Page 47 of Lord of Loyalty

Her anger buoyed her up as they approached the house, and crushed the nagging worm of fear that he might be within, or nearby, watching them. Standing on the path, grimacing at the straggling weeds that had taken over its edges, Isobel tried the door. It was locked. Of course, it was—and she didn’t have the key.

“No matter, Mistress. Wait here.” Manners pushed past a trailing rosebush, ignoring the snags on his clothing, and disappeared around the corner of the house. Shortly thereafter, she heard a rattle, and the front door opened.

“A misspent youth,” he said in answer to her questioning look.

As she stepped into the hallway, she was greeted by stale air, but there was no smell of woodsmoke, suggesting the house had been unoccupied for some time. The gloomy darkness within was soon dispelled by Manners, who entered every room ahead of her and pulled open the shutters.

“To make sure there’s no one lurking,” he explained.

There was no one lurking. Not Hubert, nor Avice, nor Flinders—fortunately—nor any of the servants. She’d have her work cut out in the first instance, trying to get the place up and running. But once she could secure her legacy, she’d staff the house again, and put her nose to the grindstone. Then she’d send messages to every friend she could remember and invite them to pay her a visit—and Cecelia Hollingsworth must be invited, too, and perhaps even Master Maybury. He’d saved Will’s life, after all.

As she scoured the rooms, her mood darkened. Hubert hadn’t troubled to keep the place tidy or clean after he’d dismissed his household. Everything of value had disappeared, but she supposed enough remained to make the place serviceable, at least for the time being.

It unnerved her to be in her house again, to find it so familiar, and yet so alien. She quelled the frissons of anxiety by concentrating on what would be needed. The remaining furniture had been ill-used and needed replacing. There were crocks enough in the kitchen, and wooden platters to eat from, but all the pewter had vanished. The kitchen hearth was piled deep in ash, and in dire need of a clean, and the tapestried hangings had disappeared from the walls, leaving the plaster looking crude and unfinished.

“I’ll clean up the hearth while you fetch your things, Mistress,” Manners offered.

Now was the time to see how much further she could trespass on his goodwill. “Thank you. But I feel a megrim coming on—I’m overwhelmed by the condition of my home, I think. I fear I must rest here awhile until I’m recovered.”

“Shall I go to the apothecary for a powder, Mistress? We passed one on our way hither.”

“Nay. There should be feverfew in the garden. If you can clear the hearth and build a fire, I’ll make a tisane.” She had no coin with which to pay an apothecary, although she hoped the sale of some of her gowns would bring in a goodly return. She had her locket, of course, but she had no intention of selling that to buy physick for an invented headache.

“If you wish to stay here awhile, shall I send for one of the servants from Giles Street? They could put the place to rights while you rest, and help you prepare for the rest of our journey. A wench, I mean—for I can do any heavy work that’s needful. Or Goody Cooper would come, I know—she would soon have the place fragrant as befits a lady, for all that she keeps house for a man.”

Isobel blinked. That wasn’t a bad idea at all, although she’d be depriving Will of his housekeeper. Only for the shortest time, however. But no—it would bring him to her door even sooner, and she wasn’t ready to face him yet. If Fortune favored her, he’d sleep in today, then go about his business, assuming she’d had her breakfast early. He probably wouldn’t miss her until it was time for his midday repast and, even then, he would doubtless be too angry at her to seek her out immediately.

She shook her head. “It is a goodly scheme, Master Manners. But let us see if we can make shift for today—if we need help, or I don’t improve, mayhap send for her on the morrow. I shall go and fetch some feverfew.”

Unbolting the kitchen door, she strolled into the walled garden, enjoying the taste of the fresher air. Her meandering took her to the place where Will had climbed the high brick wall after he’d been refused admittance—thank heaven he had climbed in, or she might have lost her mind completely, beyond hope of ever regaining it. It must have hurt him, with that injured thigh of his. How was the wound now, having been reopened during the attack?

Her stomach clenched, and pain jabbed at her heart as she thought of what had passed between them since that moment. From now on, it must be as if she had never met him. She would learn to stand alone, to rely on no one.

Ah, here was the feverfew. She tugged at the tough stems and filled her skirt with the leaves. Having told Manners she would make a tisane, she’d now have to do it. Hopefully, he’d not watch her drink it, as she couldn’t abide the bitter taste, and there was neither honey nor sugar left in the pantry.

Relieved to be outside in the sunlight, no longer in hiding, she continued her perambulation of the garden, then came to a halt by a bank of colorful blooms, nodding gently in the breeze.

Poppies.

Her mouth went dry. There was no place in her garden for such monstrosities. Forgetting the feverfew, she fell to her knees, hands tearing at the feathery stems, yanking the white, purple and pink flowers out by their roots, cursing when the stalks broke, scrabbling at the soil to remove every last living shred of poppy flower.

Her eyes blurred with tears and she sat back, staring at her filthy, broken nails, and the heap of greenery and limp petals.

This was not the behavior of a woman who was in her right senses. What had she done, leaving the safety of Will’s doors? She wasn’t yet ready to be on her own—she wasn’t yet cured.

She had just—quite possibly—made the biggest mistake of her life.