“Thank you,” she said, a wash of heat touching her cheeks. That he knew her larder was empty filled her with quiet humiliation. It felt like judgement, even if kindly delivered.
“Oh, do not thank me. I found it on the stoop when I arrived,” he said.
“On the—” She leaned out and looked right then left but saw no one in the street.
Mr. Christopher cleared his throat and looked at her sadly. “I trust that this is not an inconvenient time. Perhaps we should wait until?—”
Isabella set the basket on the narrow, claw-footed hall table.
“Waiting will not change my circumstances,” she said, not wanting his pity. She had no illusions as to the state of her affairs, a situation he was here to clarify. Once she knew the whole of it, she would formulate a plan. “Please do come inside. We have unpleasant business to discuss. I see no reason to make it even more unpleasant by discussing it where all and sundry can hear.”
And she saw no reason to delay the conversation. Waiting would not bring coins raining down from the sky.
With a sigh, he stepped inside.
She did not ring for a servant, for there were none about. She had dismissed the three women with excellent recommendations and an extra pittance she could ill afford. They had been grateful and kind, murmuring words of praise for her father and words of encouragement for her. She took his coat herself and draped it over the banister, then accepted his hat and placed it carefully atop the folded wool.
“This way.” She led him down the hall. At the door to Papa’s study, she paused, her heart constricting as she stared at her father’s chair, empty now. Empty forever. Beside the chair, the hearth was cold.
Papa’s worktable was piled high with projects: a fifteenth century leather-bound tome with blind tooling on the cover. Another from 1728 with a lovely Cambridge panel design on both front and back covers, the edges sprinkled in red, the spine decorated with gilt. Several works by Shakespeare, their covers ragged and worn. On the floor were more piles, the tops of which were level with the table. Sorrow wrapped her like a choking vine.
The wraith had done her a kindness and kept away.
She entered the room and turned away to pour a thimble of her father’s whisky for herself and second more generous portion for Mr. Christopher.
“To my father,” she said, then drank down the entire portion, ignoring Mr. Christopher’s raised eyebrows. There were so many more words she could have spoken, words of love and loss, but those words were hers alone. They lived in her heart and in her memories. So, she let those three suffice.
Besides, the fit of coughing that took her after she downed her tiny glass of whisky precluded any attempt at further speech. She had never developed a taste for spirits.
When her eyes stopped watering and her throat opened enough to let air pass once more, Mr. Christopher said, “To Malcolm Barrett,” and drank down his glass as she had hers. He, however, was not taken by a fit of coughing.
Once they were seated, she on the horsehair settee, he in an overstuffed armchair, he said, “You were your father’s secretary…”
“I was.”
“You are so young and a…woman…”
“I am twenty-three.” Not so young. Not a child. But to him, she was still a fragile thing, barely a shadow of competence.
She made no comment on his second observation as there was really no comment to be made. She knew where his thoughts wandered. She was a woman, alone in the world, and her sole training was as secretary to an antiquarian, a situation that would not stand her in good stead in a search for employment.
She met Mr. Christopher’s gaze. “Tell me the whole of it,” she said. “There is no point in putting it off.”
“You have thirty a year,” he said bluntly.
The number rang in her ears.
She did a mental calculation. The yearly rental for the house alone was twenty-five pounds. A year’s coal was close to fifty.
“It will not be enough.” Even if she lived frugally, hired no help, cleaned and cooked for herself, she could not continue to rent the house, not if she intended to eat. She should not have been surprised, but a tiny flicker of hope had clung to her, a traitorous ember now snuffed beneath the weight of truth.
Mr. Christopher did not pretend to be oblivious. “It is something,” he said, “but not enough to continue to rent this house, pay servants, sustain yourself.” He paused. “What will you do? Have you had an offer…”
“An offer?” She wrinkled her brow. He knew that Mr. Caradoc had offered her employment. It was Mr. Christopher who had sent her the introductory note. She was about to point out exactly that when his meaning dawned. She could not hold back an incredulous laugh. “You mean an offer of marriage?”
“Well, you are a lady of… That is to say, you are attractive… I mean…” He cleared his throat and looked at the ceiling, then the floor, and finally at his fingertips as he pressed them together.
Isabella resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She knew what he meant. Her hair was dark and thick, her skin clear, her brown eyes framed by long, dark lashes. She was of medium height with a pleasant figure, and her voice was neither too quiet nor too shrill. She had thirty a year, and while that was no great fortune—not even a small fortune—it might be enough, coupled with her appearance, to capture a man.
