A few minutes later, Isobel came outside, a cloak
thrown over her shoulders, her expression one of alarm.
“Eleanor!” She stretched out her hands, dropping
them suddenly as she remembered the disease that threatened them
all. “We are all praying for dear Margaret. Have you any news from
my brother’s household?”
Eleanor shook her head. “Only that Margaret remains
the same. Her fever lessens, and then spikes again. The doctor says
it must break in the next few days if we’re to have hope.”
Isobel paled. “Is it that close, then?”
“I pray not. The doctor still seems to think we have
some hope, although how much, I could not tell you. Margaret has
always been strong.” Eleanor paused. “There is another matter of
which I would like to speak to you. Perhaps we could walk?”
Isobel frowned in confusion, then nodded. “Very
well.”
A few minutes later they were walking through Boston
Common, the wind buffeting their faces and pulling their cloaks
more tightly around them.
“You know of Margaret’s school,” Eleanor began
tentatively, and Isobel nodded.
“For the immigrants?”
There was something in Isobel’s tone that Eleanor
didn’t quite like, but she knew there was no point dwelling on it
now. “We’ve had to close the school since the typhoid epidemic
started,” she said. “There are no teachers, since I’m nursing
Margaret, and with so many ill...”
“A pity, I’m sure.” Isobel’s brow wrinkled in
confusion, as if she could not understand why Eleanor was
discussing this with her.
“It seems the worst of the epidemic has passed,”
Eleanor continued, “at least in the neighborhoods we draw from for
the school. It’s time, I think, the school reopened.”
“After less than a fortnight?” Isobel raised her
eyebrows. “I suppose it must, if you can find the teachers.”
“Well...” Eleanor took a breath. “I believe I can.”
She paused and then plunged ahead. “You.”
Isobel was too ladylike to splutter, but she did a
fair imitation, gaping at Eleanor in amazement. “Me? But of course
that is quite impossible!”
“Is it?” Eleanor asked softly. “I know you might not
seem an obvious choice...”
“Oh, you think not?” Isobel asked a bit sharply, and
Eleanor smothered a smile.
“I only meant, considering your station in life,
and, I’m sure, your many occupations...”
“There are not that many.” Isobel pulled her cloak
tighter around her, staring off at the naked branches of an oak
tree, stark against a slate gray sky. “I wouldn’t know the first
thing about... anything.”
“The pupils are able learners. They’re hungry for
knowledge, they merely need someone to feed it to them. The school
has primers and slates, thanks to Henry, and the older children can
tell you what we’ve already done.”
Isobel was silent. Finally, she looked at Eleanor, a
strange glint of vulnerability in her eyes. “Why did you ask
me?”
“I thought it a good match,” Eleanor replied with a
smile.
“And you could think of no one else!” Isobel’s lips
twitched in a smile.
“Actually, I did think of someone else. Caroline
Reid.”
Isobel’s expression darkened, and her fingers
twisted the silk of her dress. “He loves her, you know.”
Eleanor did not pretend to misunderstand. “I don’t
know about that.”
“He’s been gone for nearly a month,” Isobel said
flatly. “And he has not written me once, not even a note. It almost
makes me feel... ashamed... for my hopes.”
“We all hope,” Eleanor told her gently. She would
not pretend that Isobel’s hopes had more foundation than she
believed them to. Although she’d not spoken to Caroline in many
weeks, and Ian the same, she’d seen the glances between them at the
last party.
“Do you think Ian wants to marry Caroline?” Isobel
asked. “She seems such a fluttery, silly girl. I know I can’t
aspire to much better, but still...”
“I cannot predict the future. But Ian was never the
right man for you, Isobel, as far as I could see.” She sighed,
thinking briefly of Rupert. “We cannot choose love sometimes. It
chooses us.”
“I agree with that.” There was a
note of bitterness in Isobel’s voice, and when she spoke again, her
voice was hard. “Well, it is not over yet. I still have sufficient
hope to think my cause not completely lost. He will tire of
Caroline, I think; she amuses, but that is all.” Isobel’s shoulders
stiffened. “We shall see what happens when Ian returns... which
bird he flies to.” Her smile was slightly grim as she turned to
Eleanor. “Very well. I’ll do it. I don’t know what society will
think, although charity has been the fashion of late. At this
moment, I don’t care what anyone thinks. I’ve spent enough time
wasted on fruitless hopes and dreams. I want to
do
something with my life.” Her face
suddenly looked childlike, the expression in her eyes lost,
vulnerable once more. “And perhaps some dreams... aren’t so
hopeless... in time?”
Eleanor smiled and, without any need for words,
reached over and squeezed Isobel’s hand.
Ian’s heart was singing with anticipation as he left
the stage coach and hurried back to his own home. He smothered the
pang of guilt at being gone such a long time--once people learned
of his discoveries, he was sure they would be understanding.
“Master Ian!” His butler and manservant, Davies,
looked stunned at Ian’s arrival home. “I didn’t expect you...” he
faltered and then tried to draw himself up.
Ian waved him aside. “I do apologize for my lack of
contact, Davies. I was only planning to stay in Hartford for a few
days--a week, at most, but events overtook me. I did write to
Eleanor.”
“Yes, but it was so vague...”
“I’m sorry, as I said, events overtook me.” He
smiled and began to rifle through the pile of post left on his
desk. “I don’t suppose anything too important has happened while
I’ve been away? Where’s Eleanor?”
“She’s been staying at the Moore household,” Davies
replied. “Mrs. Margaret Moore came down with typhoid, and your
sister has been nursing her.”
“What!” Ian dropped the letter he was holding, and
it fluttered to the ground. “Typhoid, in the city? I had no
idea...”
“It came upon suddenly, or so I heard, from a
ship.”
“Will Margaret... will she be all right? Is she
recovering?”
The manservant shrugged helplessly. “I couldn’t say.
The only news I’ve heard is from your sister, when she came back
for a change of clothes, and that was several days ago.”
“Dear heaven.” Ian’s face was pale. “I should go
there immediately...” He glanced at the letter on the floor, then
picked it up. The handwriting was loopy and girlish, and his heart
skipped a beat. He tore open the envelope.
Ian, I have spoken to my uncle and I’m afraid for
the future--mine, and certainly ours, if anything is to pass
between us! Please call on me at your earliest convenience. Yours
most sincerely, Caroline Reid.
The note was dated over three weeks ago. Ian stuffed
it in his pocket, grabbed the coat he’d only just taken off, and
hurried for the door. “I’ll be back... I’m not sure when... don’t
wait up for me, Davies.”
His mind seethed with questions as he hurried
towards the Riddell residence. What could’ve happened, to make
Caroline so anxious? And what of Margaret, and Eleanor?
It seemed as if his entire world had tipped upside
down during his absence, and he only hoped it was in his power to
right it.
He felt the sudden weight of his own selfishness,
pursuing his dreams and personal glory--for he knew that
possibility entered into his own thoughts--instead of his
responsibilities at home. Caroline, the woman he loved; Isobel, the
woman he’d thwarted; Eleanor, the woman currently in his care. He’d
left them all with little more than a word, barely a thought.
Shame burned through him and roiled
through his gut; his fists clenched as uncertainty and anger
directed at himself seethed within him. Let it not be too late, he
thought, for any of them.
This time, let
me not run away like the boy I once was, shamed and angry. Let me
stand up to my responsibilities.
Dear God,
let him meet them full on.
He turned the corner, and soon came to the front of
Riddell’s rented house. He hesitated only briefly, not wanting a
direct confrontation with Riddell. Yet, he acknowledged, perhaps it
was time.
He lifted his hand and knocked.
The butler, Taylor, opened the door. “May I help
you?”
“I need to speak with Miss Reid. I believe she
expects me.”
There was a flash of something like regret in the
butler’s eyes, his impassive expression marred only be a long, thin
scar down one weathered cheek. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir.
Miss Reid is out.”
“Out? Where?”
Taylor hesitated, then shook his head again.
“Out.”
Ian clenched his fists in frustration, then forced
himself to remain calm. “Of course, I see,” he said. “Do you know
when she might be in to receive visitors?”
“I couldn’t say.”
There was a movement behind the butler, and then Ian
heard the voice he dreaded.
“Taylor, who’s there?” Riddell came
to the door, smiling in unpleasant satisfaction at the sight of
Ian. “Ah, Campbell. I thought you might come sniffing round here
sooner or later.”
Ian refused to rise to the taunts. He wanted
Caroline now, and no other. The burning need for revenge which had
fueled him for so long felt like so much ash. His eyes were cold,
his voice steady, as he spoke. “I need to speak to Caroline.”
“It’s Miss Reid to you, you arrogant little pup. And
I’ll have you know that you may not come to call on my niece
again.” Riddell paused, his chest swelling with pride. “She is,
after all, engaged to be married.”
Ian felt a cold, plunging sensation within him.
Surely Riddell lied. “I beg your pardon?”
“My niece,” Riddell informed him clearly, “is
engaged to be married to Matthew Dearborn.”
Ian shook his head slowly. “You lie.”
“I assure you, I do not.”
“I would speak with her, then.”
Riddell’s face suffused with anger. “And I tell you,
you will not, not now, not ever! You have been a thorn in my
side--nay, my finger--you weaselly little mongrel, for far too long
and I will close this door in your face now, and bid you to not
darken my door or annoy my household any longer!”
Riddell made to close the door, and without
thinking, Ian shoved against it, blocking it open.
“I assure you, Riddell, I have no desire to annoy
you any further. You are nothing to me; the mistakes I made in my
boyhood, thanks to your trickery, are naught now. It is Caroline I
seek, and I will find her. You cannot keep me--or trick
me--again.”
“Get out of here,” Riddell choked, and Ian smiled
grimly.
“With pleasure, sir.”
His hands shoved in his pockets to keep them from
shaking, he strode down the street in the oncoming twilight.
It was but a few minutes’ walk to the Moores’
residence, and Ian went there with haste. A parlor maid admitted
him, and he found Eleanor in the kitchen, weary and worn looking,
drinking tea.
“Ian! Oh, thank Providence you’ve returned to us!”
She flew to him, and Ian drew her close.
“I’m sorry, Eleanor, I did not come sooner,” he
said, his cheek pressed against her hair. “I’ve been abominably
selfish in regard to you... and others.”
“Never mind that. I’m pleased you’re back, is
all.”
“Still...” Ian took in a shuddering breath.
Eleanor pulled away to look at him,
her eyes bright. “Are you planning to change, then?”
“Oh, yes.” His tone was fervent and she smiled.
“That’s all right, then. Sit down, you look
exhausted.” She bustled around the comfortable room, fetching him
tea. “I’m sorry to greet you in the kitchen; I’ve been fixing
Margaret’s trays myself, though she doesn’t touch them.”
“How does she fare?”
Eleanor pursed her lips, shaking her head slightly.
“The fever has not broken.”
“Does the doctor think it will?” Ian asked, and she
met his anxious gaze with bleak eyes.
“He makes no promises. It’s been nearly a week, but
still, there’s hope. There is always hope. You could see her
yourself, Ian. I’m sure Henry would appreciate the gesture.”
Ian nodded his assent, and they sat in silence for a
moment, their thoughts on Margaret. “How is Henry?” he asked
finally. “And Rupert?”
“They are both anxious for her, Henry most of all.
He is like a ghost, wandering through the rooms of the house; he
neither eats nor sleeps. Rupert has taken the brunt of managing the
shipping business. He looks worn out though thoroughly enjoying his
responsibilities, I am sure!” She smiled slightly, still thinking
of the shocked look on Rupert’s face yesterday when she had not
given him an answer. He loved her. It was still a new, wondrous,
trembling thought. “He is concerned for Margaret, of course,” she
added hastily, “as we all are.”
“I shall look on her at once.”
“Have you spoken to Isobel?” Eleanor asked, then
could have bitten her tongue. Ian still wore his travelling
clothes; he’d obviously come directly to the Moores’.
“Not yet, but I will, Eleanor.” For once he did not
rise irritably to her questioning. “I will not fail her
either.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Henry closed his eyes, fighting against a wave of
fatigue that threatened to consume him. He’d been sitting by
Margaret’s bedside for nearly three days, since her fever had
broken.
At first, it had seemed the happiest of news, the
beginning of recovery. But Margaret had not wakened. She remained
asleep, her eyes closed, lashes feathering on her pale, waxen
cheeks.