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Yet his staying quiet continued to prick at her heart, as the freezing rain continued to patter at the window. She finished her stew as quickly as good manners permitted, focused on satisfying her stomach rather than her curiosity.
“I love the sound of rain,” Josephine murmured. She had nibbled at her bread and took only a few small spoonfuls of her stew. But she closed her eyes with an expression of contentment, all her features soft.
Her husband’s pinched brow relaxed somewhat as he looked at her. Isleen lowered her eyes, surprised at the intimacy one single glance could hold. No one could doubt Sir Andrew’s devotion and love for his wife. As exuberant and jovial a person as he was, he had a tenderness for his wife. His heart clearly belonged to Lady Josephine.
Many years ago, someone had looked at Isleen that way. And for the first time in a very long time, the remembrance overcame her good spirits. A burning in the back of her throat warned of oncoming tears. Tears that had no place at this private table, among new friends, and a husband who worried about his wife.
She rose from her chair abruptly, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Pardon me,” she murmured, then made her escape through the door and down the stairs.
The noise from the public room hit her at the same time as the added warmth of more bodies in a single place, and the heavy smells of the kitchen’s pies, stews, and bread. All of it wrapped about Isleen, and her emotions squeezed her heart tighter still.
She went to the front door, her fingertips brushed the handle, and for an absurd moment she thought the bracing cold would be a blessing. But good sense prevailed when she looked through the window beside the door and saw how dark the world outside had become. Everything had vanished from view—the road, the shops on the opposite side of the street, the trees in the distance—hidden behind heavy curtains of white.
The icy rain had changed again, this time into heavy snowfall.
Isleen left the doorway, but she did not venture up the stairs again. She walked into the public room, where men and women sat at half a dozen tables, and on benches along the walls, laughing and talking as though attending a party.
“Oh, miss. Take my chair, if you please.” A man by the fire stood and pointed her to his seat. The person nearest him was a girl, no older than fourteen if Isleen guessed right. “Laurel won’t bite, will you, daughter?”
The girl wrinkled her nose up at her father, then smiled at Isleen. “Yes, join us, miss. Have you just come in?”
Isleen didn’t hesitate to come forward, a welcome from strangers better than returning upstairs with her emotions as strange and unsteady as the snow whirling about in the wind.
“I did not, thank heavens.” She took the man’s chair while he fetched another. “I am Miss Frost. I was upstairs with friends until now. I came down to see the state of things. Do storms often come on this suddenly? Or is this a special treat?”
The girl’s smile grew as Isleen spoke. “Oh, you’re Irish, aren’t you? I heard there were Irish guests at the castle, and I’ve met a few of the servants here in town. I’m Laurel Nelson. My papa’s farm is three miles south of town. We came to buy ribbons today, but the weather…” Miss Nelson shook her head. “It caught everyone unawares.”
“That it did.” Mr. Nelson had returned and sat down in his newfound chair. “I ought’ve known better. Last time we had a spell like this, Laurel was knee-high. Still. Should’ve seen the signs.”
“Miss Frost is one of the duke’s Irish guests, Papa,” the girl informed him with a wide grin.
And there, among people who spoke cheerfully of the weather and farming, Isleen’s emotions stopped rippling and she breathed easily once more. Trying not to think of the people sitting in the room above, and what they must think of her hasty and uncalled for exit from their company.
CHAPTER14
Simon had stared after Isleen in some surprise. She’d disappeared out of the room before he’d even had the chance to rise from his chair. But he did stand up as the door closed behind her, ready to go after her. His sister’s words stilled him.
“I think you better leave her be, Simon.”
“Are you going after her?” he challenged.
Josephine shook her head slowly. “No. I am going to sit here like a reasonable woman and wait for her to return. Clearly, she did not wish for any of us to follow.”
“What’s the matter with her?” Simon asked, looking from Andrew to Josephine. “Do either of you know?”
Andrew snorted. “I have my suspicions.” He crossed his arms and leaned back. “The fact that you have no idea goes a long way toward confirming them.”
Josephine shot her husband a look of warning. “Andrew. No meddling.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Josie-love.” He picked up her hand and kissed the back of it. “Should I ask Mr. Bloom about a room for you? I won’t say you look tired, as the last time I did you gave me quite a lecture. But I will say that if you want the rest, I wish you to take it.”
With a little sigh, Josephine shook her head. “I am fine, Andrew. I promise. But we will likely need a couple of rooms for the night, if they haven’t already been claimed. I think it best Isleen and I share one.”
Simon stared at them both, incredulous. “Are neither of you concerned for Miss Frost?”
Josephine blinked at him. “Of course we’re concerned. Isleen has come to be a friend. I like her very much. But she is obviously out of sorts. I have the impression that she isn’t one to easily speak of her emotions, though she makes free with conversation about nearly everything else.”
“That she does,” Simon muttered, lifting his eyes to the beams in the ceiling. Isleen Frost had spoken to him of politics, religion, botany, love, child-rearing, Ireland, poetry, fashion, and a dozen other topics with great interest. But she did not often speak of herself.
