Not according to Papa.
“You invested the funds paid to my father for the collection,” Isabella said.
“At your father’s instructions. Without that, you would have nothing.” Mr. Christopher paused. “What will you do, Miss Barrett?”
“I shall seek employment,” she said.
“So you will accept the position Mr. Caradoc offers?”
Did he sound eager? She did not know him well enough to say for certain.
“Other employment,” she said. “Here in London.”
Mr. Christopher’s lips drew in a tight line, and his expression was one she could not interpret. Then he sighed and said, “I can make some inquiries, see if someone is looking for a governess or companion.”
She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger. She knew nothing about children, nothing about being a governess, and even less about the activities and obligations of a companion. But she knew a great deal about being a secretary, cataloguing books, repairing them, restoring them. Unfortunately, women were not usually hired for such positions.
Unless the employer was Rhys Caradoc.
She opened her eyes, feeling defeated before she even began.
“Thank you,” she said. “I would appreciate that. I will send letters to my father’s colleagues, as well. Perhaps one of them will know of a position.” And perhaps one of them knew how to fly and another knew how to breathe underwater.
There was nothing else to be said and Mr. Christopher soon took his leave.
After closing the door behind him, Isabella paused by the basket of food on the console table. She removed the checkered cloth that covered it and examined the contents: bread, a wheel of cheddar, a small clay pot of butter, dried figs, a handful of fresh eggs wrapped in straw, a piece of salted pork, some carrots and turnips, a twist of paper containing candied almonds, and an oval chemist’s tin, japanned black, with a thin gilt rule circling the rim. She opened it to find a pleated rosette of waxed paper cupping pale yellow lemon drops dusted in sugar.
She stared at the basket, feeling no temptation to sample this bounty.
When had she eaten last? She could not recall. The hunger that gnawed at her was not for food. It was for answers, for certainty, for a clear path forward.
Absently, she tore a small chunk from the edge of the bread and nibbled at the crust. She tasted nothing, but she forced herself to chew. She swallowed then turned and walked along the dim hallway. From behind her came a soft sigh. Then a whisper, like sand sifting. She did not turn.
Her throat grew tight; her shoulders tensed. She hung her head and for an instant, just an instant, allowed herself to acknowledge her despair. Then she drew a breath, drew herself upright, and went to her father’s desk to write letters.
Chapter Five
Papa’s study felt small in the presence of the three large men who had come to crate his books. Isabella supervised their work, making certain they packed everything away with care, then watched from the window as they left, her throat tight, her eyes prickling. The cart creaked and groaned under its burden, its wooden wheels grinding against the cobblestones with an uneven, mournful rhythm as it proceeded down the fog-drenched street. The sight tore open wounds not yet healed, scraping her raw.
Another piece of her life gone, as if it had never been.
But was it her life? Or had it been her father’s life, and she a mere piece on his game board, a pawn forever moved by a will other than her own? No, she had been something even less defined, an accessory to his life, bending and shaping herself to fit the contours of his wants and needs, his interests and fascinations. The recent days she had spent alone in this silent house had left her nothing but endless time to ruminate on every aspect of her life.
Oh, she had no doubt as to the depth of Papa’s love. She had felt it every day in a thousand different ways. But her life had been a reflection of his own. Yes, she loved books, but what else? She’d never had the space to discover what might fill her own inner shelves, unchosen by another’s hand. What titles would they bear, those unwritten spines? What would she choose if the pages were hers to write?
She had loved her father, loved the discourse with his contemporaries to which she was exposed, allowed to sit in the shadows and listen. He had never forced her to attend, she had gone willingly, soaking up knowledge. She had been content, or so she had told herself. But a part of her had always wished for…for something. Not more. Just something that was hers, a life that was hers. Her aspirations. Her choices.
The thoughts made her feel disloyal and small. She lifted her chin. Wanting was not betrayal.
Her hazy reflection stared back at her from the glass window, gaunt, pale, eyes hollowed by sleeplessness. A girl trapped in a house filled with shadows and whispers.
There had been times she had imagined how grand it would be to see Paris or Rome, to see the ocean, to walk in forests she had only read about, or sit in a tea shop with girls her own age and laugh and talk. To have a friend to share confidences and hopes and dreams.
But those were not things she needed, only things she wanted. She had trained herself to live on necessities, to believe that wants were luxury items, shelved high and out of reach.
She had been happy with her life…hadn’t she? The answer slid from her grasp.
She turned and studied the empty shelves.
