Read Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance) Online

Authors: Carolyn Jewel

Tags: #england, #orphan, #music, #marquess, #revolutionary america, #crossdressing woman

Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance) (3 page)

BOOK: Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance)
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It was at night when Isobel could hear him coughing
that she could not keep back the fear he would die. “’Tis only a
cough,” she would tell herself fiercely. But the racking sounds
sometimes continued for hours. She could not close her eyes until
it stopped, and as soon as it did, she would creep down the hall to
her father’s room to push open the door and peer into the dark
until she could make out the shallow rise and fall of the blankets
drawn over the slender form in the bed.

 


Is he dead?” The book slipped
from her hands and hit the floor with a thud.

Miss Forbes held Isobel’s arm to prevent her from
going into the room from which they could faintly hear the soft
muttering of prayer. “You mustn’t go in there.” She pulled Isobel
into her arms. “My poor little girl. First your mother, and now...”
Her voice lowered to a whisper as she stroked her hair.


Is he dead?” As soon as the
Reverend William Grafton came out of the room, she knew that he
was, but she desperately wanted to hear, by some miracle, he was
alive. After all, she thought, had he not recovered from other
attacks of his illness? Why should this time be any
different?


My child...” Reverend Grafton
briefly pressed a soft hand to Isobel’s bare arm, and she could not
suppress a shudder at the dampness of his touch. “God has called
your father to his side. He suffers no more.” He noticed her relief
when he took his hand away, and his plump lips tightened while he
pressed the palms of his hands together. “God’s will is done,” he
said, looking a little unsettled at her stare. “Here.” He thrust
something into her hand. “Your father requested that I give you
this.” His chin tripled as he bent his head to watch her take the
silver pendant.

It was galling to let the man see her cry, but she
knew she ought to show some emotion. If she did not, he might
refuse to pray for her father’s soul. She summoned the tears he
seemed to want from her. “Why did God let him die?” she moaned,
looking up from her hand and clenching her fist around the
necklace.


God’s will is done,” Reverend
Grafton repeated. His grim expression relaxed, but still Isobel
shuddered when his moist hands touched her arms again. “You are an
orphan now, my child. Perhaps”—he glanced up at Miss Forbes—”she
will be thrust upon the mercy of the Church?”


I can take care of her!” Miss
Forbes answered him so quickly that Isobel looked over at her in
surprise.


You will pray for him?” Isobel
wiped at the tears trickling down her cheeks and was relieved to
see him nodding, his chin briefly appearing out of folds of
fat.


What did he give you?” Miss
Forbes asked when Reverend Grafton was gone. She bent down to see
what Isobel was clutching in her hand.

She opened her palm. “Mother’s locket.” She held it
up, and the silver oval her father had cherished as a memento of
his wife glinted in the light as it spun on its chain.


Here, I’ll put it on you.” Miss
Forbes took the chain and fastened it around Isobel’s neck. “You
will always remember your parents and how much they loved you every
time you look at this.”


I’ll never take it
off.

Chapter 3

 

 

 

British-Occupied New York

I

Isobel stood in the drawing room and glowered while
the man the court had named as her guardian until she was
twenty-one introduced himself. Carter Samuels hadn’t even bothered
to come to Boston after receiving the news of his cousin’s death.
As a vehement Tory, Samuels had no interest in living in Boston. He
had sent his attorney to handle the sale of the house and most of
its contents. The attorney had curtly informed Isobel that the
proceeds of the sale were to be held in trust for her by Mr.
Samuels and that as soon as she felt able she was to travel to New
York, where, he was pleased to tell her, she was welcome to live
with her relative until her majority, at which time her inheritance
would be released to her. To her great relief, it was agreed that
Miss Forbes should go with her to New York.


So, you are little Isobel
Rowland?” Samuels held out a thin hand. “I am Mr. Carter Samuels,
your poor father’s cousin.” He shook his head to show how sad he
was at the death of a relative he believed to be a traitor to his
country and whose demise had brought him into control of a fortune
of nearly one hundred twenty thousand American dollars. He bent
over in a small bow, and Isobel could not help thinking that his
horsehair peruke probably covered a balding pate. When, with a
flourish, he drew out an enameled snuffbox and shoved a prodigious
amount of the tobacco up his nostrils, she despised him for his
pretension. She smiled politely when he dabbed at his nose with a
slightly yellowed kerchief after a series of artificially loud
sneezes. “I am Mr. Samuels,” he repeated breathily. “And this is my
wife, Mrs. Samuels.” He put a hand on his wife’s
shoulder.


Good afternoon, Mrs. Samuels.”
Isobel took a deep breath because she instantly disliked the mousy-
haired woman.

Mrs. Samuels nodded when Isobel finished a dutiful
curtsy. “You and my little Emily will be good friends, I am sure!”
Mrs. Samuels put an arm around a plump girl of about nine or ten
whose hair was exactly the same mousy brown as her mother’s. “Say
‘good afternoon’ to your cousin Isobel, Emily.” The girl obeyed her
mother in a surprisingly loud voice. As soon as Mrs. Samuels looked
away, Emily glared at Isobel and screwed up her face.


Good afternoon, Emily.” Isobel
tried her best to sound pleased to meet her.


You must call her ‘Miss Emily,”’
Mrs. Samuels remonstrated. Isobel’s disdain for fat Miss Emily
increased tenfold. Ever after, she never thought of Emily without
somehow including the adjective “fat” in the thought.


And this”—Mr. Samuels indicated a
sullen boy of about sixteen or seventeen—”this is your cousin, Mr.
Philip Carter Samuels.” Mr. Samuels’s sharp chin lifted a little
after the pronunciation of each name.


Good afternoon, Mr. Philip.”
Isobel curtsied again.


Cousin.” He bent his head briefly
in her direction.

His arrogant nod inexplicably endeared him to her,
and she favored him with her most winning smile. His eyes reminded
her of her father’s eyes; they were precisely the same deep shade
of brown.


Well, little Isobel, you must be
very tired after such a long journey.” Mr. Samuels did not sound as
if he cared that it might be true. “A servant will show you to your
room. And to yours as well…Miss Forbes, is it not?”

A maid came in a few minutes later, and as soon as
Isobel had again curtsied to the family, Isobel and Miss Forbes
followed her to a small room at the very far end of the second
floor. She stood for a few minutes, staring after Miss Forbes, who
had hugged her tightly before leaving her alone. Isobel threw
herself into a chair by the bed and held her head in her hands,
trying, but failing, to keep back the tears. The future was not
going to be pleasant, that much she knew. That Samuels was in
charge of her father’s estate, and of her, until she turned
twenty-one filled her with despair. It would be years (practically
forever! she cried to herself) until she would be able to go back
to Boston. Tears of frustration burned her eyes as she was suddenly
hit by how alone she was now. There was only Miss Forbes to remind
her of happier times.

II

The day after Isobel arrived in New York, Mrs.
Samuels went through Isobel’s closet and pulled out all but six or
seven dresses, saying as she did so that her dresses would fit Miss
Emily so much better it was a shame for them to go to waste. Isobel
was so aghast she could do nothing but stare. “Your father may have
spoiled you, young lady,” Mrs. Samuels said, “but you’ll get no
special treatment here!”

As for Mr. Samuels, he proved to be a strangely
penurious man. He kept but two horses, yet three carriages, and
there was no doubt that the house was understaffed. Isobel counted
herself lucky that Miss Forbes was kept on as governess for the two
girls. Mr. Samuels complained bitterly about the expense of keeping
the house warm during the winter, and he rationed out the coal in
so niggardly a fashion he had difficulty keeping the servants
through the season. It was obvious, though, that he had an
excellent tailor; he followed the fashions without regard to cost.
Then there was Philip; he was the breath of life to his parents,
they rarely denied him anything. Mrs. Samuels spoiled fat Emily as
though she were a princess of the blood and not merely a chubby,
plain, and whining little brat. For heaven’s sake, Isobel thought
with disgust, she is only ten, and Mrs. Samuels acts as though she
is likely to attract the attention of any of a score of suitors!
Worse than fat Emily, worse even than Mr. Samuels and his faded
wife, was being required to be polite to the British soldiers who
were their frequent guests. It was intolerable, she raged to
herself. Why, any one of them could be the man who had wounded her
father! She yearned to be twenty-one, old enough to leave New York
and go back to Boston.

It was in the middle of the spring of 1782 that,
with a look obviously not meant to be interpreted as the glee it
was, Mrs. Samuels told Isobel that Mr. Samuels wished to speak with
her. “He’s waiting for you in the study,” she said with a sly
grin.

Isobel stood before Mr. Samuels, hands clasped
behind her back. He was sitting in his favorite chair, and as he
turned to face her he placed his feet on an ottoman and hooked his
fingers in the pockets of his satin waistcoat because he fancied it
made him appear kindly. His peruke was so heavily powdered that his
shoulders were covered with a fine layer of flour. He cleared his
throat. “I have a great deal to discuss with you, my dear. I have
just come from the lawyers’. There appears to be some difficulty
about your birth certificate, a trifle, I assure you, that will no
doubt soon be cleared up to our mutual satisfaction. It seems to
have been misplaced. There is no record of your birth that my
lawyers can locate. Do you, by chance, happen to know where you
were born?” A smile pulled at his lips.


I was born in Boston, of course,
Mr. Samuels.” She did not understand why it mattered and she
shifted impatiently.


How interesting. Are you certain
of that? I see I shall have to send Mr. Michaels to Boston again so
this little unpleasantness may be cleared up. There is no need to
worry about this at all, my dear little one. You may rely on me to
see that your interests are represented.” He paused. “You
understand that without your birth certificate there is some
difficulty about your father’s will?” When she nodded, he said,
“Well, my dear child, well, we must also talk about your music
lessons.” He smiled, and it made his hollow cheeks wrinkle at the
edges of his lips. She nodded again. “In times like these…well…the
lessons are quite expensive. This talk of a British
withdrawal…but”—he gave a deep sigh—”but your father inexplicably
set out that the lessons are to continue as long as you want them.”
He had been of a mind to put a stop to the lessons on his own until
it occurred to him the girl was likely to make a fuss. He decided
it would be unwise to chance having anyone take an interest in his
ward. Though he held out little hope she would agree to stop, in
light of the cost he felt it was more than worth the attempt. “The
lawyers assure me,” he continued, “that such conditions in a
will…er…until other matters are cleared up, it is wisest—that is,
there is no difficulty about the lessons. But, it is so very hard
to meet expenses. The war, you know, has taken its toll on
everyone.” He kept a regretful expression as he let his voice trail
off.


You can’t make me quit.” She
spoke quietly, but in a voice leaving no room for
argument.


Make you quit? Make you quit?
Why, the very idea!” He managed to look as though he had been
wounded to the quick. He put a hand to his wig and then, in an
unconscious mannerism, stroked his meager thigh.


You want to keep my father’s
money,” she accused levelly, her gaze on him steady because she
knew it bothered him when she looked at him calmly.


How could you think such a thing?
My dear child, I have only your best interests at heart!” Here he
sighed again and, as if it pained him greatly, said, “Very well,
then, we will have to let one of the servants go. The extra work
will be very hard on Mrs. Samuels; she’s a frail woman. I expect
you will have to help her out.”


Yes, Mr. Samuels.”


Run along now. Go to your room.
And tell Miss Forbes I wish to see her.” Isobel paused at the door
at these last words. When she turned to look at him, the expression
on her face said the hateful words in her heart.


Insufferable little brat,” he
snorted when she was gone. He brushed futilely at the white dust on
his favorite velvet breeches. He never did get around to telling
the lawyers Isobel claimed to have been born in Boston.

Isobel sat on Miss Forbes’s bed, eyes fixed on the
wall where a print titled “Royal Sport” was still hanging. It had
not yet been packed away. Miss Forbes had caught Isobel staring at
it once and had told her that although it seemed an odd thing for a
woman to have on her wall, it was the only thing of value she
possessed. Miss Forbes’s father had brought it with him to the
colonies in 1760 and it was the only thing, besides his debts, that
she had inherited from him. It occurred to Isobel that every man in
the drawing had a look of greed on his face. She wondered if the
artist could have known Carter Samuels.

BOOK: Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance)
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