Isabelle considered the question and realized that she had no desire to lie to Louise, or even to fudge her answer. She wanted to talk about her wonderful friend.
“The letter is from Mr. Fitzwilliam, my neighbor at Doyle’s Grange.”
“A very enthusiastic neighbor,” pronounced Louise, “considering that his letters arrive with the regularity of sunrises.”
“I encouraged it.”
Louise chewed her toast contemplatively. “And is Mr. Fitzwilliam the reason you are not as distressed by Fitz’s decision as I was afraid you might be?”
“Yes.” A lovely, clean answer for all the lovely, unmistakable feelings inside her.
Louise’s mouth was wide with both surprise and joy. “Isabelle. Oh, Isabelle.”
Isabelle felt a similar warmth welling inside her—and a great relief, like stepping on solid ground after days on a choppy sea. Now Louise no longer needed to worry about her. “Don’t say anything to Fitz yet. I know you have been writing to him.”
“No, no, my lips are sealed. Now tell me more about your Mr. Fitzwilliam.”
But before Isabelle could say anything, Louise frowned, as if remembering something. “He doesn’t go by Fitz, does he?”
Isabelle’s pleasure faded. She had not even brought up the resemblance, and already Louise wondered whether her preference for Mr. Fitzwilliam had something to do with Fitz. “No, he does not. And what do you wish to know about him?”
MY DEAR MR. FITZWILLIAM,
We shall be staying at the Lakehead Hotel in Ambleside.
I cannot take credit for your lightness of being, but sometimes I feel as if I share in it.
I was drafted into a game of hide-and-seek yesterday afternoon. But I was not an unwilling participant and it was quite good fun hiding under a bed with my daughter, trying not to giggle audibly when her cousin’s feet appeared right before our eyes.
After we’d been spotted, Hyacinth leaned into me and said, “I like it when you laugh, Mama, even if Victoria also heard you.”
A lightness-of-being moment, without a doubt.
Yours truly,
Isabelle Englewood
P.S. I hesitate to say this, for fear of how preposterous it would sound. But I wish I had been there with you at the churchyard. Not by Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s headstone—I would not dream of such an intrusion into your privacy—but by the gate, perhaps, for when you came out.
P.P.S. I cannot wait to learn Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s remarks concerning the Three Bears’ house.
P.P.P.S. You are no longer a secret. I have confessed to my sister that my well-traveled, well-connected neighbor from Somerset has been heroically lifting my spirits. I have even described you as handsome—“at least as handsome as Fitz” might have been my exact words. Whether out of prudence or cowardice, however, I have not mentioned The Resemblance. But now, having lied by omission, I fear I might have made that particular subject more difficult for the future.
I hope not.
Chapter Six
“MAMA, CAN YOU FIND ME A SUBMARINE BOAT?” asked Hyacinth.
Isabelle and her children were on a knoll just behind their hotel in Ambleside. Louise, worn out by a long hike in the hills, was taking a nap, as was her son. Her twin daughters were in their room, having a tea party with their dolls. Hyacinth had managed only a quarter hour of the doll’s tea party before she clamored to be taken outside, and Alexander, her devoted shadow, had followed along.
“That might not be easy, my love,” answered Isabelle, stretching out her hand from underneath her parasol. It was much easier to be a black-swathed widow in England than it had been in the sweltering heat of the Subcontinent. The heavy silks didn’t weigh her down as much; the skirts, just as narrow as before, somehow allowed her to move more freely.
Or perhaps the spring in her step had nothing to do with the bracing air of the North Atlantic and everything to do with her reawakened optimism. For too long her goal had been to protect herself against further pain and loss, and it had made her definition of happiness smaller and smaller. But now she felt as if she’d ripped off her blindfold to stand blinking in the sun, marveling at the size of the world and all the colors and shapes she had forgotten.
“Why can’t it be easy?” Hyacinth wanted to know.
Indeed, why couldn’t it be? Happiness had never been about the absence of pain and loss. It was like the sun—one had but to draw aside the curtains and push open the shutters and it would always, always be there.
She laughed at herself inwardly when she realized that Hyacinth was still speaking of the acquisition of a submarine boat. “Well, quite a few inventors, I grant you, are working on submarine boats, but most of them are commissioned by the military. You are not planning to make war on someone, are you, my love?”
“No, I just want to see some fish at the bottom of this mere,” said the girl, her eyes glistening. She scanned the lake, blue in the light of the afternoon. “And see if there is an underwater tunnel that will lead me to the open sea, so I can battle a giant squid.”
Isabelle smiled. She’d been reading Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea to Hyacinth and Alexander at bedtime. The girl’s imagination was in ferment.
“But you might be hurt by the giant squid,” Alexander piped up. “Or you might hurt the giant squid.”
If ever there was a child who didn’t want anyone—or any creature—to get hurt, it was Alexander. Isabelle ruffled his hair. “The ocean is big. Hyacinth could motor about for years without running into a giant squid.”
“Or I could my first week,” said Hyacinth, a dreamy look on her face. “Will you come with me, Mama?”
“I will require you to surface at least once a day so I can have some fresh air. And you must always have a supply of tea and biscuits. If you can manage both, I will come with you.”
The topic was entirely fictional, yet Isabelle felt a stirring of her old spirit of adventure.
“What about me?” asked Alexander nervously. “I don’t want to go inside a submarine boat.”
Small, airless places had always made Alexander anxious, and sometimes downright lightheaded. “Of course you won’t need to go into a submarine boat. You can come along on a regular steamer. You do enjoy those, do you not? I can spend one day on the steamer with you and the next in the submarine boat with Hyacinth.”
This compromise was apparently satisfactory to Alexander. “Can I be the captain of the steamer? Then I can make sure Hyacinth doesn’t get lost.”
“And I will make sure your ship doesn’t get attacked by giant squids,” Hyacinth reciprocated gallantly. “And we can take turns going ashore to get Mama her tea and biscuits if we run out.”
Isabelle placed her hand over her heart and kissed each child in turn. “That is very, very kind of both of you.”
How fortunate she was, to be in the midst of so much good will and good hope.
“Look, it’s Uncle Fitz,” shouted Hyacinth.
Isabelle’s mind went blank. “What?”
“Over there,” Alexander affirmed. “It is him. Shall we go speak to him?”
Hyacinth was already running toward the man coming up the slope toward them. As soon as Isabelle had a good look at him she broke into a wide smile. No, it was not Fitz, but Mr. Fitzwilliam. And she felt like a child being presented with a surprise cake richly slathered in chocolate buttercream, ready to jump up and down for joy.
Instead she sprinted after Hyacinth. “Silly girl.” She took the girl’s hand and reduced her pace. “Walk, don’t run. That is not Uncle Fitz. That is our neighbor in Somerset, Mr. Fitzwilliam. And you will make a most provocative impression if you were to rush up to him hollering at the top of your lungs.”
“But that is Uncle Fitz. That has to be.”
“I know why you think that, my love—I made the same mistake too, when I first met him. But don’t you remember, Uncle Fitz’s hair is black. Look, Mr. Fitzwilliam’s hair is much lighter in color.”
Alexander caught
up to them. “Did you know Uncle Fitz was coming, Mama?”
“That is not Uncle Fitz. That is Mr. Fitzwilliam.” Hyacinth boasted of her new knowledge. “See, he doesn’t have black hair.”
“All right, children. Behave when you are presented.”
Now if Isabelle could only make sure that she herself behaved. She must remember not to wrap both her arms around him as part of her greeting.
That she managed, but it was impossible not to beam from ear to ear, for he too, did exactly that, his eyes shining with pleasure. “Mrs. Englewood, I hope you have been well.”
Ever since she’d received his previous letter, she’d entertained herself imagining this: That his question on where she would be staying in the Lake District had not been an idle one, that he would be arriving at just such a gloriously unexpected moment.
And he didn’t even pretend it was a coincidence!
“I have been very well indeed, sir. And I have not eloquence enough to tell you how glad I am to see you.” It was only after another tremendous smile at him that she remembered her children were still waiting patiently—or impatiently, in Hyacinth’s case—to be presented. “May I introduce my daughter Hyacinth and my son Alexander. Children, this is Mr. Fitzwilliam.”
He shook hands with the children. “Miss Englewood, enchanted. Master Alexander, a pleasure.”
They stared at him openly, still astonished that he was not Fitz. Isabelle smiled again—in fact, she might never stop smiling.
The next moment, a very different emotion buffeted her, one much closer to tears. It was impossible to overstate how many times she had read his letters, particularly the one on his visit to Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s grave—and how she always came away with a sense of wonder, renewal, and hope.
“When did you arrive?” she asked, trying not to be too emotional in public.
His smile changed into something slightly more solemn, not melancholy, only pensive—he had sensed her change in mood. “About an hour ago.”
“Are you staying at the Lakehead?” She wanted him to be near—as near as possible.
“No, I’m staying at the Governor, a little closer to High Street.”
“We’ve passed it,” said Hyacinth. “It has a big sign.”
Isabelle shook her head. The girl would never be the sort of the child who was only seen and not heard.
But he did not mind. “Indeed,” he answered. “The sign makes it easy to find.”
The Governor was not far from the Lakehead. In the evening, after her well-exercised children had been put to bed…
She mustn’t let her imagination get away from her altogether. Yes, he had kissed her before, but the first time she’d all but forced herself on him, and the second time he had been in the grasp of a great many emotions, with lust for her person probably quite low on the list.
But even if his friendship did not carry a component of physical interest, she was still beyond thrilled to see him, her friend who had turned what would certainly have been one of the worst nights of her life into one of the best, the memories of which brightened every hour of her day.
“Now, children, Mama needs to speak to Mr. Fitzwilliam.” For a long, long time, she hoped. “Hyacinth, would you take yourself and Alexander to Miss Burlingame?”
“Yes, Mama,” said Hyacinth. She curtsied prettily to Mr. Fitzwilliam, then, Alexander in hand, skipped away to find their governess.
Isabelle made sure her children entered the hotel as they were bid. When they had disappeared from view, she turned toward Mr. Fitzwilliam. The westerly sun caught a few glimmers of red in his hair; his waistcoat was as vivid a shade of blue as the lake. And his eyes, oh his eyes, they looked upon her with such interest and fondness—she warmed all over. “I see you have not suffered from my absence,” she murmured.
He offered her his arm, his gaze lingering on her face. “That is because you have not been absent a day from my life, my dear Mrs. Englewood. Not even an hour.”
MILLIE, LADY FITZHUGH, STARED AT THE HOTEL before which the carriage had come to a stop. “My goodness, is this where we spent our wedding night?”
In separate rooms, with a seemingly unbridgeable chasm between them.
“Yes, it is,” said her husband, taking her hand in his. “A terrible night for you, wasn’t it?”
It had not been easy for her, but she’d been prepared since birth for a loveless marriage. He, on the other hand, had to give up the girl he loved madly almost without warning, not to mention the career in the army he’d planned for himself. All for duty—and a crumbling house. “It was worse for you.”
He shook his head. “Getting drunk and smashing mirrors in my room? I cringe at the memory. And let’s not even mention my conduct the rest of the honeymoon.”
The carriage door opened. He alit and handed her down, his fingers warm upon hers. “However,” he said, leaning down so that his lips just brushed her ear, “I am going to make it up to you by being the world’s most devoted husband.”
She cleared her throat—when he spoke into her ear like this, it never failed to send a torrent of heat surging along her nerves. “More devoted than you have been elsewhere in the Lake District, sir? How is that possible?”
“Oh, you will see, my dear Millie, you will see.”
She was quite ready to “see,” but she had also learned, in the short weeks since their marriage was first consummated, that sometimes it was even better to wait a little, to delay their next embrace by just long enough so that they were both breathless for it. “Maybe. But in the meanwhile, I must have a turn about the garden.”
“Anything you want, Lady Fitz.” He smiled as if to himself, and she only heated further.
The garden was to the side and the back of the hotel, full of late-flowering clematis in bursts of fuchsia and purple. “The sundial is still here,” she noticed.
“And that’s the bench you were sitting on, when I woke up the next day and looked out of the win—”
He blinked. She looked in the direction of his gaze and could not believe her eyes. Mrs. Englewood! She sat on a low stone wall halfway up the green, gentle slope behind the hotel, twirling her black lace parasol in what could only be described as a flirtatious manner.
Next to her, a man sat with his back to them. He spoke; Mrs. Englewood burst into laughter. Millie had never seen Mrs. Englewood except either in a state of grim apprehension or in tears. In laughter her loveliness was almost shocking. Then, even more shocking: She lifted her gloved hand and briefly touched the man’s cheek.
Fitz pulled Millie behind a hedge.
“Who is that man?” whispered Millie, still trying to see around the edge of the tall hedge.
“I don’t know,” Fitz whispered back. “But this is the most thrilling view I’ve had in days—other than that of your lovely person undressed, of course.”
She could not agree more. The ease and intimacy of Mrs. Englewood’s gesture was hardly that of a woman still pining for another. “We had best make ourselves scarce, don’t you think? Should we find a different hotel?”
Fitz’s lips again brushed her ear. “Or we can go to our rooms and not come out again until it is time for us to leave.”
This time, she did not need to be persuaded twice.
“DO YOU KNOW NOW, this is the first time we’ve exchanged pleasantries,” said Ralston.
They’d shared their views on the weather, the hotels, and the lakes. The clouds above were as white and soft as spring lambs, the scent of summer grass perfumed the breeze, and the stones of the low wall radiated a gentle warmth beneath his hands—the perfect time and place for a bit of leisurely small talk.
“What? We spoke of nothing of substance for an entire quarter hour?” She grinned. “The waste. The horror.”
It had not been that long since he first saw her in the rain, an almost wraith-like figure in a shroud of a mourning gown. Her gown was still black, but now it was trimmed with bands of lavender at the cuffs and on the hem—she was transiti
oning from secondary mourning to half mourning. The lavender was muted, grayish. But to his eyes it was a burst of color almost as brilliant as a sunset sky.
And her face—so much fear and sorrow had been etched in her features. But not when she smiled. When she smiled, as she did now, there was only brightness, clarity, and warmth.
“I hope I haven’t come at an inconvenient time,” he said impulsively. “But I couldn’t wait any longer to see you.”
“Good,” she said, meeting his gaze. “If you didn’t come, I’d have been sorely disappointed.”
He loved her candidness. There was never any coquetry to her, any pretense. In fact, the entire positioning of her person—the angle of her torso, the tilt of her head, the placement of her hand right next to his—implied a physical eagerness that made him as randy as a sixteen-year-old boy. He imagined her slipping into his hotel room at night, wearing nothing but a smile. He imagined kissing her everywhere. He imagined her as ravenous as she had been on her honeymoon.
Abruptly she scrambled off the low wall on which they’d been sitting. He started. Surely she had not heard his lustful thoughts.
“Don’t look behind you, but my sister is standing at her window.” Her voice was low and taut. “She has seen us.”
Mrs. Montrose—Mrs. Englewood’s letters to him always came from the Montrose residence—must have waved. Mrs. Englewood waved back with a tense-jawed smile.
Ralston had made sure that Mrs. Montrose was not in sight before he approached Mrs. Englewood, believing that she should be the one to decide when to present him. But now he wondered whether it wouldn’t have been better to have done the opposite—once Mrs. Montrose had seen him, then she would no longer need to worry about what Mrs. Montrose’s reaction would be. She would know.
“Should I absent myself?” His preference was otherwise but he did not want to make the situation more taxing for her.
She half-grimaced, her grip tightening on her parasol. “You have no idea how much I would like to say, ‘This is my dear, dear friend, Mr. Fitzwilliam.’ But I haven’t prepared her at all and it would be too much of a shock.”