Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance) (4 page)

Miss Forbes’s trunk was in the middle of the floor.
It was open and Isobel could see that there were already neatly
folded clothes in it. Two weeks ago, Miss Forbes’s leaving had
seemed a long way off. Now, instead of counting the days they had
left together, Isobel was counting the hours. She closed her eyes
and tried to imagine what it would be like when the room was empty
and the walls were bare.

Miss Forbes came in, and looked a little surprised
to see Isobel sitting on her bed. “What are you doing in here, all
alone?”

Isobel quickly pressed the tips of her fingers over
her eyes. “I don’t want you to go!” she cried when she thought she
could speak, in spite of the catch in her throat.

“
I also wish I wasn’t going,
Isobel.” She sat down on the bed and put her arms around the girl.
“But, there’s nothing to be done about it.” She took out her
handkerchief and with it dabbed at Isobel’s face. “I shall miss you
and your fortepiano.” They sat together for several minutes that
Isobel wished with all her heart she could keep from passing. “You
mustn’t cry about me, Isobel,” said Miss Forbes.

III

After Miss Forbes was let go, Isobel took on more
and more of the housekeeping duties until she was practically
running the household. There was virtually nothing for Mrs. Samuels
to do except complain that Isobel did not know the meaning of the
word “economy.” Isobel oversaw the servants, planned the meals, and
generally succeeded in adhering to the pitifully small budget
provided by Mr. Samuels. She got up at half past five, worked until
the afternoon, went to Mr. Archer’s for her music lessons or
practiced the forte-piano, had dinner, and went to sleep. The weeks
passed with comforting dullness. She stayed away from Mr. Samuels
and fat Miss Emily and occasionally endured one of Mrs. Samuels’s
tirades. Sometimes a servant would quit and she would look about
for another one.

The only change in the routine of Isobel’s days
occurred when she was fifteen, and soon it became more or less a
part of the monotony. At first she was convinced the bleeding meant
she was dying, and when she finally confided her fears to the only
person whom she might call a friend, she began to cry when the cook
laughed at her.

“
Die? You aren’t going to die!”
Mrs. Morris wiped her eyes and put a hand on Isobel’s shoulder and
then handed her kerchief to her. “Did no one ever tell you? It
means you’re a woman now, little darling!”

That night, Isobel examined her face in the mirror
to see if she did, indeed, look like a woman. She thought she
looked the same as always: very much like her mother and not at all
like her father. Neither did she feel different. If this meant she
was a woman, she thought it nothing more or less than an
inconvenience. Isobel’s whole life was so centered around her music
that she was the only one who did not notice her figure was no
longer girlish. She merely altered her clothing and thought to
herself she might yet grow as tall as her father. Still, if anyone
had bothered to ask her if she was happy, she would have said she
was. She had all her body needed: food, a place to sleep, three
dresses, a pair of leather shoes to keep out the mud and snow, and
a woolen cloak that was warm during the fall and spring and very
nearly warm enough during the winter. And she had all her soul
required: her music.

It was some time before Mr. Archer commented on the
gradual change in her—the ugly dresses and the plain boots that
looked as if they might split at the sides at the least
pressure—and soon he became concerned by her increasing thinness
and pallor. His eventual questions about the Samuelses and her
obviously worsening appearance were invariably met with stubborn
silence, and he stopped questioning her. It was enough that his
most able pupil—for all she was only a girl—was improving every
day. He relieved his conscience by telling himself Miss Rowland had
the constitution of a great artist, and if she was thin, it was no
wonder what with all her nervous energy. Anyway, his bill was
always promptly paid.

Isobel began staying at Mr. Archer’s later and
later, not just for the extra practice, but because by doing so she
missed the dreadful dinners with the Samuelses. The food that could
be bought on the sum Mr. Samuels saw fit to allow was not typically
the best to be had, and in spite of Mrs. Morris’s culinary skill,
it tasted like it. And by staying away, she was almost entirely
able to avoid the British soldiers who were frequent guests. Mrs.
Morris would generally set something aside for Isobel to eat when
she got back from her lessons. They would talk companionably while
she ate, though this usually meant she listened to Mrs. Morris tell
her why she should leave the Samuelses. Although Mrs. Morris was
some twenty years older than Isobel, she, like no other, understood
Isobel’s misery when she talked about the Samuelses.

Mrs. Morris repeatedly said she would help Isobel
find good paying work as a lady’s maid or, with her ability to read
and write, as a governess. “Why stay here and let Samuels have your
work for free? If you got a position, in a year or two you might
save enough to go to England to find your mother’s family!” What
she did not say was how unlikely she thought it was that Isobel
would see even a penny of her father’s money.

“
But I could never leave America!”
she said.

“
Why not?” Mrs. Morris
persisted.

“
When I’m twenty-one I’m going
back to Boston to study music with Mr. Standifer.”

“
But right now you’re no better
than a slave for Mr. Samuels,” was Mrs. Morris’s invariable
response. “And anyway,” she continued once, “why couldn’t you study
music in England? There’s nothing for you in Boston; you said
yourself the house was sold.”

“
Boston is my home, Mrs. Morris!”
One day she would be a very wealthy young lady, and when that time
came, there was nothing that could stop her from doing whatever she
wanted.

On the afternoons when she did not go to Mr.
Archer’s, and when she had spare time after practicing, she
sometimes sought out Philip. Mr. Samuels had engaged a tutor for
him, his son’s education apparently being one of the few things
about which he did not think to economize. Isobel usually found him
in the library drawing swirls on the paper he was supposed to be
using to copy Latin declensions. She was always careful to make
some small noise to alert him that she was coming in so he could
turn the sheets over. She would ask him about his studies, and
though he answered her only because otherwise she wouldn’t go away,
Philip discovered it made him feel important to have her hanging on
his every word. It had the added benefit of making him remember his
lessons, something he attributed to a natural intelligence, since
it never occurred to him that his recitations to his cousin might
be helping him remember the information.

It amused Philip to have Isobel dote on him. She
sometimes saved him desserts and sneaked them to his room after
dinner. She never asked him to share, which was a fortunate thing,
because he never thought to do so, and if she had, he would have
laughed at her for the presumption. Occasionally, he rewarded her
devotion by allowing her to borrow one of his books. It was thus
that Philip discovered Isobel’s proficiency at mathematics. He had
given her a text on algebra because it was sure to confound her and
lead to his explaining the impossibility of the female mind
grasping the complexities of mathematics, a moment to which he
looked forward. The day she returned the book, he decided it would
be amusing to make her try to solve a problem before starting his
speech. As it turned out, she solved it, as well as all the other
problems he gave her. Initially, he was put out, but it occurred to
him there was a silver lining to this cloud. He took to having her
do his exercises for him, and she regarded him with all the
adoration of a little sister.

IV

Isobel was all of seventeen when she realized she
was in love with Philip Samuels. Philip had much to recommend him;
he was young, and he was handsome, with thickly lashed brown eyes
that sometimes looked soulful. His hair was saved from being mousy
because of its reddish tint. He was taller than Isobel by only a
few inches, but he was powerfully built. Most important, he was the
only person besides Mrs. Morris who ever listened to her.

At Mr. Samuels’s insistence, Philip had enrolled in
law school. Consequently, he was often out, but when he was home he
would talk with her as he had in times past and, now and again, he
would lend her a book. Isobel attributed his shortness with her to
the stress of his law studies. His frequent demands for money from
his father were due, she knew, to his desire to better himself.
Philip was discerning enough to perceive a man was judged first by
his appearance. She looked forward to his homecomings with all the
impatience of a girl deeply in love.

It was as little a thing as failing to firmly shut
the door to her tiny room one night when she was in her bath that
changed everything. The warmth of the water made her drowsy, and as
she scrubbed herself she indulged in her favorite fantasy that
there was a maid standing ready to wash her back if she so much as
lifted a finger in her direction. Squeezing her eyes shut to keep
out the harsh foam, she poured water over her head until the last
of the soap was gone. She stepped out of the bath, leaning over to
let the water from her wet hair fall into the tub, and groped for
her comb on the table. Drops of water hit the bare wooden floor as
she worked the tangles out of her hair. She was combing out a
stubborn snarl when she felt an almost imperceptible swirl of air
pulling at the dampness of her skin. It was an odd sensation that
moved over her arms and back in waves of prickly tension. She told
herself she was imagining things and refused to give in to the
temptation to look behind her. Finally, though, she pulled her hair
away from her face and twisted around to look.

“
Good evening, Isobel.”

“
Philip!” She snatched up the
towel draped over the chair. Her mortification was so acute that
she spoke only when he made no move to leave her to her
embarrassment. “What do you want?”

“
I came to get Euclid.”

The book he had let her borrow more than a month ago
was on her table, and as she reached over to hand it to him, she
held the towel tightly around her. She didn’t at all like the look
on his face as he took the book from her shaking hand. “If you were
a gentleman, Mr. Philip, you would have knocked!” she said, hardly
able to believe she could utter the criticism.

“
If you were a lady,” he said
slowly, “your door would have been shut.” He tapped the book
against his open palm and looked at her for a long moment before
turning to leave, closing the door firmly behind him.

Philip walked back to his room with a strange
excitement boiling in him. As he’d said, he had come to get his
book. The sound of water sloshing in the tub told him his cousin
must be in her bath, and he suddenly found himself curious to see
what she looked like without those hideous clothes she wore. She
had just stepped out of the tub when he pushed open the door. He
saw water glistening on her pale skin and darkening the wooden
floor under dainty feet and long elegant legs. He was instantly
hard when she bent at the waist to grope for a comb. He’d damned
near taken her right then, but he knew what a prim little thing she
was. A little finesse would be necessary with her. She might be
skinny, but she was surprisingly well shaped. “Surprisingly well
shaped,” he mused as he dressed to go out. He felt a tingle of
arousal in his belly at the thought of those long legs wrapped
around him, hips moving in unison with his. He had got only a
glimpse of her breasts, but they had looked to be generous. His
cousin worshipped him, he knew, and he did not think for even a
minute it would be difficult to get her to turn that adoration into
something more physically rewarding.

V

Isobel might have convinced herself the humiliating
episode was forgotten, except Philip now stared at her in an
unsettling manner. Or at least she thought he did. She did not know
if his gaze disturbed her because of what had happened or whether
he really did look at her differently. She told herself her
carelessness had brought this on her. He was right; a lady would
have made sure the door was firmly shut. It was unfair to blame
Philip because he had unwittingly embarrassed her; it was not his
fault she left the door ajar. She dismissed the persistent thought
that he had been standing in the doorway for some time, and
convinced herself that it was she who was really to blame.

One day, when Isobel was in the study settling the
household accounts, Philip entered the room so quietly his greeting
startled her.

“
Ah, here you are!”

It was a moment before her heart stopped its wild
pounding. “Good afternoon, Mr. Philip. Is there something you
need?” She dismissed the uncomfortable feeling that whatever he was
thinking was not at all proper, still unable to believe a base
thought could enter his mind.

“
I’ve brought you a book.” This
was evidently true; there was a book tucked under his
arm.

“
You have?” He sounded amiable
enough and she relaxed at this obvious sign of his high regard for
her. “What is it?” She took the heavy volume he held out to her. It
was a leather-bound edition of Aristotle. “Philip, it’s beautiful!
It must have cost you a fortune.”

“
I thought you might like to have
it.”

“
Oh, yes!”