Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [50]
“My dear;” I said firmly, grasping her wrists and drawing her hands from her face, “you can have nothing to regret beyond your husband's untimely death. Mourn for him if you will, but do not take upon yourself the burden of your Maker. The ways of Providence are hidden, but as a clergyman's daughter, I may freely own that they are rarely vindictive.”
Isobel struggled free of me and fell languorously upon her chaise. Her face was hidden by dark red tresses; whether sorrow or anger o'erspread her features, I could not say. Prudence counseled me to desist; but friendship informed me that I had not done.
“You brought your husband great joy, Isobel,” I said firmly. “Remember that I saw him happy before his death. You honoured the Earl by consenting to be his wife, and by sacrificing your better feeling to his. Nothing should instruct you otherwise; certainly not the fractured words of a half-wit maid.”
“Jane,” the Countess said, brushing back her hair and turning her face to mine, “have done. Do not suppose your words are what I wish to hear. You cannot respect me any longer, knowing what you do of my character.”
“Say rather that I cannot endure you any longer.” I was all exasperation. “Isobel, you persist in professing what you should not! Enough of pining, enough of regret. Your task now is to address the future with renewed energy. Scargrave is dead—but Scargrave still lives. And unless I am very much mistaken, you are wronging a man who loves you.”
Isobel blushed scarlet, and turned her face aside. “Do not speak to me of Fitzroy. I feel nothing but shame when he is mentioned.” Her words were clipped and bitter.
“You should not, my dear.”
“How can I not?” she cried. “Oh, Jane, I am utterly miserable!”
“But you care for him still?”
She was silent a time, her fingers clutching and un-clutching at the lace of her gown. She looked away from me, towards the portrait of the late Frederick, his jovial face caught in a band of morning sunlight. Then, in a voice so low I must needs struggle to hear it, she said, “How can you ask such a question? My husband is hardly cold in the ground.”
I felt all the force of her chastening words, and bit my lip. My vigour in urging Isobel out of a too-heavy sorrow had lacked a certain delicacy. But I felt an active anxiety regarding the guilt of one I held so dear, and so attempted one last injunction.
“You cannot die with Frederick, however much you may believe it is required of your penitence, Isobel. *
There was a tense silence, and then the Countess expelled a ragged breath. I hoped for some good effect from my words; but I was not to be so easily rewarded. Isobel bent to retrieve her wrap and settled it once more upon her shoulders, the openness of her expression completely shuttered, her eyes on the flames in the hearth. “Leave me now, Jane,” she said.
“I shall.” I reached a hand to stroke her wild red waves, but at my touch, she stiffened. I said, “There are many people who love you, my dear. Perhaps more than you love yourself. Remember that, Isobel, when you determine to live.”
FEELING SORELY THAT I HAD FAILED BOTH MY FRIEND AND her lover in my awkward attempts at persuasion, I found myself alone with the morning before me. Fanny Delahoussaye was indisposed with a stomach ailment, and Madame had gone off to the apothecary in Scargrave Close; the Hearsts kept still to their cottage in the lane. Fitzroy Payne was closeted in his library, and Lord Harold, thankfully, was not to be seen.
Isobel's melancholy threatened to overtake even my energetic spirits, but I reflected that we had at least one cause for rejoicing—the maid Marguerite's vicious tongue, so injurious to the Countess's self-respect, had fallen thankfully silent. Sir William Reynolds remained cheerfully in the company of his dear lady today, having no news of an evil nature to bring to our door. I was not so sanguine, however, as to believe the affair at an end—and judged it wise to pursue what intelligence