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You accuse me of mystery, and charge me with reserve: I cannot doubt but I must have merited the accusation; yet, to clear myself—you know not how painful will be the task.
Evelina, or, the History of a Young Lady's Entrance into the World
Fanny Burney
seven
As was her custom, Sheil had accompanied the Hammets to Paul Church for the Sunday morning service. Garbed in her best gown, a purple shawl neatly folded over her shoulders, she perched next to Mrs. Hammet on the high wagon seat, her posture erect, the white edge of her mobcap peeking from beneath the brim of her simple bonnet. Behind her, Mr. Connor and the younger Hammet children all sat with slick hair and fidgeting hands, their solemnity a thin veneer over their normal energy and exuberance.
From the upper window, Isabella peered between the curtains, careful to keep her figure fully concealed by the fall of damask fabric that covered the bedchamber panes. She smiled to see little Meg reach over to tweak her older brother's ear, restraining her laughter as Mr. Connor jumped, then glared down at his sister and whispered a reprimand Isabella could not hear. They both rocked back as the wagon lurched forward, neither having noticed their father clicking to the large draft horses that would carry them through Mousehole to the parish church.
Isabella saw Sheil's gloved hands tighten over her reticule and her lips curved into a wry grimace. She knew the former nursemaid was nervous of large horses…and mayhap she was more anxious than usual as she likely knew Isabella would no longer acquiesce to remaining abed.
Isabella had first been too stunned by the events of the day to protest Sheil's insistence that she remain in her bedchamber while she healed. "I don't trust ye not to use that hand should ye be up and about. And there ain't no guarantee ye won't get a fever yet." Isabella had nodded meekly from amongst the plumped pillows of her bed, unable to find the words to argue. But as the days passed and the swelling lessened, indicating she hadn't broken a bone, and no fevered blush stained her cheeks, it became impossible to be content with the same four walls. However many books Sheil fetched from the study belowstairs, Isabella felt no satisfaction in idleness and was soon insisting on at least taking her meals in the dining room rather than in her bed.
She had induced Sheil to promise that if she was still without fever and swelling by Sunday, a full four days following the mishap, she could return to her usual activities. As Isabella watched her former nursemaid accompany the Hammets to church, she could not entirely doubt that some of Sheil's anxiety was to do with her charge and not simply her fear of horses.
But guilt could not keep Isabella to her room. She rose soon after the clop of horse hooves faded from her ears, turning from the bedroom windows with an eager expression. Despite the bandage that still swaddled her hand, she quickly spilled water into the porcelain basin on the washstand from the white enamel pitcher Sheil had filled the prior evening. She splashed her face with her uninjured hand while carefully unthreading her plait with fingers still slightly swollen and hampered by the wrap of bandage. Loosening the ties at the neck of her nightdress, she quickly washed before moving to the clothes-press; one of the doors was ajar revealing the gowns hanging within, a mix of pale colors and simple embellishment.
She quickly donned a shift and stockings, stays that were only loosely unlaced from the prior evening, a petticoat in fine lawn, a morning gown of white cambric with a faint stripe in darker white, and a gauzy fichu which she tucked into the square neckline of the gown. Turning to the vanity, she sighed to see the wild tangle of her hair. Without Sheil's help, she was going to have to make do with a much less neat style than the tight knot she typically wore pinned at her nape. As she found her wry gaze reflected in the glass, she finally lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug; for she was unlikely to encounter anyone on this solemn day.
Renée, being Catholic, had never approved of her daughter attending Anglican services. Charles, who did not feel strongly about the matter, had allowed his wife her preference, especially as it gave him cause to avoid the railing sermons Mr. Jenks delivered. After they had died, Isabella had assumed she would begin attending the local parish church with Sheil and the Hammets, but Sheil would not hear of it—however much she might have disapproved of Renée's papist beliefs. "Your mother would roll in her grave, child," Sheil's voice had been adamant. "I'll not have that on my head."
Isabella's gaze was thoughtful as she gathered her hair in one hand and looped it into a loose knot; holding the bun in place, she gathered the pins she'd discarded the night before from the vanity, carefully thrusting them into the chestnut tresses. Gingerly, she released the bun, and smiled to see it remain in place. Then, without a second glance to the looking glass, she hurried from the room.
Though she spent every Sunday alone in the cottage, she could not help the feeling of strangeness that the quiet, shadowed rooms engendered. The front sitting room was much too quiet, no fire crackling in the hearth, no faint noise of cooking or cleaning sounding down the corridor from the kitchen. The trop of horse hooves, protesting herds of sheep, or the creak of carriage wheels could not be heard through the windows for nearly everyone would be at services at this hour. The wind did not even stir against the rooftop, sending the leafy boughs of the surrounding trees into a whispering dance.
She was almost tempted to play the pianoforte she had neglected for years, but, glancing down at her injured hand, she knew the inclination had come at exactly the wrong time. Ducking down the corridor, she darted into the kitchen, retrieving a bun from the basket on the high table at the center of the room. She then hurried to the garden, anxious to leave the too-quiet confines of the house.
Here, she lingered among the flowers that were now beginning to open more fully with the advent of the season, the soft inner petals of roses and daffodils unfurling to the sky, the sweet scent of honeysuckle evident on the warm spring air. Isabella's chin tilted with a thought, and she promptly disappeared into the house. Just as quickly, she returned to the garden with a wool throw in faded plaid and a book in her arms, the bun now lodged between her teeth. Soon, she was sitting among the blooms, nibbling at her pastry, lost in the finger worn pages.
Isabella only lifted her head when she heard the slam of a door, startled from Defoe's words regarding a tour of the isle of Britain. The cry of bright voices wishing Sheil farewell drifted from the front of the cottage, followed by the rumble of wheels and the lower tones of burbling conversation. Isabella straightened from her slouched posture, tucking her finger in the slim volume as she raised her head in expectation of Sheil's appearance.
The former nursemaid soon came into view in the darkened doorway of the kitchen, her expression bright, her shawl and reticule already discarded somewhere within the cottage. "Ah, dear girl, here ye are!"
Isabella smiled. "Was the service to your liking?"
Sheil's bright eyes briefly faded, her lips twisting in a grimace. "Nay, ye know Mr. Jenks nearly froths at the mouth with his sermons—I always did prefer Mr. Cameron. His sermons were nothing but kindness."
Isabella nodded, having heard much of this before. During one of his calls, Mr. Eldritch had shared that he'd once tried to convince Mr. Jenks to lighten the tone of his sermons, but, as Isabella learned each Sunday after Sheil returned from Paul Church, his arguments had not had their intended effect.
"'Tis unfair you are not allowed to select the curate," Isabella teased.
"Aye," Sheil nodded her head as she turned back to the kitchen. "For I certainly wouldn't pick none such as Mr. Jenks. I've always thought," she called from the darkness of the room, the sound of flint striking tinder clicking just beneath her words, "those that preach so mightily against every temptation and sin is thems that are sorely tempted themselves."
Isabella shook her head but remained silent; while she was certain that if Mr. Jenks had committed any transgression in such a small community, it would have immediately come to light, she saw no use in arguing the point with Sheil. "I'm to heat yesterday's stew," Sheil called from the depths of the kitchen. "Do ye be ravenous?" She re-appeared in the doorway, squinting in the bright light of day, a wooden ladle in her hand.
Isabella shook her head again, a faint smile on her lips. "I had a bun shortly after I dressed."
"Aye, but that was hours ago," Sheil grumbled as she turned back to the kitchen.
Isabella sighed, seeing that Sheil was likely to compensate for her inability to keep her charge in bed by fussing over Isabella for the remainder of the day. She tugged the throw from the ground as she rose to her feet, reluctantly trailing toward the kitchen—then hesitating. She glanced over her shoulder to the sky above, contemplating the sun steadily breaking through the clouds. "Sheil," she called, peering through the door into the darkness of the kitchen, "there are likely flowers in the Hammet's fallow field."
"Aye, child," Sheil called back. "Take a basket if ye aim to gather some."
Isabella smiled. "That is precisely what I had in mind." She stepped into the room, the peppery smell of stew evident in the air.
"But do take your bonnet, Isabella," Sheil called over her shoulder as she gently stirred the ladle. Though the words were chiding, her tone was full of affection.
"Yes, Sheil," Isabella replied with smiling obedience. Catching up the throw close to her chest, she quickly hurried abovestairs, fetched her bonnet, and returned to the kitchen for one of the baskets hanging near the rear door. "I'll be back before long," she called as she sailed through the door.
"And supper will be waiting for ye," Sheil called back.
Isabella couldn't help her sigh at Sheil's insistence, but was soon smiling as she swung through the garden gate, unable to resist the allure of the fine day. While the sun didn't shine brightly, there was a warm glow to the sky, the air noticeably cooler beneath the boughs of the trees that dotted the open land beyond Swan Cottage. Though a narrow track carved through the high grass, she did not follow its path, preferring to trod the clover and wildflowers that carpeted the ground rather than rucking up dust on the road.
The trees soon thinned to nothing as she reached the fields the Hammets kept plowed with vegetables and hay for their livestock. While recent wisdom dictated plowing every field and rotating crops to prevent exhausting the soil, the Hammets were too wed to tradition to risk diverging from hundreds of years of practice. What was more, given Mr. Hammet and Mr. Connor were the only hands available to plough, harrow, and harvest, crop rotation was simply beyond their resources. As such, one field was still left fallow every spring, the livestock given free reign each evening to graze over the grass and clover there.
The field was empty now, the cows and pigs likely in their pens while the Hammets prepared their Sunday supper. Isabella clambered over the low stone wall that marked the perimeter of the property, cautious as she shifted the basket and throw to her bandaged hand. She lifted her head as she gained the ground on the opposite side, a deep breath of contentment filling her lungs before pushing past her lips.
Violet, pale yellow, and indigo blue blossomed against a backdrop of rich green. Though spring had only begun to warm the ground a few weeks prior, the wildflowers, clover, and tall grass rioted forth, nearly as high as Isabella's knees in places where the cows had failed to nibble it back. The air was scented with the faint richness of things green and growing, the call of birdsong filling her ears. She drifted through the tall grass, caught up in the beauty of this place, her home. Her fingers rose almost without conscious thought, untangling the ties of her bonnet and pulling the hat from her hair. Her lips curved into a smile as the sun kissed her cheeks, closing her eyes as she tilted her face to the light.
She soon found a patch of ground on which to spread her throw, certain Sheil's good mood would allow for lingering in the fallow field; after all, she was not far from home, the sky showed no sign of turning stormy, and the day was still young. Secure in the knowledge that she would get no chastisement upon returning to the cottage, Isabella soon lost herself in her book.
So absorbed was she by Defoe's words, imagining herself far from this place, exploring the lawns of the castle of Ludlow in north Wales, that she was genuinely startled when someone called her name. "Miss Swan?"
Isabella gasped, the voice all too familiar, eyes wide as they flew from the pages of her book to find Mr. Maçon leading his docile mare across the Hammet's fallow field. "Mr. Maçon," she cried, shock evident in her voice; the book slipped from her hands as she fumbled for her bonnet, and then, discarding the pretense of giving the false impression she cared at all about shading her complexion, clumsily clambered to her feet. She could see he was gesturing for her to remain where she was but she was too flustered to obey, cheeks pink with embarrassment and confusion. Though she was certain her skirts had fully covered her legs as she sat on the throw, she couldn't recall if she'd straightened her hem after scratching her ankle earlier. And she knew her hair to be in utter disarray, tendrils curling at her temples and cheeks, only loosely pinned into place that morning. She had thought to encounter no one on this day but for Sheil, and couldn't begin to think how or why he should have come upon this place.
"Please, you need not rise," he begged, the words low and smooth and impossibly cultured.
"Oh, no," Isabella protested in return—then struggled to think of a reason she should not have remained on the rumpled throw. Her gaze darted across the verdant field, her thoughts in complete chaos, before she turned her gaze to Mr. Maçon's dark eyes, a response on her lips. "I was to gather flowers," she struggled to laugh but the sound was strangled, her agitation still evident. "You have reminded me of my task."
"You were reading," he said, his tone only slightly indicating the statement was a question.
"I was," she answered, glancing down to the book splayed upon the plaid throw. "And was far too lost in the crags of Wales to discern your approach." She glanced past his shoulder, noting the bowed mare behind him—before her eyes narrowed, realizing there was only one direction from which he must have come. She did not realize she shook her head ever so slightly, so adamant was her silent denial, telling herself her assumption was not at all possible.
"But to where…" The words formed before she could restrain her curiosity, but she could not bring herself to finish the question, to voice such presumption. Her gaze abruptly fell to her feet, chastising herself for even considering the idea.
"Your companion directed me here," Mr. Maçon explained easily, sensing the intent behind her words, his nonchalance in stark contrast to her increased agitation. For Isabella suddenly found she could not breathe, could not lift her eyes, could not stop the shaking of her hands. "I called at Swan Cottage but," she could hear the smile in his voice. "You were not there."
He had paid her a call. This was no accidental meeting on public roads, the briefest of encounters whilst traveling in the same direction. No, this was a deliberate gesture, seeking out her company. She could not begin to contemplate the meaning of it, could not allow herself to speculate as to his intentions. For how crushing a blow would it be if she was mistaken?
"No," she finally answered, her voice small, the single word a near whisper. "The day—" She paused, forcing herself to breathe, to lift her head and cease being filled with such nerves. "The day is too fine to remain indoors," she finished, the words strong and clear.
It took all of her willpower not to falter beneath Mr. Maçon's frank, admiring gaze, his lips curving with the slightest half-smile as he regarded her steadily. She thought again how black were his eyes. In that moment, had she wanted to look away, it would not have been possible.
"Your companion said as much," he replied. His gaze fell first, glancing towards the reins in his hands before rising to the field around them. When he spoke again, his tone was more somber, his hands briefly tightening into fists, the leather of his gloves straining at the knuckles. "You are so frequently alone."
Isabella's lips parted with surprise, wondering that he should care to chide her. "Cornwall is no land of vice and ignominy," she protested, her soft laugh one of surprise rather than amusement. "I am perfectly safe."
Mr. Maçon simply shook his head, the dark locks of his hair shining in the sun light. Isabella found herself wondering that he should be without a hat again but given how bold her questions had been in the past, did not think to risk such impudence once more. His next words utterly distracted her from these thoughts.
"There are dangers," he replied, the softness of his words at odds with the meaning implied by them. "Often where we least expect."
Isabella did not realize her brown eyes had grown wide, her cheeks pale despite the warmth of the day. She could not understand his meaning and finally shook her head, taking refuge in raillery, "Come, Mr. Maçon," she replied. "I would not have taken you for my former nursemaid—"
"Though I certainly sound like her," he smiled at her in response, all of his sobriety dissipated. He nodded to the book. "Miss Cadwallader suspected you had become distracted by your reading."
Isabella could only smile, easily able to imagine Sheil's grumbling. "She knows me all too well." Taking a quick breath, she stooped to retrieve her empty basket. "And your presence has reminded me I am sorely neglectful of my task." Now that she'd had time to absorb his appearance, she realized how idiotic her initial assumptions were. She refused to believe his presence indicated anything meaningful. Perhaps he was interested in forming an acquaintance with one of the few people who held the slightest of ties to his homeland. Perhaps someone had glimpsed his horse in the area and he wanted to ensure she and Sheil were aware of this development. But it could not be that he wished to pay her a call due to his interest in her, as such an interest simply could not be possible.
"There is a particularly advantageous spot just beyond the rise," he nodded in the direction from which he'd come. Isabella smiled and nodded in turn, catching up her skirts in one hand as she pushed through the high grass. Mr. Macon turned to accompany her, his docile mare trailing behind. As they reached the center of the field, Isabella's toe caught in the soft earth—for she did not expect the ground to rise as suddenly as it did, the height of the grass concealing the swell. In her peripheral vision, she thought she saw Mr. Maçon abruptly reach out a gloved hand as if to catch her—but as she quickly regained her balance and glanced in his direction, she saw his hands were at his sides, the knuckles again straining against the leather of his gloves.
Before she could form some light comment regarding her lack of grace, her eye was caught by the rich blanket of colors just beyond the rise.
"Oh," she quietly exclaimed. "You were quite right."
Mr. Maçon simply smiled in return, whatever uneasiness that had been permeating his frame now completely absent. "I believe I spied a wild rose in the midst of this copse."
Isabella could not help stooping, nearly on her knees as she examined the bed of flowers that bloomed in the slight shade provided by the rise. There was an abundance of gorse, which was the likely reason the flowers had been left unharmed by the cows and pigs let loose in this field each evening; the thorns would prove a deterrent while there were other grasses more easily consumed.
Mixed among the yellow gorse was the pale purple, lilac, and violet of thistle, knapweed and scabious, the flowers spiraling open to the sky. "My mother used to make tea from wild roses," Isabella murmured, peering down at the ground and endeavoring to find the bloom of which he'd spoken. Her eyes widened as she spied the near-white petals, just hidden between the spiny brambles of gorse.
"Did she?" Mr. Maçon replied, his tone so indifferent she could not help glancing over her shoulder, uncertain if she was boring him. He was staring down at the reins in his hand, but she could tell his attention was elsewhere, his brow vaguely furrowed. When he spoke next, all of her resolve to disregard his call as any expression of his interest instantly died.
"Will you be attending the assembly ball in Penzance this sennight hence?"
"I—oh!" Isabella had been reaching for the stalk of the wild rose, but in looking over her shoulder, she did not realize the bandage on her injured hand had caught on the thorny gorse. She sucked in a breath as her gaze flew back to her hand, the sting she felt indicating the wrappings had pulled away from her skin—likely tearing the scab. "Oh, no," she murmured. Realizing she could not pluck the rose without tearing her bandage free, she dropped the basket she'd been holding and reached through the brambles, biting her lip as she tugged at the length of linen. Then glancing over her shoulder she began to explain, "I was closing the shutters and didn't—"
But he was gone.
Isabella's eyes widened with disbelief and then narrowed with confusion, her gaze darting around the wide open meadow. But Mr. Maçon was nowhere to be seen, the reins he'd been holding trailing over the ground, his placid mare languidly chewing a stalk of thistle as though nothing untoward had occurred.
"Mr. Maçon?" Isabella called. She briefly wondered if she'd imagined the entire encounter, but as her gaze returned to Mr. Moorland's horse, she knew she hadn't dreamt him from the ether. "Mr. Maçon?" she called again, raising her voice. But as a bird fluttered from the branches of a distant tree, its wings briefly beating a pulse against the sky, she somehow knew he was far gone.
Isabella could not help her shoulders abruptly sagging, her confusion overwhelming. Where had he gone? And why? Did he regret enquiring about the ball? But if he was so concerned about misleading her, he could have simply changed the subject rather than flee her company. And how could he have fled so quickly that there was no trace of his presence—but for Mr. Moorland's old mare, whose blank gaze gave away nothing?
"I don't understand," she whispered as she shook her head, eyes briefly squeezing shut. But there was no response to her query, the sky blue and clear, the only sound the gentle swish of the breeze through the high grasses around her.
Her sigh was a mixture of frustration and confusion as she stooped to retrieve her basket. She knew she could not return to the cottage without having fetched the blooms which had been her primary excuse for escaping the confines of the house; she would never hear the end of it from Sheil, however gleeful she knew her companion must be at having received such an illustrious caller. Quickly, Isabella began plucking an array of flowers, pinching the stems with sharp motions, uncaring of the milky sap staining her fingers. One word echoed over and over in her mind, unable to understand the events of the afternoon: why?
As the light grew shadowed, the sun slipping behind high clouds, Isabella glanced to the sky before her gaze fell to the basket in her hands. A veritable bouquet rested within, and she slowly realized she was lingering in the fallow field, hopeful, waiting for Mr. Maçon to return. Her gaze turned to the docile horse that had barely stirred as she'd angrily snapped flowers into her basket; she had never quite understood why Mr. Maçon always held tight to the mare's reins, for it seemed unlikely the horse would ever bolt. But, like so many other things about the foreign visitor, she had no idea as to the answer.
Sighing again, Isabella bent, scooping the reins from the ground. "Come," she bid the horse, nodding towards the distant opening in the low stone fence. She was unsurprised the horse did not balk, shuffling behind as Isabella made her way to the narrow track that would take them east to Swan Cottage. Though she suspected Mr. Moorland's mare would likely have wandered back to town of her own accord, Isabella could not have possibly left her without any notion of when Mr. Maçon would return.
Through the short journey back to the cottage, Isabella tried to deny that she was surveying the road for Mr. Maçon, eyes narrow as she kept her chin high. Where he had gone was not her concern. And it was only common sense that dictated she should ensure his horse didn't come to any harm. As she reached the cottage and knotted the reins of the mare around the wrought iron fence post nearest the gate, she told herself she was not at all disappointed he was not waiting on the stoop, a sensible explanation on his lips.
Sheil's voice instantly called out as the door creaked open. "I saved stew for ye, Isabella!"
Isabella's lips parted, suddenly longing to speak, longing to rush to her former nurse and pour out her confusion and disappointment in a torrent of words. But she did not speak, knowing such an outburst would only agitate the elderly woman—and that Sheil would likely jump to wilder conclusions than what Isabella had supposed over the course of the afternoon. Instead, she crossed to the dining room and carefully set her basket and bonnet on the far end of the table before moving to the high-backed chair where she usually took her meals. Her eyes remained fixed on the floor, unable to meet Sheil's gaze.
"Child?" Sheil was instantly all concern despite Isabella's restraint, the smile audibly fading from her voice. "I told the gentleman where ye—"
"Yes," Isabella interrupted shortly, the word cold—before she erupted with sudden passion, eyes blazing, "But I have no idea as to his intentions!"
There was a long silence in which Isabella's muscles grew tense and tight, breath held, waiting for Sheil's response. She berated herself for failing to hold her tongue, certain the former nursemaid was now going to subject her to a litany of probing questions. Isabella's mind churned, struggling to find a reason for her outburst that would satisfy the former nursemaid. To her surprise, Sheil simply regarded her with a grim, inscrutable expression before finally announcing, "I never heard tell of any man who did know his own mind." She exhaled, turning her attention to the cloak she'd been mending when Isabella returned. "Never ye mind him then."
Somehow, Isabella's mood instantly lightened at this response; it took all of her willpower to resist throwing her arms around her companion, certain this would only further pique Sheil's restrained curiosity. Instead, Isabella simply smiled before turning to the bowl of warm stew before her and reaching for the spoon.
The sky was just beginning to grow violet with dusk when a knock sounded on the door. They had retired to the front sitting room after Isabella finished eating and Sheil had cleared the table, their conversation consisting of only the necessary exchanges. Sheil, who had risen to light the candles on the mantle, turned a startled gaze to Isabella, who perched on the settee with a neglected book in her hands. Isabella knew her own gaze to be equally surprised, and her eyes only grew wider as Sheil simply turned back to the mantle, her voice pragmatic as she asked, "Well, ain't ye going to see to that?"
It took several seconds for Isabella to absorb Sheil's words. When she finally registered their meaning, she jumped up and darted towards the door; then, remembering the book in her hands, she lurched back to drop it on a side table before hurrying again towards the corridor.
She paused in the entryway, willing the flutter of her pulse to slow. It was darker here than in the front sitting room for there were no wide windows thrown open to the last streaks of daylight, nor candles or rushlights to illuminate the gloom. She didn't realize her eyes had adjusted to the darkness until she slowly opened the door and her pupils shrank in the blue gray light of dusk, rendering the figure on the steps a mere silhouette.
Though she could not immediately make out his countenance, the pang of something pained and regretful lay within his tone—however mannered and smooth his words. "Miss Swan," he paused. "I do hope you accept my apologies for my inexcusable behavior."
Slowly, his features came into focus and while his expression was reserved, she did not doubt the emotion she had heard in his voice. "Mr. Maçon," she tilted her head, a faint line forming between her brows. "If I offended you—"
"Offend me?" His tone turned almost angry, black eyes glinting in the gloom. "In what manner could you have possibly caused offense?" His gaze fell, and the bitterness that now tinged his words was unmistakable. "I am a cad."
"Mr. Maçon," Isabella could not help protesting, his name almost a plea on her lips. "Certainly not that." Her voice turned curious. "For there must have been some reason…?" She could not put into words what had occurred, not entirely certain how to express his actions, his flight, his abrupt disappearance without a word of explanation.
But if she had thought that she would come to understand the reason for his behavior through finally speaking with him, she slowly began to realize she was sorely mistaken. For he did not respond, his lips thinning as his gaze remained trained on the ground, his hands balled into fists at sides. As the silence lengthened, she found herself nervously laughing to break the tension, attempting to prompt him again, "Come, now," she smiled. "Perhaps a wasp I did not see frightened you away?"
Though his gaze rose, black eyes sparkling with reluctant amusement, he simply shook his head. "I cannot explain."
"But—" she began to protest, frowning again.
"I cannot," he repeated, the words firm.
Isabella fell silent, her skin suddenly chilled as she began to understand that he was not going to provide her with any kind of satisfactory answer. What was more, while she had always suspected that there was something mysterious about the foreign visitor, she suddenly sensed he was hiding something much bigger than she could possibly comprehend.
Mr. Maçon bowed. "Good night, Miss Swan." He paused before turning away. "Please do consider the danger of so often being alone."
Isabella swallowed, silently watching as his tall frame grew fainter in the dimming light, only speaking as she heard him unlatch the gate. "Good night, Mr. Maçon."
