Could she really stop loving him? If so, he envied her. For himself, Marshall could not foresee a diminishing of his own devotion. Further, he thought as he burrowed into the bedding, he didn’t want his love to go away. Even if the object of it despised him, it was a way to keep her close, to remember what they had shared.
If only I’d known it sooner, if I’d told her sooner. The self-recriminations mounted as he drifted into an uneasy sleep. He listed them nightly, a perverse flock leaping through his mind, driving him into oblivion in the hope of escaping them. I never should have listened to Mother. I should have made love to her a thousand times while I had the chance. I can’t believe I ever doubted her. I should have come clean about Thomas Gerald straight away.
Gerald was still an albatross of shame around his neck. As darkness blissfully brought him temporary release, he determined to find the man in London. He might never escape the torment over Isabelle, but at least he could free himself of that blot on his conscience.
Chapter Twenty-One
Bessie opened the door for Isabelle, admitting her to the rambling farmhouse she’d taken near the small cottage the two had previously inhabited. The home was modest, but more spacious than anything Isabelle ever thought she would have for herself. She handed off her shawl and gloves and rubbed her hands together. “So chilly out. You can feel winter coming in the air.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bessie replied. “How was the committee meeting?”
Isabelle groaned. “Getting the ladies’ auxiliary to settle on a charity to receive the proceeds of the Harvest Ball is like pulling hen’s teeth. I nearly went mad listening to the bickering. When they’d narrowed it down to five, I thought it would come to blows. I finally said I’d give a thousand pounds to each if we could just pull the name of one out of a hat and conclude the meeting.”
Bessie gasped. “Five thousand pounds! You’re too loose with your money, ma’am,” she chided. The servant clucked her tongue and shook her head.
Isabelle smiled ruefully. She understood Bessie’s apprehension. When she’d lived with Isabelle before, she’d known her as Jocelyn Smith, and they’d been destitute. Isabelle had returned to the village with her true name and the unwanted burden of Marshall’s money. Alexander had been quite firm on that point: take the money or marry. And since Isabelle had decided she would never marry, she took Marshall’s guilt money. The least she could do was use it to help the less fortunate.
Bessie handed off Isabelle’s outerwear to a passing maid. She’d taken to her new position of housekeeper like a duck to water. She kept the house running smoothly, leaving Isabelle with plenty of time to do as she pleased. Too much time, truth be told.
“The post is on your desk,” Bessie said. She followed Isabelle to the sitting room where Isabelle did her writing. “There’s calling cards, too.”
Isabelle dropped into the elegantly curved wingback chair behind her oak desk. She pulled a penknife from the drawer and opened the envelopes.
The first one contained an invitation to Lady Chirken’s birthday fête. The second, an invitation to join the Ladies’ Society for the Improvement of Our Fallen Sisters, which, if Isabelle read between the delicately composed lines correctly, sought to provide assistance and training in new occupations to prostitutes. The next was a letter from Lily.
Isabelle scanned the lines in her friend’s neat hand. “Ah!” she said. “Mrs. and Miss Bachman will be here in three weeks, Bessie. Please make a note to have rooms prepared.”
She pulled the contents from the final envelope. When she unfolded the paper, a newspaper clipping fluttered to the desk. Isabelle sighed. “Still?”
The note was from someone she’d never met, asking would she please autograph and return the enclosed clipping.
Isabelle turned over the piece of newsprint, barely paying attention to the bold words: DK. MONTHWAITE SAVED IN HEROIC RESCUE, and the smaller words below, “Former wife preserves life of the duke and his sister; family calls her a heroine!”
In the weeks following Marshall’s shooting, clippings identical to this one had poured into the Bachmans’ London home and Fairfax Hall. She’d signed papers until her hand cramped and spent a small fortune on return postage.
Everyone seemed to want a piece of the cast-off wife who had saved her former husband and sister-in-law from a love-crazed murderess. Isabelle was touted as a heroine. Doors that had slammed in her face years ago were opened once again. She received invitations to parties, balls, charity events — and callers. People actually came to her door, seeking her company.