“Hello, big brother,” she said tentatively. His expression was unreadable. She still did not know whether he was welcoming her home or banishing her forever.
He took three strides to cross the room to where she stood.
For a moment, he only stood and looked down at her. Then he plucked the miniature from Isabelle’s hands and turned it over in his own palms, looking down at the woman who had given them both life, and died along with their sibling. Isabelle folded her hands at her waist, waiting.
“You’re the very image of her,” he said quietly.
Unaccountably, a lump formed in Isabelle’s throat. “Really?” she managed. She knew well enough that she had similar coloring, but no one had ever told her she looked like the beautiful woman in the painting.
Her brother nodded. “The portraits don’t show the resemblance as well,” he declared with a wave of his hand. “But your expressions, the way you hold yourself, it’s extraordinarily similar.”
“Thank you,” Isabelle whispered, her throat tight with emotion.
Alexander returned the miniature to its place and guided her to the table.
The meal passed in companionable conversation. Alexander did a remarkable job, she noticed, of keeping their exchanges on polite matters: the weather, the state of the estate’s tenants, how their neighbors fared.
When the meal ended, Isabelle started to rise, intending to allow her brother time to enjoy his after supper drink. Alexander waved her back down.
“Don’t be silly, Isa,” he said, smiling in his lopsided way. “I’m not going to send you off while I have a glass of port all by myself.”
“I’ll call for tea, then,” she ventured.
“No.” Alexander reached for the bottle the footman had placed on the table a short time ago. “Have a drink with me.”
Isabelle blinked. “Oh. Certainly.” She felt a little thrill as he poured a glass for her, as though she were partaking in some forbidden pagan sacrament, something beyond the province of her feminine world.
She took a sip of the beverage. As much as it looked like wine, it tasted very different. Her eyes widened at the unexpected strength of it, and then her tongue curled against the sweetness of the port. After a few sips, however, when the stress of the day’s trials began to melt away, she understood why a man might want to take such a drink after supper.
A glass later, she and Alexander were laughing over stories from their childhoods. He told her about things that happened around the estate, stories of picnics with their parents, of being caught out at some mischief. Something inside Isabelle grasped onto the stories and cried out, Yes, I was there, although most of what Alexander related happened before she was born. The stories gave her a sense of connection to her past, yet also emphasized the emptiness she felt about her own family memories. She had none to speak of. By the time she was old enough to actively participate in family events, her mother was dead, her father despondent, and Alexander was away at school. Isabelle envied her brother the experiences he had with their parents.
Alexander refilled each of their glasses. “So,” he said carefully, “what’s this I hear about you cooking at an inn?”
Isabelle’s eyes shot to his face. How had he found out? His mouth was set in a firm line. This was, she realized, the reason he’d brought her home.
Her stomach roiled sourly around the port. “Who told you?” she asked, sounding much like the guilty school girl she felt like.
“I had a letter from Monthwaite.” Alexander leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs out to the side, crossing them at the ankle. “He gave me quite a nicely phrased dressing down.”
Isabelle rotated her glass in circles, unable to meet her brother’s eyes. How dare Marshall interject himself? Alexander probably thought she’d put him up to it.
“He was right, of course,” Alexander said. “I shouldn’t have cut you off. It was impulsive. I was angry.”
Isabelle ventured a glance at him. He was staring at his own glass. “Why?”
He breathed a single, mirthless laugh. “I asked for a lady’s hand and she rejected me.”
She wrapped her arms around her middle, trying to quail the sinking feeling. Somehow, she had something to do with his rejection. She could tell it by his tone. “Why?” she whispered, fearing his answer.
Alexander looked at her and said gently, “On the grounds that no respectable woman wants a divorcée for a sister-in-law.”