Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance) (5 page)

“
You’re very pretty when you
smile, Isobel.” He rested his hand on her shoulder. Though she did
not want to spoil this return to normal relations, she shook off
his hand. “I’ll be extremely interested to hear your thoughts on
it.” He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall above the desk
where she sat. “Well, I’d better be going!”

* * *

When Isobel got back from Mr. Archer’s later that
evening, she went directly to her room and sat down at her desk,
her head nearly bursting with music. She immediately pulled out her
pen and ink and began to lose herself in the exhilaration of seeing
her music captured on paper. Mr. Archer did not know she had
started composing on her own, and she intended to surprise him with
a piece for fortepiano, flute, and continuo. She spent all of her
free time on the fortepiano at home so he would not suspect her
surprise.

It was ten o’clock before she put down her pen and
shook her hand. The copy of Aristotle lay on the desk, and, knowing
she would be unable to sleep right away, she tossed it onto the
bed. When she was settled under the covers with the candle moved to
the bed table, she held the book to her nose, closing her eyes and
breathing in the smell of the leather. When she opened it she was
surprised to see a folded sheet of paper fall from the pages. She
immediately recognized Philip’s cramped writing. The short letter
read:

My sweet Isobel,
I know I take the chance of offending you by this desperate letter,
but I beg of you, read through to the end and you will see I have
no choice but to take such a risk. I am sick with love for you. I
cannot think, I cannot eat, I cannot attend to my studies, I offend
my friends with my despondency. I have been unable to think of
anything but you since—but, I expect you know to what I cannot
refer. I begin to fear I am in grave danger from this fever
threatening to consume me with a greater violence for every day
that passes without a salve for the ravage it causes me. If you
have any feeling for me at all, you will consent to meet me so I
may tell you how I have been suffering for love of you.
Tomorrow evening, number 16 Acton Street. I will wait all day and
all night for you.

Isobel read the letter twice over before she could
begin to think calmly. He loved her! She read the letter for a
fourth time before thinking that if he was so terribly in love with
her, he ought never have written such a letter asking her to
compromise herself. It bothered her enough that the next day she
showed it to Mrs. Morris.

“
Don’t you dare think of going!”
she gasped. “If he loves you, he will declare himself like a
gentleman. You’re a lady, and he must treat you like
one!”

“
But, if he loves me, he will not
compromise me!” Isobel took back the letter.

Mrs. Morris shook her head. Master Philip was a
young man obsessed with bedding every wench in sight, though she
could not bring herself to tell Isobel so. “Listen to me,” she
said, “a gentleman does not ask a lady to meet him alone. You know
this. That letter is nothing but an insult. Do you not know in your
heart that it would be wrong to meet him?”

“
But he says he loves
me!”

“
No, Isobel, he does not say he
loves you. Read it again. He says he hopes you will disgrace
yourself. Will you damn yourself to hell for such a man? Will you
do what you know is wrong? There is no greater sin than that,
Isobel.”

“
Mrs. Morris, if you can read this
letter and tell me Philip does not love me, I will not
go.”

“
He will love you all the more if
you prove to him you will not do what you know to be a
sin.”

* * *

For some time afterward, Philip came home only to
ask his father for money. On the few occasions when Isobel saw him
he refused to do anything but scowl at her. She had adored him for
so long she could not believe he could be angry with her for
refusing to compromise herself.

One day, when Philip was again home to ask his
father for a few more dollars, she passed him in the hall, and to
her surprise he caught her arm and made her stop.

“
Good afternoon, cousin
Isobel.”

She gave him a strained smile. “Philip.” When he did
not let go of her arm, she tried to shake loose. “What do you want?
Your mother will not be very pleased if she finds you are keeping
me from my work.” Her warning had no effect, for he continued to
grip her arm.

“
Why didn’t you come?”

“
Philip, if you truly loved me,
you would never have insulted me by asking me to meet you!” She met
his gaze unblinkingly.

He pulled her close to him until she was pressed up
against his chest. “Isobel, you are a cruel and cold woman.”

There was a hungry look in his eyes that frightened
her, but she was unable to look away. His face was so close to hers
she could feel his breath on her cheek. “Let me go!” She tried to
twist away, but he only held her tighter.

“
Isobel, I do love you.” He stared
into her eyes and then let them close as he lowered his head to her
mouth. His lips were hard on hers, and when she felt him trying to
thrust his tongue into her mouth, she kicked out at him as hard as
she could. To her great relief he suddenly released her. “You’ll
regret that, you little bitch!” he snarled, bending over to rub his
bruised shin.

“
You are a gentleman, Philip
Samuels, but you seem to have forgotten it!” she cried, resisting
the urge to wipe her mouth.

He straightened up and sneered, “If you want to get
on in the world, cousin, stop your airs and remember your station.
There’re easier ways for a woman to make a living. Even one like
you!” He stepped back. “You won’t be so proud when Father boots you
out of here. You won’t think yourself too good for me then!” He
brushed against her as he went down the stairs.

She leaned against the wall after he was gone and
pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. She finally understood
that Philip Samuels meant her no good.

VI

Philip had not been home for several weeks when
Isobel found herself enjoying a rare evening of solitude after Mr.
Samuels took Mrs. Samuels and fat Miss Emily to supper and a new
Italian opera. When she came home from Mr. Archer’s she discovered
Mrs. Morris was also out, probably taking advantage of the empty
house to visit her brother, and so Isobel ate a very lonely supper.
She was in her room, brushing out her hair, when she decided she
would read for an hour or so before going to bed. She pulled on a
cotton wrapper, then went downstairs to the library. In this quiet
room, surrounded by books, she could pretend she was in Boston,
that her father was still alive and was going to come into the room
to talk with her as of old, or that her mother would come in to say
she was going to play the fortepiano. She opened her book and was
soon so utterly absorbed in the death of Socrates that she did not
hear the door open.

“
Good evening, cousin.” Philip
leaned one shoulder against the doorway and crossed his arms over
his chest, eyes fixed somewhere below her shoulders.

“
What are you doing here?” Isobel
snapped the book closed and stood up, startled because she had not
heard him come in.

“
I live here,” he said. He stepped
inside and closed the door behind him.

She wasn’t sure, but she thought his voice sounded
just the tiniest bit slurred. “It’s quite late, Philip, and I must
be going.” She started toward the door, but the look on his face
stopped her. His lips were pressed together in a thin smile. “You
leave me alone!” She tried to fight her panic when he took a step
toward her.

He shook his head and let his eyes drop to where her
wrapper failed to hide the swell of her breasts. “Do you know, my
dear little Isobel, there’s no one here but us?”

“
Mrs. Morris is here!” Her eyes
darted to the door, judging whether she could get past
him.

“
I’ve given Mrs. Morris the night
off.”

“
What do you want, Philip? It’s
very late.”

“
Do you remember my letter? I
meant every word I said, and I still mean it.” He reached out to
touch her hair.

He was close enough that she could smell liquor on
his breath. “You’re drunk!”

“
Ah, but not too drunk to
appreciate how pretty you are,” he spoke softly, and before she
knew what he was doing, he took another step toward her.

“
Philip!” she said, backing away
from his uncomfortable closeness.

“
I’ve been thinking about you,
Isobel,” he said in a low voice, “almost every night.” She put her
hand out to stop him from coming any closer. “You know I love you.
Let me prove it to you.” When she saw he meant to try to kiss her,
she pushed him away.

“
I don’t want –“

“
Why not? You know, Isobel, you’re
the one who made me think you were in love with me.” He scowled
angrily and stepped toward her again. “You followed me all over!
And now you’re surprised I’m attracted to you? I’m a man, after
all, I’m only human.”

“
Philip!”

“
Come here,” he snarled, suddenly
grabbing her arm.

Her reaction was instinctive. She jerked her arm
from his grasp and pushed him away as hard as she could. He
stumbled backward and then fell, hitting his head against the side
of a small table.

“
Philip! Are you all right?”
Isobel bent over him, relieved to hear a drunken moan.

“
Good God! What’s happened here?”
Samuels was standing in the doorway, his wife behind him, clutching
his arm.

“
My son!” Mrs. Samuels exclaimed
when she saw Philip. She pushed past her husband to kneel at his
side. “My son, my son,” she said in a choked voice. “You’ve killed
him!” Mrs. Samuels twisted to look at Isobel.

“
I have not!” Isobel
protested.

Another groan from Philip made Mrs. Samuels return
her attention to him. “Hush! Don’t talk right now. Thank God we
came back before she could do you even greater harm!” Mrs. Samuels
turned to her husband. “She might have killed him, Mr. Samuels! I
told you that girl would be nothing but trouble.”

“
I did not! He was trying to
–“

“
Think twice before you accuse my
son of something you can’t prove,” Samuels cut in. “I think, young
lady, you had better go to your room and stay there until I call
you.”

“
Yes, sir.”

Some quarter of an hour later, Samuels rapped
sternly on Isobel’s door. “Please give me the key to this door,” he
said.

“
But—”

“
The key.” When she turned it over
to him, he stood stiffly with his hand gripping the side of the
door. “Philip assures me,” he said, “that your attack on him was
unprovoked. I suggest you spend some time thinking about the
consequences of falsehood.”

“
It’s Philip who ought to be
punished, not I!” she cried as the door shut in her
face.

“
Philip,” she heard him say as he
turned the key in the lock, “is at least a member of this
family.”

A week later, Philip found Isobel in the study. She
jumped when he put his hand on her shoulder.

“
Unless you intend to apologize, I
have nothing to say to you, Mr. Philip Carter Samuels,” she said
stiffly.

“
So, you still think you’re too
good for me, do you?”

“
If you ever touch me again, I
swear I’ll tell your father!”

“
Really?” He sneered. “And when I
deny it, who do you think he’ll believe—his only son, or some
distant relation? If you are related at all, that is.”

“
I would die before I let you
touch me, Philip!”

“
I promise you, I’ll make you the
sorriest woman in New York.” He whirled around and left, slamming
the door after him.

Isobel stared at the papers scattered on the desk
and tried to fight her rising panic. It was becoming all too clear
they meant to rob her of her inheritance, and there was no one in
New York she could turn to for help.

The next day she told Mrs. Morris of her fears.
“I’ve got to find someone to help me!” She slapped the tabletop
angrily.

Mrs. Morris patted Isobel’s hand. “My nephew is a
law clerk for Mr. Horace Bardess. Maybe he’ll help you.”

“
Do you think he
would?”

“
Well, it never hurts to
ask.”

Isobel’s reply was interrupted by someone’s knocking
loudly at the door. When she realized no one was going to answer
it, she stood up. “I’ll be right back, Mrs. Morris,” she said over
her shoulder.

I

Mr. Edward Fairfax St. James had no great love for
America. He’d been shot at by the damned colonists during the war
and he had the uncomfortable feeling that they’d still like to
shoot an Englishman. He wanted nothing more than to put an end to
this wild-goose chase his brother had sent him on and go home to
good solid English soil. He was of the opinion that his niece was
dead. If she was still alive, Catherine Rowland, who had once
cherished the hope his brother would one day recognize their
daughter, would never have stopped sending the letters. The war had
interrupted his brother’s search for the girl, and though Edward
was convinced the twice-yearly communications had stopped because
the girl was dead, Robert had been adamant that he go to the
colonies and confirm it. If she were alive, she was to be brought
to England. Edward would never have gone but for the fact his
brother had given him a goodly sum of money and the promise of a
lucrative post in the government on his return. Since he had
recently resigned his commission in the army, and had nothing much
better to do, he had gone. He had already spent the better part of
a month trying to discover what had happened to the American
Catherine Rowland had married. He’d spent even more time trying to
locate their daughter. It was several weeks before he discovered
she’d moved from Boston to New York. By then, he was more than
ready to go home. It was so like those deuced colonists to make
things difficult, Edward told himself. He knocked at the door of
the house where he had been told Catherine Rowland’s only child now
resided. He glanced around while he waited for someone to answer
the door. The dingy building was not large, but it looked as if it
might once have been rather pretty. Now, it was in need of some
whitewash and, he thought as he looked out over the side lawns, a
good gardener. An appallingly pale girl opened the door. Judging by
her appearance, the owner did not treat his servants too well. She
was as drab as the house. Her skirt and blouse were clean but faded
to a uniform gray, having seen better days long ago. Her hair was
covered by a dark kerchief, though a few strands of light-colored
hair had escaped to curl around her wan face.