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‘You know him better than that. Try to forgive him for his clumsiness this morning. If his feelings were not engaged he would have been…smoother.’
‘How did you—?’ She took a deep breath. ‘My feelings are not engaged.’
‘I found him in some agitation of mind. He told me he had erred and distressed you—I could fill in the rest. He let himself dream and hope and then woke up to the problems which are all for you, not for him. Giles Harker has a gallantry that will not allow him to harm you, so, if you want him, then you must take matters into your own hands.’
‘Lord James—are you insinuating that I should seduce him?’ Isobel felt quite dizzy. She could not be having this conversation with a man who was a virtual stranger to her.
The unfocused eyes turned in her direction. ‘Just a suggestion, Lady Isobel. It all depends what you want, of course. Forgive me for putting you to the blush, but Giles Harker is an old and dear friend and I will happily scandalise an earl’s daughter or two if it leads to his happiness. I wish you good day, ma’am.’
With Lord James’s departure the men went back to their meeting and Lady Hardwicke swept up Catherine, Anne, Lizzie and Isobel, ordered them into bonnets, muffs and warm pelisses and set out for the vicarage to call on Mrs Bastable, the vicar’s wife.
‘I have sadly neglected my parish duties these past few days and it is Sunday tomorrow,’ she remarked as she led her party down the steps. ‘What with Lizzie’s drama and all our preparations for the move and the pleasure of having Isobel with us and now Mr Harker’s accident, the Clothing Fund has been sadly neglected.’
‘Was it an accident, Mama?’ Lizzie demanded. ‘Mr Harker, I mean. You said it was footpads who broke his nose and cut his face like that.’
‘It was accidental in that he fell amongst criminals who tried to hurt him,’ her mother said repressively.
‘And Lord James was the Good Samaritan who rescued him?’
‘I rather think he was rescuing himself quite effectively,’ Isobel said, then closed her lips tight when Anne shot her a quizzical glance.
‘And the bad men?’
‘Have been taken up and will stand their trial, as all such wicked persons should,’ her mother pronounced.
‘The wages of sin is death,’ Caroline quoted with gruesome relish.
‘Really, Caro!’
‘It is from the Bible, it was mentioned in last Sunday’s sermon,’ Caroline protested. ‘Mr Harker is very brave, isn’t he, Cousin Isobel?’
‘Very, I am certain.’
‘And he was very handsome. Miss Henderson said he’s as handsome as sin. But will he still be so handsome when they take the bandages off?’
Lady Hardwicke’s expression did not bode well for the governess, but she answered in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘He will have scars and his nose will not be straight. But those things do not make a man handsome: his morals and character and intelligence are what matter.’
She pursued the improving lecture as they made their way across the churchyard and through the wicket gate into the vicarage garden. Isobel brought up the rear, her mind still whirling from that extraordinary conversation with James Albright.
Had he really meant that Giles was in love with her? Worse, he seemed to believe she shared those emotions.
The vicar’s wife was grateful for help with the results of a recent clothing collection and, after serving tea, set her visitors to work that was familiar to Isobel from her own mother’s charitable endeavours.
Isobel helped sort clothing into a pile that would be reusable by the parish poor after mending and laundering. The remaining heaps would be organised by the type of fabric so that when they had been washed the parish sewing circle could make up patchwork covers, rag-rugs or even suits for small boys from a man’s worn-out coat.
It was worthy work and the kind of thing that she would be organising if she married a wealthy landowner, as she should. Lord James had spoken of marriage. An architect’s wife would not have these responsibilities, although Giles had said he had a small country estate, so perhaps there were tenants. What would the duties of an architect’s wife be? Not organising the parish charities, or giving great dinner parties or balls, that was certain. Nor the supervision of the staff of a house the size of Wimpole Hall, either. Not any of the things she had been raised to do, in fact.
This was madness. She would not marry save for love—on both sides—and Giles Harker wanted one thing, and one thing only.
‘Cousin Isobel, you are daydreaming again,’ Anne teased. Isobel saw she was waiting for her to take the corners of a sheet that nee
ded folding. ‘What on earth were you thinking of? It certainly made you smile.’
‘Of freedom,’ Isobel said and took the sheet. They tugged, snapping it taut between them, then came together to fold it, their movements as orderly as a formal minuet.
‘Goodness, are you one of those blue-stockings?’ Anne put the sheet in the basket and shook out a much-worn petticoat. ‘I do not think this is any use for anything, except perhaps handkerchiefs.’
‘Me, a blue-stocking? Oh, no. And I was not thinking of freedom from men so much as from expectations.’ Anne looked blank. ‘Oh, do not take any notice of me, I am wool-gathering.’
