Must Love Breeches (44 page)

Isabelle put a hand to her head, dizzy. With her other hand, she steadied herself against the nearest wall. Nearby, a car horn blared. She cautiously looked around. Her chest constricted.

It worked.

The walls were now a soothing sage green instead of a lively floral wallpaper. Her study. Exactly as she’d left it three weeks earlier. She stumbled down the hall to her bedroom. Phineas’s room. Stifling a sob, she stashed the case in her bedside drawer and plopped her books and purse on top. Numb, she stared at her bookcase. Finally, she looked down, dug out her phone, and plugged it into the charger.

She lay back on her bed, arms splayed to the side.
So tired.

Isabelle snuffled and sat up, rubbing her eyes. She must have dozed off for a few min— She whipped around and sought her things on the nightstand.

Below the purse sat the Bentley edition of Austen’s novels, her journal, and the book on Native Americans Phineas had given her, the only items she’d brought back with her. She glanced down. Oh, and her clothes.

So, she hadn’t dreamt it. She inhaled deeply.

Leaving him had been the hardest thing she’d ever had to do. Her throat felt like a live, hot wire of tension and pain. She swallowed and tears spilled onto her cheeks at the memory.

She had stood in the study and rubbed the case, wishing herself back, and stared into Phineas’s eyes. She kept hoping he’d ask her to stay; tell her he loved her. Stop her before it was too late. But God, he hadn’t. He hadn’t wanted her to stay.

But, when the room swayed and the surrounding objects grew fuzzy, she could have sworn he’d slumped to his knees. She’d stepped forward to go to him, hug him and say she couldn’t leave, but had stumbled into her own room instead.

“Oh, God.” She bit back a sob. She would
not
cry. She picked up her phone, her hands shaking. Charged enough to make a call.
Katy...

An hour later, Isabelle sat with Katy in the kitchen, Roanoke curled in her lap, purring. Oblivious. A hot pot of tea lay between them and they breathed into the cups, cooling it, taking tiny sips.

Katy slid a manila folder forward, the sound of it scraping across the table oddly loud.

Isabelle flipped it open and her heart
thunked
a slow, slow beat, a this-is-the-only-thing-I-can-process beat. She felt as if she were stuffed with cotton balls, all sensation cut off, like nothing could penetrate. When tiny whimpers of emotion
did
surface, it felt as if a cymbal had clanged. Feeling more was out of the question because it just might shove her past sanity’s edge.

She fingered the brittle pages. Her letters to Katy, yellowed with age. A hot lump formed in her throat. “Wow.”

Neither could find words to digest, encapsulate, what had happened. By tacit agreement, they didn’t try.

Isabelle leafed through the letters. She’d written the last one only last night, and here it lay, spotted and worn.

So, Phineas had deposited it for her. A sharp pain lanced through her. A sob choked her, and she hunched her shoulders. She breathed rapidly, blinking her eyes. Oh God, what had it cost him to do this?
Hold it together, Isabelle.
She couldn’t do this to Katy, break down in front of her after all she’d done for her.

And, God, now he’s dead.

A wave of panic and grief slapped her numb. She’d made the right choice. Hadn’t she? She fisted her hands so tightly, her nails speared her palms. This was what she was supposed to do.
Stay numb, stay numb.
The blankness could carry her through this part. It was the
only
way.

Katy’s warm arms enfolded her. That did it. She latched her arms around Katy and cried, her sobs congesting her throat and nose. She couldn’t let go.

At last, she broke away and dried her eyes.

“Isabelle, I—” Katy spoke softly. She shook her head and cleared her throat. “I think you should know that based on these letters, I told your boss you would be gone for three weeks. He was very sympathetic and understanding. He expects you back tomorrow, though. He also said you’re in the running for the new position, so all’s well there.”

Isabelle stared at the letters and stroked Roanoke’s belly, avoiding Katy’s eyes. “Thank you.”

Katy’s hand reached across and held hers, squeezing it briefly. “If you want to talk, you know how to reach me.” She gave a dry chuckle. “In fact, it’s all I can do not to shake you and have you tell me everything right now. But, when you’re ready...”

Doubtful she’d ever get to that stage. Everything was too damned raw. Isabelle looked up and smiled. “Thank you, Katy. For everything. I couldn’t have managed without you.”

Isabelle saw Katy to the door. She glanced at her hall clock: six p.m.
Okay, stay busy, stay numb.
She shuffled into the library and lit a small fire. In the kitchen, she pulled a bottle of chilled Pinot Grigio and a wedge of dark chocolate from the refrigerator. From her cabinet, a wine glass. She placed those on the rug by the fire and retrieved the book she’d been reading before she’d left. Hands shaking, she poured a glass of wine, settled in front of the fire, and opened the book to its bookmark.

She nibbled a corner of her dark chocolate and anticipated the sweet taste against her tongue. It tasted like crap. She’d been staring at the same line in the book for ten minutes.

Be strong.

She’d made the right choice, the safe choice. The sane choice. She’d resisted acting the love-blind fool. She swallowed hard. How pathetic would that have been, right? He hadn’t asked her to stay. He hadn’t said he loved her. He cared about her, sure. And a strong physical attraction existed, but she’d made the right choice in not believing it meant ‘forever’. In not sacrificing herself for such a figment.

She stared at the bar of dark chocolate. Her usual indulgences weren’t working. Unbidden, she pictured Phineas curled up there with her, just like she’d imagined that first night she’d met him at the ball.

Oh, God, who am I kidding? So, I proved I’m not a fool for sacrificing a part of myself for a man. Whoop-dee-do. Shit. But I proved I’m an idiot.

Tears choked her throat, no longer content to remain chained to her will. Shaking, she stood and flung her glass against the wall. Bright, glittery shards burst from the wall, the firelight glinting across its facets, wine rivulets streaking down the wallpaper of her library—
his
library. Under the couch, Roanoke meowed.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God
.

She bolted up the stairs two at a time and stumbled to her bedside table. She dropped to her knees and yanked open the drawer. Hand trembling, she pulled out the silver card case.

Please work. Please work. Please work.

It had taken her there and back. The damn thing should work again. A wisp of fear that it wouldn’t, curled up like smoke—because she wanted it so badly. It would serve her right. For being such a stupid ass.

Tears plopped onto the surface, and she rubbed the initials, smearing the salty liquid.

“Take me back to Lord Montagu.”

“I wish to go back to Lord Montagu in 1834.”

“Please, take me back to Phineas.”

Nothing happened. No spinning. No disorientation.

“No!” She pounded her fists onto the wooden floor, scratching her skin. “No, no, no, you can’t do this to me!” She fell to her side. Sobs convulsed her body as her grief flowed free.

Isabelle trudged to work the next morning. It was strange seeing the city back in this future stage. The noise, the crazy-bustle commute, the other denizens elbowing and jostling her as she walked from the station to the museum, freaked her out. Jarred her.

This was what she’d wanted to return to?

She moved mechanically through her work day, slogging through the messages left for her, answering questions from her colleagues about her absence. It all felt hollow. Thoughts and images of Phineas prevented her from concentrating fully.

“Welcome back! Lunch?” Jocelyn leaned into her office. “A certain someone is a tad miffed at your return.” Her eyes rolled in the direction of Andrew’s office. “I’ll fill you in.”

“No, thanks, Jocelyn. Tomorrow, maybe?”

Her friend nodded solemnly. “Sorry about your uncle. Tomorrow, then.”

During her lunch break, Isabelle walked to her favorite café and ordered her usual—Chicken Wrap, no tomatoes—and opened her book. But the usual comfort eluded her.

Leaving the café, she walked the block to the museum. The sky was a sad, sloppy, dishwater gray, and a wind whistled down an alley on her left. Paper food wrappers and cups skipped across the sidewalk and into the street. She glanced into the alley. A little boy stood there, sucking on a huge red lollipop, staring at her with big eyes, sad eyes, almost reproachful, almost knowing eyes.

He looked familiar.

With a jolt, she shuddered and stalked down the sidewalk. The boy had reminded her of Phineas. Or of what their child might have looked like, had she stayed and made a family with him. But now that could never be.

Why had she thought she had to return? God, this was definitely the biggest, stupidest, what-the-eff-had-she-been-thinking regret she’d ever have.

She stalked the streets of London. Now, more than anything she’d ever wished for, she wanted to reverse time, correct the stupid decision.

Still walking an hour later, she was now dangerously close to getting-fired late. She waved to the Pigeon Peanut Man at his usual lunch time spot on a park bench, bag of peanuts in hand, his pigeon friends like a mottled, gray, undulating wave at his feet. She watched the gray horde. Her throat tightened. Obviously, life was about finding fulfillment and contentment however one can. Timelines didn’t matter. And why hadn’t she realized this sooner?

She spun away from the scene—she’d forgotten the crucial part of her decision-making process: her morning gut check. She’d been so focused on returning, she hadn’t stopped to weigh the decision, question it. And now it was too late. The life she’d crafted in the present—she’d confused her crutch with her salvation.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The overcast sky loosed its first drops and blended with the silent tears streaking her face. She held out a hand and let another cold drop fall onto her palm. She rubbed the drop away, her hands sliding easily past each other.

She stopped. Could that be it?

Hesitant at first, Isabelle took a couple of steps toward the closest subway stop. She broke into a run.

Once back home, she allowed herself to believe. It had to work. Had to. She prepared with that hope clutched tightly, not allowing an iota of doubt to creep in. Several hours of research and she had what she wanted. She jumped into her car and sped to the grocery for the supplies she needed. She packed. She changed into her period clothes. She packaged her letters and the key to her house and mailed them to Katy. And she was careful to not let tears fall on the case as she rubbed. And wished.

Phineas poured another brandy and collapsed into the armchair. Except for brief excursions to take care of nature and her letter, he had remained in his library since she had left yesterday.

He stared at the amber liquid, swirled its contents. Light from the nearby fire glinted off its surface. One gulp and it was down. He sat back with a groan.

She had left.

Somehow, he had never truly believed she would. Deep down, a little part of him had believed she would stay, even if she found the case. That little part fooled, he now felt as if his whole being had been ripped open, its contents exposed for all to see, inspected, and found wanting.

He had not been enough.

He flung his brandy glass against the wall, the heavy weight of the crystal
thunking
against the wall and shattering not enough to exorcise the pain. He dropped his head into his hands. An aching knot twisted his stomach, and his heart felt constricted to such a degree, he could not breathe. He blinked hard and fought to catch his breath.

He had been right in one thing: allowing her the choice. There was that. The satisfaction was grim and no palliative. She would always be what he desired in a wife, in a companion. No one else could fill that role. Ever.