“Thank you, Mr. Fletcher.” Her face was tinged pink, and she didn’t quite meet his gaze. It bothered him to hear her formal tone, which matched the formal address.
“Look.” Marianne had gone to thank Annette and Lubin and now arrived at their side. She indicated the Ferrins walking toward the wooded path. “Josephine and her parents are returning to town on foot. Do let me go and join them.”
Amy peered at the group across the grassy plateau, and James followed her gaze. Lambert had already started ahead with MacFirbis and Gruber and was no longer in sight. The risk of Marianne being importuned by them appeared minimal. Amy must have thought so too because she nodded.
“Hurry, then, before they are out of sight. Please give me a signal that they will accompany you to the hotel.”
Marianne darted off, running as though she were still a girl. Her calash with the firm rim fell backward still tied around her neck, and it bounced off her back in her haste, but she paid it no heed. James used the ensuing pause to take his leave.
“Good day, Miss Bridwell.” He turned to her father and sister and bid them both farewell as Marianne reached the group nearing the trees. She turned back to Amy with a broad smile and lifted her hand in a wave, nodding yes.
“Good day, Mr. Fletcher,” Amy replied and climbed into the carriage, shutting the door.
He had no choice but to leave and face the unpleasant task before him. By the time he had reached Isabel, she was now standing alone by the tables, her mouth drawn in displeasure.
“I thought you wished to talk to me, James. Yet here you arespeaking to Miss Bridwell. Is she the one you wish you were marrying?”
“Come, let us walk,” James said, ignoring the outburst, his spirits plagued and heavy. The relationship, which had once seemed reasonable, now felt glaringly wrong. How had he ever thought a marriage for practical purposes but without a shared love could work? He could only imagine he’d taken momentary leave of his senses to have approached Mr. Prexley in the first place. He held out his arm, unwilling to begin their discussion right away. Truly, he did not know how to begin at all.
In silence, they crossed the open field toward the path that led downhill through the woods. He could feel her indignation as she walked stiffly at his side, but although they were now far from anyone else, he waited until they were under the cover of the trees. It was not a simple matter, and he would need to show her the letter, which he could hardly do while they walked.
They reached the shade of the branches and were instantly enveloped in the quiet of the woods.
“Are we to walk the entire way to town without exchanging a single word?” she asked in a voice ready for argument. It was all that was needed to begin, and he slowed his steps.
“I was given a letter that belongs to you, I believe,” he said. He had decided not to say who had given it to him for fear that retribution might fall on Annette. “The person in question had reason to fear it might be urgent and thought I could deliver it to you more quickly.”
“What letter?” she asked sharply.
He stopped. The woods, normally so peaceful and full of life, had grown still, as though all of nature expected a storm to break. He pulled the letter out of his coat pocket and held it up, watching her face for a reaction. He was given one. A dull color rose on her cheeks, and her eyes showed a mix of anger and embarrassment. Apparently, she did not like to be challenged.
“If you please, I wish to see this letter you say is mine.” Isabelheld out her hand, and James placed the letter in it. She unfolded it and skimmed its lines. He watched her in silence.
“I do not know who is writing me such drivel—or even if it is meant for me. There are surely other women in Spa named Isabel.” She looked up at him defiantly as she folded the letter back in three. He did not believe that for a minute.
“If it is not yours, then I will find its owner.” James held out his hand to take the letter back. Later, he would turn the incident over in his mind and realize there had been wiser ways to handle it.
In a flash, Isabel folded the letter twice more and shoved it neatly inside the bosom of her gown, meeting his gaze with a challenging one of her own.
His jaw fell open. It was a vulgar thing to do and showed ... he was not sure what. Desperation? Deceit? Guilt. Certainly not any quality he would wish to have in a wife.
“Isabel—”
“What?” she threw back at him. “It is my letter, as you have said, even though it has not come to my attention before now. Why should I not keep it? I should not wish you to use it to defile my name. I would not put such a thing past you.”
Troubled, James fixed her with his regard, and she glared back before averting her gaze.
“The letter is quite specific,” he said with thinly veiled patience. “It speaks of kisses and tokens. It speaks of places you know. This is not the letter of a man writing to a woman of whose heart he is unsure.”
“You may have written it yourself to pull out of the contract. Now that you have seen Miss Bridwell again, you are looking for ways to end our betrothal. And she makes sheep’s eyes at you every time you are not looking. I won’t have it.” Isabel turned and strode forward.
After a stunned moment, James followed. He tried to marshal his thoughts but there was too much to comprehend at once. For one, Isabel had stripped him of any ability to retrieve the letter.He should have held on to it firmly for proof, for he could not easily end the engagement if she did not release him. He had no evidence to show her father that he had cause, and he could hardly shove his hand down her bodice.
Then there was her remark about Amy staring at him that he would do well to put out of his thoughts. It was likely spoken out of jealousy. A fury began to build in him, one he carefully contained.
“Isabel, if you have developed a tendresse for another man, I wish you would tell me. It is better to end things now, rather than entering into a marriage where there cannot be fidelity.”
“I have not developed feelings for any man,” she replied. Then, seeming to realize what she had said, corrected herself. “Not for anyone but you.”
