“When we’re settled in our new home,” Isobel
continued brightly, “you will of course make your home with us. I
would not like to think of you alone.”
“Thank you,” Eleanor murmured, her hands shaking as
she picked up her tea cup once again. She could see pity in
Isobel’s eyes, glittering almost venomously.
“Perhaps you will find yourself better situated in
time,” Isobel continued in a kindly tone, “but you must always feel
at home with us.”
“Thank you,” Eleanor murmured yet again. She’d no
doubt Isobel’s invitation was merely a pretext to staking her claim
on Ian. Eleanor knew she would have to talk to her brother. Had he
any idea what plans were afoot?
She feared he had at least an inkling, and knew he
shared some blame in not dashing Isobel’s hopes as he should
have.
Unless... Eleanor gazed at Isobel. She was
beautiful, wealthy, charming. Surely she would not have the
audacity to summon her fiancé’s sister here without some hope of an
offer?
Perhaps Ian did love her, and was just clinging to
his bachelor days. It suddenly seemed entirely, and unpleasantly,
possible.
Her spirits sank. If Ian and Isobel married, once
again she would be the third wheel, an outsider looking in, with no
real life of her own. She couldn’t stand the thought of living with
Isobel and Ian; it would be repugnant, a widow residing with
newlyweds.
Isobel would have control of the housekeeping; she
would be the poor and pitied spinster relation. It was not to be
borne. She couldn’t do it; she would rather return to Scotland.
And yet awaited her there? The McCardells didn’t
want her back; Jane MacCready had no room. She could travel north
to live with Harriet and Allan. Eleanor knew they would make her
welcome, just as she knew her life would soon fade into days of
endless drudgery, helping on a small farm with no prospect of
change.
At least in Boston there was a chance of... what?
Romance? She thought of Rupert, and quickly dismissed him. He was
not interested in her beyond a mild, pitying flirtation. He’d made
that clear the night of the party.
No, she was not going to hold out hope from that
quarter... as if she would!
“Yet where does that leave me?” Eleanor whispered,
not realizing she’d spoken aloud until Isobel glanced at her
strangely. She smiled back, trying to collect her scattered
thoughts.
The answer was plain. It left her nowhere...
again.
CHAPTER NINE
Eleanor did not find a time to talk to Ian until
several days later. His long hours at work and many social
engagements--some of which Eleanor declined--left them with few
evenings at home.
Finally, towards the end of October, Eleanor found
herself in the sitting room with Ian across from her in front of
the fire. It was a cozy, domestic scene, with the night falling
outside and the rattle of branches against the window pane.
Inside the fire was cheering, the little room
comfortable and warm. Of course, it was nothing like the elegant
proportions of the Moores’ residence, but Eleanor was proud of the
way she’d fashioned the rented furniture into something resembling
a home.
“An excellent dinner, Eleanor,” Ian said as he
opened the newspaper with a rustle of stiff pages.
It had been leftover mutton and potatoes, but
Eleanor didn’t bother contradicting him. She prided herself on her
economy, and the way she could make a few thin ingredients stretch
to an appetizing, if not elegant, meal. It was a skill learned from
childhood.
She picked up her sewing, reluctant to disturb the
contentment of the evening. Then she put it down again. Disturb it
she must.
“Ian... I wonder if you would be so good as to tell
me your intentions towards Isobel Moore.”
She sensed rather than saw or heard Ian stiffen.
Slowly he put down his newspaper. “Why do you ask?”
“I’ll tell you in a moment, if it seems
appropriate,” Eleanor replied crisply. “Right now I wish you to
tell me.”
“Eleanor...” Ian spoke warningly, then sighed. “I
have no intentions.”
“You are not going to marry her?” Hope and a new
compassion for Isobel flared within her.
Ian’s expression hardened for a brief moment.
“No.”
“You might wish to apprise her of the fact--”
“It has not arisen!”
“Perhaps not with you, Ian,” Eleanor nearly snapped,
“but it has with me!”
The silence was ringing. Ian put down his newspaper.
“Isobel has spoken to you? About me?”
“She told me you were to be married, and I could
gladly make my home with you once you were wed.”
“Good Lord!” Ian jumped up from his chair, raking a
hand through his hair as Eleanor watched, strangely satisfied.
“I suspected you felt this way, but when Isobel
summoned me...”
“She had no right!”
“And you, Ian, have no right to trifle with her
affections.”
“I have never...!” Ian glared at her. “I have never
given her reason to think...” he trailed off at Eleanor’s look of
obvious skepticism.
“You think she’s mad, then?”
“Don’t be absurd.” Ian sank back down into his
chair. “What should I do?” His legs stretched out, his mouth turned
down in a pout, he looked like a sulky schoolboy.
“Ian, you cannot run away from your problems,”
Eleanor said gently. “It didn’t solve them before, and it certainly
wouldn’t now.”
“I’m not running away.”
“Aren’t you?” Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “Only
yesterday you informed me you are planning to take the coach to
Hartford for some business. Beyond the indelicacy of leaving me to
my own means for several days or even weeks, you are dropping the
problem of Isobel Moore like a hot coal, and when you return you
hope it will have died to ash.”
Ian was silent for a long moment. “My trip to
Hartford is to do with work, research,” he finally said. “But I
daresay there is a bit of truth in what you say.”
“Then speak to Isobel before you leave. Otherwise
you might come home to a terrible storm of gossip, brewed in your
absence, and creating more heartache and ill feeling than you care
to deal with.”
He grimaced. “Eleanor, I can’t! The Moores have done
so much for me, brought me into their home like a son. To reject
their daughter out of hand, especially when they’ve taken my
gestures of brotherly affection as something more...”
“Then you must be prepared to marry her,” Eleanor
replied. Ian closed his eyes briefly.
“I can’t.”
“Why not? She’s suitable, she’s pretty, she’s kind.
You’d be well situated for life--”
“I’m not a money grubber.”
“No, but one must be practical. Do you love someone
else?”
Ian’s tormented silence was enough to give Eleanor
pause. She looked up from the industrious stitches she’d been
sewing. “You do? Who is it?”
Ian shrugged. “Love is a strong word. But my
affections have been recently engaged--elsewhere.” He stared
broodingly into the fire.
Eleanor was silent for a moment, her mind whirling.
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected when she’d started this
conversation, beyond doing her duty and making her brother do his.
Now she felt the full, sticky extent of their quandary.
“It’s Caroline Reid, I suppose.”
Ian looked up, his mouth twisting in a bleak smile.
“How did you know?”
“You danced with her twice at the Emersons’ party,
and the two of you were stuck in a corner for far too long. More
than one pair of eyebrows was raised at that bit of brazen conduct,
I assure you!”
“Caroline is not brazen--”
“No, she’s charming and lovely,” Eleanor replied
calmly. “And quite spoiled and vain.”
Ian looked as if wanted to leap up and defend
Caroline’s character, but after a moment he looked away, sinking
back into his chair. “I’ll grant you she can be silly and girlish,”
he said after a moment. “But to me, that is part of her charm.
Eleanor...” Ian spread his hands out. “We cannot choose who we fall
in love with. Yes, I suppose it is love. If I could choose, I would
have Isobel in an instant, for I know she’ll make me a good wife.
But I would make her miserable, loving someone else.”
Eleanor gazed at him, lips pursed. “Have you ever
considered that it might be nothing but a flirtation? An obsession,
even? Caroline may tire of you, you may tire of her.”
“Yes,” Ian admitted after a pause, “I suppose I
would have to consider that possibility.”
“And then what?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. But I can’t marry Isobel
in my present state.”
Eleanor shook her head grimly, twitching a thread.
“Then you’d better work to get Isobel well situate. If she is the
one who cries off--”
“I haven’t proposed!”
“Oh, Ian, enough! She is expecting it any day, as is
the rest of society! I’ve been in Boston less than a month and even
I am aware of events.”
“All right,” Ian agreed quietly. “But who? Everyone
I know in society is through the Moores, and they would not court
Isobel under my nose--”
“No,” Eleanor agreed, “they wouldn’t. So we’ll have
to think of something else.”
But what that would be, she’d no idea.
“Miss Reid is not at home,” Riddell’s butler sniffed
disapprovingly.
Ian bit down on his impatience. “Could you tell me
when she might return? Only I’m leaving this afternoon for
business, and I wanted to speak with her before my departure.”
“I could not say, sir,” the butler replied, “but it
is not Miss Reid’s habit to entertain strangers in her uncle’s
home, at any time of day.”
Ian forced a smile. “I’m glad to
hear it.” It was a mistake to have come here, he knew. Caroline
Reid was guarded jealously by her uncle, like a prize, and Ian
Campbell was not even remotely in the running for it. Yet the need
to see her--speak with her--had been almost unbearable.
Since confessing his regard for Caroline to his
sister, Ian had experienced a burning need to declare it to the
woman herself... and discover if she felt the same.
“If you could leave a message...” he began, only to
have the butler firmly shut the door in his face.
Ian bit down on the curse he wanted to shout, and
turned away.
“Who was that at the door, Taylor?” Caroline hurried
down the stairs, her hair half undone, her skirts crumpled. She’d
been trying to write a letter to her brother Andrew, only to have
stopped in a fit of impatience, and then rather inopportunely dozed
off. The insistent knocking on the front door had awakened her,
filling her with a fresh hope.
Perhaps today he would visit...
“No one to concern yourself with, Miss,” Taylor
replied coolly.
Caroline’s brows snapped together. “I believe I
shall be the judge of what concerns me, or not,” she said. “Who was
at the door?”
“Your uncle said...”
Without another word, Caroline
pushed past the butler and opened the front door. She saw Ian
walking slowly, sadly, down the street. “
Ian
!”
“Miss! This is not seemly!” Taylor’s voice was
sharp, but Caroline barely heard it.
Ian turned, his face suddenly suffused with
happiness, and he hurried towards her. “Caroline! I was trying to
see you...”
Heedless of propriety, Caroline ushered him into the
house. “Come into the drawing room. Taylor will send for tea.”
“Miss, I cannot condone...” the butler began, but
Caroline turned to him, her earlier fury now replaced with charming
sweetness.
“Oh, dear Taylor! You know how my
uncle wants me to be in good society. It’s perfectly proper for Mr.
Campbell to visit, he’s the brother of my dear friend Eleanor who
took tea here the day before last. Now, please do fetch us
something. I’m sure Mr. Campbell is parched, and my uncle would be
furious to know we’re not being hospitable.”
Taylor looked as if he disagreed entirely, but for
propriety’s sake only resisted tossing Ian straight back into the
street. He sighed. “Very well, Miss, but I hope your uncle does not
come to hear of it.” He turned to the kitchens, and Caroline led
Ian into the drawing room, where a fire crackled merrily.
“You’ve wrapped him around your little finger,” Ian
said admiringly, and Caroline chuckled.
“I can’t be
completely
useless.”
“I hardly think that.” He paused, taking off his
hat. “I had to see you.”
Caroline’s breath caught in her chest. “Why?”
“Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you since
we danced together.”
She moved to the back of a chair,
her hands gripping it tightly. “You’ll quite turn my head, Ian
Campbell.”
“You’ve already turned mine.”
Caroline laughed breathlessly, stunned and delighted
by his boldness. “This is all highly improper, you know.”
“Not if I have honorable intentions,” Ian countered
softly.
Caroline gasped. “What are you saying? You barely
know me...”
“I know, it’s insensible,” Ian agreed. “I’ve told
myself a thousand times you’re completely unsuitable, but my heart
just doesn't listen.”
“Ian...” Caroline shook her head slowly. This was
more, much more, than she’d ever envisioned, imagined even. It left
her breathless with both delight and terror. “I don’t know what to
say.”
“There’s nothing to say, not now. Not yet. Just give
me a little time. So you can come to know me, and I can court you
properly.”
“My uncle...” Caroline faltered.
She could not begin to imagine the extent of his rage, if he were
to learn she was entertaining Ian Campbell’s suit. It truly did not
bear thinking about.
“Let’s not think of him now.” Ian moved closer to
her. He reached down to one of her hands, gently uncurling her
fingers from their grip on the chair. Her palm lay in his, and he
kissed her fingertips. “May I kiss you?”