord
found Judith for me, and that’s all that matters.” For such a young child,
Grace sounded surprisingly dignified.

“Lord?”

Grace looked reluctant to expound on her story. “That’s what
he said his name was. The lord.”

The Lord. Oh, dear. It was worse than Isobel had thought.
The downstairs maid had obviously been influencing the girls with her
catechism, and now Grace was seeing “glowing angels” in the garden! Though
she’d planned to give Kit a wide berth until her wedding, there was no hope for
it now but to go to him and pray he wouldn’t be too harsh on poor Susan.

~*~

T
o Isobel’s
consternation,
Kit simply threw
back his auburn head and laughed, far more amused than alarmed by his
daughter’s fantasy

“Is that the worst of it?” he asked her, still chuckling as
he mulled over Isobel’s words. At her nod, he shrugged. “In that case, you
needn’t fret. Children have been inventing such playmates for centuries. Didn’t
you have an imaginary friend growing up?”

“No.” Isobel felt both foolish and somehow lacking, as if
she’d missed out on a special experience, though she wasn’t sure why she should
be envious at not having created an invisible friend. Mayhap because she wasn’t
clever enough to have even dreamed of it, unlike Grace.

“I simply thought … well, that you’d be concerned. Cousin
Elspeth always said — ”

“I know, I know.” Kit interrupted her, sounding impatient on
the subject of his late wife. “She always claimed there was a papist plot
lurking around every corner. No doubt ’tis true in higher circles, but here at
Ambergate
I suffer no such fears. Our little Susan hasn’t such mighty ambitions, I vow.”

She was relieved he didn’t seem inclined to chastise the maid,
though she was certain it must have been Susan’s constant chatter about saints
and angels that had influenced Grace. Elspeth, of course, had tried to dismiss
the maid several times over the years, but Kit had always intervened. He was
quite protective of his family, and he regarded the servants as part of his
extended family.

“You still seem troubled,” Kit remarked, observing her from
where he sat on the divan, one leg casually slung over the other. “Does the
notion of invisible angels wandering about the garden distress you so?”

Despite his teasing tone, Isobel didn’t smile. “Nay. I just
remembered I’d forgotten to tell you about Nimmie. The girls’ mare died almost
a month ago.”

“Aye, Jem mentioned it. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to ease the
news to them. I imagine they were inconsolable for a while.”

“They still are.”

Kit looked surprised. “Did they take it so hard, then? That
old cobb’s days were numbered, but I never expected such patent devotion from
my girls. Well, on second thought I can’t say I blame them. River Nymph was a
magnificent dam in her early days. She was the last filly Father foaled at
Ambergate
before his death, y’know. I sat my first saddle on her.”

“I know,” Isobel echoed softly. She’d heard the story so
many times from the girls, she could easily imagine young Kit clinging to
Nimmie’s mane, wide-eyed with wonder as his own lifelong passion for horses
slowly and surely blossomed.

“I’ll find them another horse,” he said. “There’s nothing so
rarefied nowadays that it can’t be replaced.”

Including a wife?
Isobel wondered, shocked at her own
thoughts. Of course, Kit must remarry someday. It was unthinkable that a man of
his stature and influence at court should not wish an heir to succeed him. For all
she knew, he was already considering prospective ladies for such an honor.
Ladies like his “Madame Mysterie.”

Thus, it seemed all the more ominous when he added
offhandedly, “There shall be a woman coming tomorrow, Isobel, for the position
of nursemaid. I should appreciate it if you would introduce her to the girls
and help smooth the transition.”

A woman? What woman? Where had he found her, and how had
he done it so quickly?
Anxious questions flooded her entire being, as well
as an unwarranted bit of jealousy. But she held her temper. She was leaving,
after all. What right did she have to quiz Kit about his decisions?

“Meanwhile,” he added, “I’ll look into the matter of another
mount for the girls. Perhaps a livelier creature this time? I do favor the
spirited ones.”

Women, or just horses?
Isobel was tempted to ask, but
bit her tongue at the last second. Heavens! She feared she was swiftly
acquiring a rather impertinent turn of mind since her cousin’s death. For eight
long years, Elspeth had smothered her tender spirit like a disapproving cloak,
enforcing that silence with occasional threats and slaps. Now that the
miserable woman was gone, it seemed Isobel was finally beginning to bloom into
her own.

Unfortunately, it was far too late to come to any good. The
seeds of fate had been sown, and now she must contend with the bitter harvest.

~*~

“
I
hate her!
I
hate her already! I don’t ever wish
to lay eyes upon her!”

“Oh, Annie, you don’t mean that. Please, just come downstairs
and meet Mrs. Penton. She’s come all the way from Gillingham,” Isobel pleaded
through the door. Although none of the girls’ doors boasted a bolt, for good
reason, the devious Anne had stuck a stout tree branch beneath the handle,
rendering it as good as locked.

Further pleas were ineffective. The two younger girls had obediently
gone to the parlor where they curtsied and then coolly scrutinized the older
woman who would probably replace her, but Isobel had been unable to thaw Anne
one degree. The icy fury in the girl’s voice disturbed her.

Not that it wasn’t warranted. Anne and her sisters felt
betrayed, and Isobel couldn’t blame them. Losing their mother had been hard
enough, but with Kit gone most of the time and now her own departure looming on
the horizon, was it any wonder the poor darlings considered themselves
abandoned?

After another half hour of useless pleading and wheedling,
Isobel returned to the parlor where Mrs. Abigail Penton was impatiently tapping
her scuffed black shoe. Upon first glance, Isobel herself had been daunted by
the stern-looking, iron-haired widow.

Was it her imagination or did the woman’s eyes hold a gleam
of avarice rather than warmth when she gazed upon
Ambergate
and Kit’s
daughters? Isobel told herself she was bound to feel uncharitable toward anyone
who threatened to take her place in the girls’ hearts. She had tried, therefore,
to be fair and gracious to this stranger.

“I’m sorry, but Anne isn’t feeling well,” she lied, deciding
the truth was best softened at this point.

“Huh. Spoiled little chit, I take it,” Mrs. Penton said
bluntly. “Well, t’isn’t too difficult yet for me to wield a strap, even with
the ague settling in me bones.”