- -
- 100%
- +
Isaac flashed a sardonic grin. “Then I guess I am doing her a favour.”
It had taken great self-will not to aim a fist squarely into Griswell’s jaw, but the man paid well – or he would do, when this was all over. The merchant left behind stern words and a reprimand. He had no idea where Isaac’s target was, but the man’s daughter was easy to spot. Lottie’s red hair gave her away, a shining beacon in the candlelight. Now, there was a pretty woman not far from his grasp, but nothing usually was.
“Miss Griswell?” Lottie’s carefully considered expression was directed his way, ready to turn down any unworthy suitor, until – of course – she saw him. An expectant smile folded back her lips as he bowed. If only he’d been paid to seduce her; it would all be over by midnight and he’d be a rich man. “I take it that you are recovered from yesterday’s excitement?”
“Almost,” she replied, meeting his eyes with unnerving intensity. “But now that you’re here, I know there’s nothing to worry about.”
“There are no snakes here tonight, Miss Griswell,” he assured her. “At least, not the kind with scales.”
“I suppose such excitement is bland for you, what with your time at sea.”
“Now who have you been talking to?” Isaac’s practised smile grew thinner, an impatient flicker. She did not notice. They never did.
“No one who could satisfy my curiosity.” She gave him a childish pout. “You’re an enigma, Mr Roscoe.”
Her reply did not reassure him. If there were any here who knew his past, it put his aims in danger. “I am surprised Miss Osbourne isn’t with you tonight.”
“She’s not one for all this.” Lottie waved her hand at their surroundings: glittering chandeliers, peacock feathers, military uniforms and forced civility. “Not like us two, who are far more suited to such high circles. We are very much alike, you and I.”
“Where did you say she was?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I didn’t.” Women like Lottie wore jealousy like jewellery, on show for all to see and pander to. The hold he had over her was slipping – and if he couldn’t charm the friend, he would have no hope manipulating the Osbourne girl.
The things I do for money, he thought.
“Would you like to dance, Miss Griswell?”
Lottie’s demeanour changed entirely, gloved fingers resting on his arm, victorious. Her chatter never ceased as she tried to coax out his mysteries, flatter his ego or endear herself to him. He could almost hear the wedding bells sounding in her barren, shallow skull.
It was midway through the minuet, as their hands found one another, that she said, “You have rescued me from loneliness tonight, for Ruth’s never any company.”
“How so?”
“She constantly abandons me and finds some sad little corner somewhere, as though she’s above all this.”
“How could anyone possibly leave you, Miss Griswell?”
Isaac mistakenly, for a brief second, stumbled into guilt. It was Lottie’s hopeful expression that did it, that chipped at his resolve, when she became the person behind all the flirtatious comments and wilful actions. Another lonely woman, looking for a deeper connection under all the flat promises and endless, lifeless parties.
“Ruth’s usually hovering in doorways or sitting alone, still as a statue,” said Lottie, as the music played on and she faced the tall man. “I can’t tear her away from Lady Winston’s garden this evening, not even to dance. I can hardly understand her most days. Who wouldn’t want to—”
Ruth was in the gardens.
He had her now.
And so Isaac left Lottie, without apology, standing on the ballroom floor with a lost expression and the dance incomplete.
“Do excuse me,” were the only words he offered, moving on without a backwards glance. She did not call out; he knew she wouldn’t. To do so would be to risk looking even more foolish, mouth gaping, pride wounded, hopes crushed and surrounded by twirling, happy couples. Isaac had a job to do.
The gardens were littered with small groups who tipped wine down their necks and basked in the cooler air. Night had washed the colour from the leaves, leaving greys and blacks behind. No distant figure sat in solitude. No wanderer marked the grounds. The girl was nowhere to be found. As much as he hated to admit that Griswell was right, Isaac was running short on time. He must have overlooked her, walked straight past her, somewhere. He told himself he’d find her on his way back towards the punch bowl, because another drink never hurt, but his march was halted. The doors to the glasshouse, the orangery, were wide open.
Slapping footfalls came from within, along with high laughter – a child’s.
He followed it.
In amongst the narrow trees and sweeping plants, Ruth’s ill-coloured gown brushed along the floor, a whispering noise, as she slowly approached a shadowed hiding place. Isaac could not see what she chased, not until her purposely slowed movements gave the three-year-old, her playmate, enough time to dart out and weave through the pots. Their little game was filled with high voices and scary growls, clawed hands and delighted screams.
“Not so fast,” called Ruth, as she reached out and easily captured the little boy, swinging him in a wide arc. Bare feet, mucky from the flagstones, kicked in the air until they found their way back to solid ground.
“Again!”
“One more time and then we really have to…” Ruth saw Isaac’s silhouette in the doorway and she straightened up, alert.
All those clever, practised lines he had hoped to offer vanished. It made no sense. He was good at this; he was a professional. And yet there was nothing. No suave remarks, no quick wit. It had to be the wine. It had knocked him off kilter – that was all.
“Forgive me,” he finally said, feeling foolish, striding forwards. “I did not mean to frighten you – or the little one.”
“I’m not scared,” called the boy, receiving a gentle shush from Ruth. “I’m not, I swear.”
“Glad to hear it,” answered Isaac, analysing the situation, his target’s expression, and hoping that his head would provide any answer as to how to proceed. His mind was uncooperative, packed tight with cotton. All words left him, as though he’d never had them at all. Isaac fumbled, “We met yesterday.”
“I know.”
“I – your friend, she was worried about you – out here, by yourself.”
Ruth blinked heavily. “Lottie sent you?”
“You seem surprised.”
“I don’t have any other friends and Lottie won’t remember I exist until the ball draws to a close.”
“Ah,” said Isaac, swallowing thickly. “You don’t like talking much, do you?”
“Not – not when there’s nothing to say.”
“Then do you prefer dancing?” It was another attempt to rouse the brief flicker he’d seen by the canal bank, the more open, less wary and awkward woman.
“As much as anyone does.”
“That’s not the answer I was after.”
“Oh,” she said, cheeks colouring, gloved hands smoothing down her dress. “I am sorry, I did not – I am not very—”
“No, don’t apologise.” Isaac pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth. “I am asking you to dance with me – and badly at that.”
“Isn’t it too hot in the ballroom?”
“Then why not here? The music can still reach us.” He knew the second he asked, that he had pushed too far. Although every woman was trained to please those around her, this one was too cautious, book-smart and unaffected.
Good for you, he thought. Although it’s bad for me…
“I do not think that would be appropriate.”
“Do you always do what’s appropriate?” The challenge was an attempt to cajole her into a rash decision, but she saw through it.
Quiet, steady, she observed him and he knew she was too sensible for her own good. In fact, he knew what she’d say before she said it.
“Good evening, Mr Roscoe.” She bobbed her head, eager to leave, face growing redder by the second. Yes, she liked him, or liked the look of him, but she didn’t trust him. “I have to get this little one back to bed without his grandmother, Lady Winston, finding him. He’s told me there will be terrible consequences if he’s caught and I – I cannot have that on my conscience. Please don’t think me rude, but I have to go.”
“I could help you.” Before the refusal could find him, Isaac added, “I did a little exploring. I know a way upstairs where he won’t be spotted.” Or rather, he had searched half the house trying to track the woman down and knew several possible routes. “You’ll fare better at keeping the boy from trouble with my help.”
A delay, one second, two, before Ruth nodded and placed the little boy’s hand within her own. “Then I will accept your help.”
“And you’ll dance with me afterwards?” Isaac knew he was trying his luck, but if he didn’t, he wouldn’t get anywhere. He needed something to show for tonight, if only to squeeze more money from the merchant. A dance would secure further finances and if the girl proved too frigid for even his charms, he could cut and run. “I am the child’s best chance.”
Just when Isaac thought she would refuse, Ruth pursed her lips, eyes meeting his, holding the contact though every social convention should have warned her otherwise. Instinct should have told her he was bad for her. Common sense should have prevailed.
But Isaac knew he was handsome, he knew he was charming, he knew he could choose any woman and have her in his bed within hours.
“Lead the way,” said Ruth.
And he knew he had her now.
Chapter Three
Ruth
Just as Isaac promised, the three moved undetected. Windows and doors had been left wide open to coax in the sluggish breeze and it made their journey easier. A side entrance from the greenhouse took them to a drawing room, a narrow hall and then a small study. A servant passed them, but she had been trained to keep her eyes averted from guests and walked on, a tray in her hands, not daring to take in their faces or the little boy hiding behind Ruth’s skirts. The child had been close to tears when Ruth first found him and proposed locating his mother – or even grandmother – in the dancing crowds. Worry lodged in Ruth’s mind all too easily. She remembered how severe her own education had been and how often the girls from the academy were punished and humiliated for minor misdemeanours. It was possible that the boy, Joshua, carried on because he simply wished to avoid going back to sleep. Doubt and anxiety clouded her thoughts. If Ruth could help him, she would. Even if that did mean using Mr Roscoe.
And he was a man who didn’t seem to mind being used. In fact, he invited it. Had she been a weaker woman, she would have taken him up on the offer. There was a way about him, an ease of movement, a knowing look that sent her pulse racing.
If anyone caught them, there would be trouble. At Miss Lamont’s Academy the rules about men had been clear and simple. She knew them back to front. Knew how to please, what social conventions to obey and how get by without any notice taken of her. Now, every step she took seemed to be the wrong one and took her closer to him.
Worse still, a sinful part of her welcomed it.
Ahead was the staircase, rising up from the main entranceway, with polished wood and ornate carvings. There were far too many people nearby, chatting loudly and clinking glasses. Their movements would be seen if they risked venturing from cover now – and so they waited in shadow.
Isaac’s arm was against Ruth’s. A small connection that made her mouth dry. She observed his profile, her frown growing heavier. There was a half-grin on Isaac’s face, as though this were some adventure – and he treated it as such, talking to Joshua in a low voice about how they had to be quiet. It was a game to them both and the little boy loved it, fists bunched into his nightclothes, eyes wide with a rebellious joy. The pair were two peas in a pod: naughty, mischievous and yet somehow making both traits seem endearing. Roscoe was far less alarming in this environment and she let herself admire his well-built form that echoed those heroes from classic mythology. He didn’t notice; he was distracted – and she could risk it, only for tonight.
“They’re leaving,” whispered Isaac. “Be ready.”
Ruth strengthened her grip on Joshua’s hand, only to find Isaac offered his own to her, seemingly without thought. He wasn’t looking her way, eyes on their escape. Ruth hesitated, fingers half-outstretched to his, hovering at a midpoint between them. It wouldn’t mean anything. Practicality told her to take it, as she would have taken Lottie’s hand. But he wasn’t Lottie and such behaviour between a man and a woman was different and surely if she placed her hand in his then—
“Now,” said Isaac quickly, grasping Ruth’s wrist and pulling her and Joshua free from their hiding place. Music brushed against them. The hallway and far ballroom were visible for a flash, before their feet were on the stairs. Ruth adjusted her grip, gloved palm against Isaac’s, holding on tightly. They were almost on the landing, fighting laughter, swept up in the excitement, when Lady Winston appeared. She wore a shawl so fine that it looked like a cobweb across her shoulders, gown glittering in the low candlelight, faded hair and light clothes giving her all the appearance of a ghost.
Isaac pulled up short, Ruth almost tripped over him and the little boy crashed into her legs. The moment Joshua saw his grandmother, he bolted up the final steps and flew at her, arms outstretched. Ruth’s hand was cold from where the boy had dropped it. The other was still in Isaac’s and she quickly stole her fingers back and kept them close, bunched up against her stomach.
“You are meant to be in bed, young man,” said Lady Winston to her grandson, but her tone was warm and banished any worries that Ruth might have had about Joshua’s well-being. “Did you give the maid the slip again?” The older woman, with slow, shrewd movements, turned to Ruth. “I hope he hasn’t been a nuisance to you both?”
“Not at all,” she answered. “I found him in the orangery and thought I could get him upstairs without too much trouble.”
“And you are?”
“Miss Osbourne.” She curtseyed, before turning to introduce Isaac, but Lady Winston got there first.
“Then you must be Albert Pembroke! I have already heard all about you; I know your mother.” Lady Winston, eyes crinkling, held out her hand and Isaac pressed his lips to her glove. “What a handsome couple you make. I can already tell you’re quite suited to one another.”
“No, he’s not…” Ruth trailed off, a stray thread of thought caught on the idea. If only he was, if only he could step into Albert’s place. A man who was everything she hadn’t known she wanted.
“I am her brother,” said Isaac. “And we couldn’t let the child wander around outside alone.”
“Then I am most grateful,” said Lady Winston, though her smile diminished, eyes darting between the two. She dismissed herself from their chat with a polite nod, before addressing her grandson once more and leading him away. “Time to get you back into bed now, isn’t it, Josh?”
The woman’s voice grew fainter. Ruth leant upon the wall, attempting to rope back her calm demeanour, chest rising and falling. God, what had she risked by indulging in such activities? Isaac stood idly beside the bannister, facing her in the quiet. When he almost cracked a laugh, she shot him a dark look. Whatever humour he’d found, she would not share it.
Not after all she’d done, all he’d helped her do.
“You owe me a dance, Miss Osbourne.”
“Dance?” Ruth’s compliant lips failed to drip the usual assuring words they were known for. All she had been told about propriety, doing as she was asked, and acting as a lady should was instantly forgotten. Those carefully laid foundations crumbled in minutes when faced by him. No one else had ever riled her like this. “You failed, Mr Roscoe.” With calm movements, she pulled herself to full height and went downstairs, spine straight and voice coolly quiet. “The boy was spotted and we were discovered, and by Lady Winston, no less.” She did not pause. She did not face him. She would not let him in. “I won’t waste any more time on this foolishness.”
What would her uncle think?
Deep thuds on the wood followed her where Isaac matched her steps. “You cannot mean to refuse me?” There was no anger in the question, Isaac’s mouth ajar, tone baffled.
“You speak as though it’s never happened to you before.”
“It hasn’t.”
It was exhilarating for Ruth, to talk freely, to leave all those self-conscious cares elsewhere. For once, in such a long, long time, she felt like herself – like she knew herself in this impossibly large city.
And she couldn’t let it happen again or else she feared she’d do something dreadful. Because she did want to accept his offer, she did long to dance. But it was not to be. She was engaged to another.
“Then consider this a first,” said Ruth curtly, even though he dogged her movements all the way to the ballroom. Were the other guests looking her way? Did they know what she’d done? Did they know what she truly longed for? No, there was nothing to know, she was certain of it. Ruth still felt guilty, as though there was a black stone in her belly, burning through her gut. She sought out familiar faces, wanting to explain and yet not wanting to give herself away at all. “I am positive that Miss Griswell would be glad to accept a dance on my behalf.”
The redhead, barely a metre away, turned upon hearing her name.
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Ruth heard Isaac mutter, but the distraction was enough to allow her to escape.
The piggish eyes of her future husband were boring into her neck. His face was even pinker than usual, eyes watering and thin hair slicked across his scalp.
“There you are!” Albert grasped her arm with his small hands. “Where have you been? My foot is sore and there aren’t enough seats in here.”
Ruth’s reply was too immediate, too hasty, for she was still ablaze from her earlier encounter, even if she was – despite all that had taken place – smiling. “And what do you want me to do about it?”
It was the wrong response and Albert’s cheeks flushed redder. He did not like being displeased – she knew that. Even as a young boy, he had always wanted his own way, always demanded to be revered. Ruth had played along under her uncle’s watchful eyes, as a young woman ought to. It was what she would do now – and for the rest of her life.
“Forgive me, it’s all been a little too much this evening.” The pat she gave his hand was awkward and uncomfortable, lacking the affection she had hoped to imbue it with. “I think the heat is getting to me.”
And so is Isaac Roscoe.
Albert ignored her excuses and did not even pretend to show concern. “I want a chair. That Griswell chap forbade me from asking a woman to move. He said it was bad form to make a lady stand, so you’ll ask one of them for me, won’t you?”
It was not a question. Fragile pride reminded Ruth that she had at least been able to refuse one man that night – the only real rebellion she had ever made. The one and only time she’d said “no” instead of rushing to please another at the expense of her own happiness.
A realisation came to her: where Isaac had asked, Albert had ordered.
She could not recall the last time anyone had ever given her a choice.
***
The door to Ruth’s bedroom creaked open and light, familiar footsteps slid along the floorboards. Ruth shifted towards the bed’s other side and made way for her friend, both too wide awake to sleep. The ball had ended hours ago, but their droopy eyelids and the open ears of their chaperones had kept their tongues quiet on the journey home. Now, alone and together in the Griswell abode, the two young women could talk in private.
“Are you cross with me?” Lottie held up her arm, the sheet tented between them, faces barely discernible in the gloom.
Ruth shook her head, a rustle upon her pillow.
Lottie’s words were stilted and considered, slow to leave her lips. “I know I have not been kind to you lately, I suppose it’s because I’ll miss you.”
“Only suppose?”
Lottie made a huffing sound, nostrils flaring. “Look, I – I – I don’t like people leaving and I cannot be like you; I cannot be so unmoved by everything.”
“You think I am unmoved?”
“You cope with it all so easily.”
“Do I?”
“Yes,” said Lottie sharply. “It’s you that everyone at the academy loved, you they went to when something went wrong.”
“Only when they didn’t want Miss Lamont to find out.”
“Well, no one ever asked for my views, for my help. It’s always you. It’s not fair.”
It was all the apology Ruth would get and so she edged closer to Lottie, a gesture of forgiveness, hearing the other girl’s breathing fall more evenly. “I will miss you too.”
Ever since Lottie’s mother had died when she was eleven, she had been unbearably clingy. Ruth had lost her mother at the early age of five – her father too – to a bad fever. Whereas grief had hardened Ruth and forced her to ignore her emotions for fear of ever hurting so deeply again, it had made Lottie more vulnerable. But they’d known, since they were girls, that they’d always have each other. They were like sisters, even if they bickered or Ruth withdrew into herself – as she was prone to do – or counties separated them. When Ruth’s engagement to Albert had been confirmed, Lottie had been the only one at the academy who hadn’t been happy for her. Because marriage would pull them apart.
“Do you love Albert?” The question was one Ruth had asked herself. To hear it voiced by another gave weight to all the doubts she had collected, nursed and fed in the night-time hours when sleep stayed far away.
“I hardly know him.”
“Do you think you will love him?”
Ruth pulled in a deep breath. “I hope so.”
“Even if he won’t protect you from snakes?”
“If that’s the case, then let’s hope there are always Isaac Roscoes milling around,” said Ruth drily.
“Yes, please,” laughed Lottie, stifling the noise against the blankets. “Though I doubt he mills anywhere, he swaggers.”
“Honestly, Lottie.”
“You can’t deny he’s charming!”
“Men like that are dangerous.” Ruth bunched up one hand, the same Isaac had held, a fist under her pillow as though there were a secret within it.
“Maybe I want danger,” joked Lottie, red hair inky in the darkness as she turned to address the ceiling. “You can keep your safe, happy life and I will be wife to a renegade. Even if he is rude enough to leave a woman mid-dance, I shall forgive him. He’s very easy to forgive.”
“Quiet,” hushed Ruth, pulling the covers back over their heads. “Good looks cannot make up for a man’s faults.” An odd, hot feeling crawled up behind her stomach, a little like jealousy.
“Ugliness doesn’t ensure virtue either,” said Lottie pointedly. They both knew to whom she referred. Ruth could still hear her husband-to-be’s whiny, dire tones in her ear.
“Lottie,” whispered Ruth. “Am I marrying a toad?”
“No, he looked far more like a pig in that waistcoat this evening.”
Another laughing fit grasped them both, petering out as the harsh truth set in. The future had seemed bright and white and idyllic when they were younger. They had waited for ever to grow up and now that they were women, the reality they faced was far harsher and seeded with uncertainty. Their talk ended, silence settled upon them like a second quilt, and the pair curled up together in the sheets for warmth.
“I hope you will be happy,” said Lottie, a well-meaning mumble. “Real happiness, not the pretence you put on to please everyone else. I hate when you do that.”
“Me too,” replied Ruth. “Me too.”
***
It does not happen often, that moment, when you find yourself left with the last tendrils of a dream that you can steer in any direction you wish. Ruth felt sleep slipping away and she held on, pushed through and found herself back in the orangery. The little boy, Joshua, had gone missing again – or had he? No, it wasn’t he that Ruth was looking for. It was another. The glass room was still and dark, the air sickly sweet. A shadow, lost behind large, sweeping leaves, solidified. A man, and not the man she should have sought out.