Thank you so much for reading & reviewing.

Well, said she, I never knew the like of thee. But this sad preparation for going away (for now I see you are quite in earnest) is what I know not how to get over.

Pamela: or, Virtue Rewarded
Samuel Richardson

ten

When Isabella awoke to the glow of sun shining through the windows and the chirping of songbirds, her first emotion was one of relief. Her brow smoothed as she opened her eyes, a smile tilting her lips at the fantastic dream that still stained the edges of her consciousness. She closed her eyes briefly as she shook her head against the softness of her pillow, tendrils of conversation echoing in her mind—such fancies, such absurdities! An uncomfortable chuckle found its way to her lips as she wondered at her state of mind, that she could have conjured up such a fantasy.

Her thoughts turned to her surroundings as she pushed away the nonsense of her dream…but confusion slowly began to take hold; she saw that the chamber was far too bright for morning, her brow furrowing as she wondered that the drapes had not been fully drawn into place the prior night. And as she stirred beneath the covers, she realized she still wore her stays, her flesh uncomfortably confined beneath the boned lacings. Her lips parted, thinking that this part of her recollection must be true—that Sheil had retired before her, leaving Isabella to undress herself. And she had been too exhausted to disrobe, falling into bed in her altered polonaise.

Isabella's hands plucked at the rich fabric as she rose from the pillows, her gaze rueful as she saw the rumpled state of the silk—before the events of the assembly ball returned.

…she is as fair as I recall, and much improved with a new gown.

Her gaze grew sad and regretful before her lids sank shut, as if she could block out the memories by blocking out the sight of the striped gown that had drawn the comment. But a huff of anger soon burst past her lips as she quickly scrambled off the bed, her hands rising to tug at the pins in her tangled hair as her gaze darted around the room, seeking distraction in determining all she needed to do to set her bedchamber to rights. Her discarded slippers were near the clothes press, her cloak was draped over the dainty chair before the vanity—and upon the vanity's surface, a sheet of dingy paper was folded into thirds.

Her hands fell from her hair, her gaze failing to see the stunned reflection in the looking glass as she stumbled to the vanity. She was blind to the oval face puffy with sleep and tears, the locks of chestnut hair partially cascading over one shoulder, and the wrinkled fabric of her gown; all of her attention was fixed on the piece of paper. She dropped the few pins she'd tugged from her hair to the vanity surface, her fingers reluctantly drifting to the letter, the motion hesitant and dazed.

For it had not been a dream.

Her gaze darted to the door as she heard the clatter of pots and pans belowstairs, suddenly filled with the desire to speak to the woman who had raised her mother, longing to understand so much that still remained unclear. Though she had managed to override Sheil's protective impulses last night, Isabella did not think she could rush belowstairs in her gown from the night before without raising her companion's ire. Quickly, she stripped off her garments and used the water from the pitcher to wash, before donning a fresh walking gown in white muslin. She straightened her hair as best she could before shoving her feet into slippers and hurrying from the room.

Only, she was not to receive satisfaction for her curiosity, the questions burgeoning on her lips swiftly forgotten upon finding her grandmother nearly finished with the breakfast Sheil and Mrs. Hammet had prepared. The two women had clearly rifled through the larder to treat this unexpected guest, a pan of kippers cooling on the sideboard along with a bowl of bread rolls, a side of bacon that had been fried with turnips and potatoes from the garden, and dried fruit that Isabella knew Sheil hoarded as if it were gold.

But Isabella barely noted the array of food, her mouth gaping with confusion and dismay as she saw Marie was nearly set to rise from her chair, her cloak and a valise resting on the floor nearby. The older woman spoke before Isabella could, responding to her granddaughter's pale, aggrieved expression with brisk pragmatism. "I must be on my way. It was a selfish indulgence to stray so far from my journey and come here. I have already lost a good deal of time."

"But—"

Marie waved a hand as she rose to her feet and bent to retrieve her cloak. "You have no need of me, child." Her gaze was not unkind as she straightened to face Isabella, lips wryly twisting as she shrugged into the cloak. "Renée may have neglected your training, but you are self-sufficient in every other way." Her uncanny eyes drifted away, a hint of regret entering her tone, "And as you are hesitant to learn the arts, what use is an old woman with other business to attend to?"

Isabella shook her head, certain it could not be possible that her grandmother would depart after having only just arrived. Marie's last words echoed in her mind, and so it was this on which she seized, managing to form a question. "What business?"

Marie's gaze grew grim, her mouth hardening into a thin line. "There are threats I do not yet comprehend." Isabella's brown eyes grew wide, unwittingly rearing back as she thought how similar this sounded to Mr. Maçon's vague references to dangers she could not believe to be true. Sensing Isabella's reaction, Marie lifted a hand, squeezing her shoulder with a firm grip. "Do not be alarmed." She turned away, bowing slowly to grasp the handles of her valise. "Remember what I told you before."

"But Grandmére," Isabella could not help protesting, finally absorbing that her grandmother was not in jest—that she truly meant to take her leave the very morning after her arrival. "Is it so urgent? Can you not stay one more night?" Desperation tinged her tone as she thought of all the questions that had risen to her lips upon realizing her dream was reality, eager to understand all that had passed the prior night—and all that her grandmother had intimated with her words and knowledge. For how many generations had her mother's family carried these gifts? How did the gifts vary from person to person? What did training entail? Had the Aecenbotme's ever suffered scrutiny for their gifts? And how had they responded to this attention?

But Marie was shaking her head, her expression fixed. "Fret not, Isabella. Some of your questions," she nodded towards the door and presumably to the kitchen beyond, where Sheil and Mrs. Hammet were likely enjoying a cup of tea after laboring over breakfast. "Your companion will know." One lid briefly sank shut over her faded blue eye, a hoarse chuckle on her lips. "Though she may not realize she knows." Then, more firmly, "I have already lost a great deal of time. That must be my primary concern, however much I may wish to pass here with you." Her gaze rose to the walls around them, the briefest wistfulness passing over her features before grim determination set in again. "Renée was happy here, as are you." She bowed her head before turning to the door. "That must be enough for me."

Isabella choked back her protests as she followed Marie to the door, blinking away angry tears as she saw Mr. Connor was already waiting at the gate in his wagon. Marie paused only once more, lifting a wrinkled hand to briefly touch Isabella's cheek, regret darting across her gaze, before she turned and marched towards the wagon on unhesitating feet.

Isabella longed to go after her, to tug on her cloak and beg her to stay one more day, but she somehow knew it would be of no use. Only after the wagon had turned the corner and disappeared from sight did she close the front door and return to the dining room, her chest hollow with disbelief.

She had no appetite for the food cooling on the sideboard, her arms crossed over her chest, her gaze narrow and inexpressibly disappointed as she regarded the meal Sheil and Mrs. Hammet had worked so hard to prepare. She was more than willing to brave Sheil's ire in refusing to eat, her lips set in a thin line, her jaw tight as she fought tears of frustration and confusion.

She was still hovering mutinously over the sideboard when she heard footfalls behind her and swiftly turned, skirts swirling, preparing to do battle with her former nursemaid. But her anger subsided into confusion as she saw Sheil's weary, sad face beneath the ruffled edge of her mob cab, her cheeks slightly reddened by the warmth of the kitchen fire. "Has she gone, then?"

Though Isabella had thought to deliver the words with justifiable outrage when she first heard her companion approach, her voice only managed to sound cold and aloof when she spoke in response. "Isn't that what you wished?" She knew someone must have sent for Mr. Connor and it seemed all too appropriate to lay the blame at Sheil's feet.

Sheil's brow briefly furrowed before she shuffled forward and reached for the nearest dining room chair, dragged it away from the table, and sank into it with a tired sigh. Several seconds passed before she spoke. "For the first year after your father brought Miss Renée back," she inhaled, "I woke every day thinking I'd have to comfort the poor boy of a broken heart—that she'd come to her senses and leave this dull place as soon as the lustre of first love faded." She shook her head, her gaze growing distant with memory. "But she stayed. She stayed even after he left, again and again, with only his mother and me for company for months at a time. She stayed when no one could have faulted her for leaving."

Sheil's gaze cleared, her head lifting to regard Isabella with a sad, steady stare. "Your grandmother has no such ties to this place. I knew when I saw her last night, still wearing her cloak, that she wasn't going to stay long." Sheil shook her head again, "But if ye don't aim to be angry with her, ye can be angry with the one who's still here to bear the brunt of it."

Any lingering frustration Isabella might have felt died at these words, her shoulders sagging as her arms fell to her sides. She was unable to resist crossing to Sheil's seated figure, bending to embrace the older woman's plump frame. "'Twas not fair, Sheil," she whispered. "Please forgive me."

Sheil's arms briefly rose to hold her charge close. "Ain't nothing to forgive, child," she gruffly replied. As Isabella straightened, the older woman pretended a rapt fascination with her hands. "Did your grandmother say why she had to go?"

Isabella's lips quirked, realizing Sheil was likely dying of curiosity. "No." She saw no use in hinting at the vague danger her grandmother had mentioned. "Only that she had business to attend to, and was already late."

Sheil's nose wrinkled as she looked up, her disappointment apparent. "Ah, so," she sighed. "I might as well start clearing these breakfast things away." She peered at Isabella. "Have ye eaten your fill?"

Isabella shook her head, quickly crossing back to the sideboard before Sheil could chide her. "Not as of yet. Will you sit with me while I eat?"

"But of course, child."

Her mood somewhat lightened, Isabella filled her plate with kippers and bacon and the largest roll in the bowl; as she took a seat at the dining table across from Sheil, she thought over what her grandmother had said. Perhaps Sheil did know more than she realized.

Without hesitation, she began peppering her former nursemaid with questions, somehow certain the older woman wouldn't question her curiosity in the wake of such unexpected circumstances. "Why did you think my mother would not stay?"

Sheil shifted in her chair, her gaze drifting to her wrinkled hands as she visibly gathered her thoughts. "Your mother was of such a different nature than any of the Cornish folk I knew," she began, brow furrowed. "In the beginning, I think we all attributed it to her being a foreigner. But your mother," Sheil shook her head. "Your mother was different. A creature apart."

Isabella nodded. "But she never intimated any desire to leave Mousehole."

Sheil shook her head. "Oh, no. She was devoted to your father from the beginning. Like children, they were, laughing and smitten."

Isabella smiled before the expression faltered. "As if my father was enchanted."

Sheil's gaze rose, her brows low over faded blue eyes. "Aye, but your mother was, too. Lovesick for him, she was, and nothing she could do for it—for all of her skills with herbs and such."

It was the perfect segue. "Did she ever tell you how she came to learn all she did?"

Sheil shrugged. "I expect it was from her mother—or grandmother. Like any girl learns to cook and tend a garden—at her mother's knee."

Isabella nodded again, her gaze returning to her plate as she thought over everything her grandmother had shared. Doubts still lingered, like shadows that never quite clear from corners even on the brightest of days. What more did Sheil know? Did she suspect that what had set Renée apart wasn't simply her character or disposition, but something more, something undefinable?

It was as if Sheil read her mind, her voice soft and thoughtful as she spoke without the prompting of a question. "Your mother was gifted." Isabella bit her lip hard, all of her concentration focused on failing to react to these uncanny words. Sheil's gaze drifted to the window, failing to see Isabella's pale cheeks, or how deeply her teeth were digging into her bottom lip. "Her skill with herbs was unlike anything I'd seen—even the midwife in Lamorna could not bring the relief your mother did." She snorted. "Never mind the silly love spells and curses she claimed she could lift." Her gaze turned from the window, her lips curling with amusement. "Ye know Mrs. Berty went to Old Woman Boswell for a charm when we were both—oh, young!" She laughed. "Younger than ye are now."

Isabella couldn't help her own smile in response to Sheil's good humor. "A charm to what purpose?"

"For Mr. Berty!" Sheil burst out laughing. "She can barely pay him any mind now, but at the time she was addled by him. And so we went, walking all the way to Old Woman Boswell's cottage in Perranuthnoe, the thatched roof nearly caved in, everything smelling of mold." Her nose wrinkled. "Just so Mrs. Berty could pay four pence for a scrap of parchment with a jumble of nonsense words on it." Her eyes widened as she remembered an additional detail, "And a sachet of herbs that was mostly lavender from what I could tell." She shook her head, her lips curving into a smile again. "Though of course Mrs. Berty claims the spell did its work as she got her proposal six weeks later."

Isabella could not help softly interjecting, striving to keep her tone as even as possible, "But you take no stock in such things."

Sheil did not immediately respond, cocking her head as her gaze again grew thoughtful. "There is much mystery in this world, Isabella." Her eyes narrowed though her gaze seemed far away, thinking of other times and places. "Your mother often said the senses only see and know so much." A smile flit across her lips but her gaze remained trained on the window, where the sun continued to shine down upon the muddy lane beyond the gate. "Of course, I often got the sense she was trying to put me off all she could see and know." Her gaze cleared as she shook her head. "Do you remember how she could tell a storm was coming," she inclined her head to the window, "even if it was bright as a summer day?"

Isabella nodded, blinking back unexpected tears at the memories that accompanied the question. "The fishermen make such predictions, too," she weakly offered as her eyes fell to her plate. One lone kipper remained, its blackened eye blankly returning her stare.

"Aye, but they ain't right every time," Sheil muttered.

"And the garden," Isabella added, her own gaze now turning to the window, her voice wistful. "It was if the flowers grew just to make her happy."

"Aye," Sheil's voice was equally sad as she agreed. Isabella did not realize until that moment how much they both missed Renée, and how much Marie's unexpected visit had reminded them of that fact.

"I think I'll go there now," Isabella quietly exhaled.

Sheil simply nodded. "Don't worry your head about these things," she inclined her head to the sideboard. "Mrs. Hammet and I will clean up."

Isabella rose, deep in thought, and retreated through the house to the garden. She cast her eyes to the ground as she stepped through the door, for the sun had only brightened since her confused awakening less than an hour before. The flowers and herbs were so drowned in light, they first appeared colorless until her eyes adjusted, wandering along the borders of the beds until she reached the farthest corner where spears of foxglove towered as high as her shoulders.

Isabella paused before the copse of tall flowers, slightly shaded by an elm that grew just beyond the garden fence. She tilted her head as she reached out a hand to touch the first purple-blue buds, lost in memories. She could recall frolicking in this far corner as a child, far beyond the view of the kitchen door where Sheil or her mother could see her and chide her for foregoing her bonnet, or getting the hem of her gown dirty. A small smile danced over her lips as she thought of how she had plucked these blooms, much to her mother's chagrin, fitting the bell-shaped petals over her fingers and pretending each digit was a lady adorned by a stylish hat.

"Fille coquin!" Renée had exclaimed. Then, laughing, she had drawn her daughter close to her side and reached for the foxglove herself, her touch gentle as she fingered one of the plump leaves. "If ever your heart speeds," she had whispered softly, "la digitale will slow the beat."

Isabella could nearly smell the faint scent of rosewater that had accompanied her mother through the cottage, her bright laughter ringing from the study where she read Charles' letters, or from the kitchen, where she teased Sheil for her grumbling.

Her brow furrowed, Isabella glanced down to the mossy ground, then tentatively sank to the earth, her brow smoothing as she found it was dry given the warmth of the morning sun. She straightened her skirts over her legs then gazed up at the pale indigo trumpets of the foxglove shrubs before her…but the colors blurred before her eyes, her mind elsewhere, her expression troubled. For she felt more lost than perhaps the day her mother had died, unable to make sense of her grandmother's sudden appearance and equally abrupt departure—and unable to shake the notion that everything Marie had said wasn't a wild fancy.

A dart of movement caught her eye, distracting her from her pensive state. It was a wren, its small brown body nearly invisible in the shadow of the foxgloves. It was unmoving but for the turn and bob of its head, black eyes shining and bright as it regarded Isabella with cautious curiosity. It was close enough that she could see the pulse of its plump feathered body with each breath it took.

Without thinking, Isabella leaned forward, her gaze steady, her expression calm. She forced herself not to start when the wren readily hopped towards her in response, as if accepting this gesture of interest. Slowly, she lifted her hand from her lap, lips parting ever so slightly as she willed her heart not to race.

The wren chirped as if asking a question, tilting its head as it regarded her with a wary gaze. Isabella waited patiently, her hand growing warm where it was exposed to the sunlight, fixed in mid-air. The wren hopped closer, then, with a faint chitter, alighted on her pale hand.

She would not have known its weight rested on her fingers but for the scaly texture of its feet. She sensed it was not gripping as tightly as it was able, careful to keep from piercing her skin with its claws, black eyes bright and somehow delighted as it regarded her with its shining gaze. Her own smile was more hesitant. For while she knew she should be stunned and startled by such an unlikely occurrence, a wild bird coming to rest on her fingertip without the bait of bread or fruit, she felt no such thing.

"You might cause me to believe in pixies, Miss Swan." The low voice was amused and all too familiar, but Isabella could not help starting in response, quickly turning her head to find Mr. Maçon leaning against the wrought iron fence in the shade of the elm tree, his hat in his gloved hands.

Her gaze darted back to her hand, unsurprised to find the wren had taken flight at her sudden movement. She dropped her hand back to her lap and reluctantly returned her gaze to Mr. Maçon's smiling countenance. She knew her cheeks had grown pink with heat, embarrassed to be caught enchanting the animals around her yet again…but she could not forget Marie's words as she regarded him with a shy gaze. For while he had more cause than many to wonder at her abilities, he had yet to shun her or fear her in any way. If anything, he seemed curious about everything he'd observed. Even now, his black eyes were watchful though his smile was easy and amused, deliberately silent as he awaited her response.

Isabella's gaze returned to her lap, her voice quiet as she spoke, "Piskeys." She glanced up and saw his expression had turned quizzical. "They are called piskeys here in Cornwall." She plucked at the white muslin beneath her hands, uncertain why she felt as if she were revealing her soul in speaking of this children's fairy tale. "There are stones, the Mên-an-Tol, far north of here." She had gone once when her father was home on furlough, hanging from his hand as he explained the local folklore that accompanied the site. She had gazed at the circular stones in fascination, too frightened by his words to venture close despite his reassurances that the local farmers and fisherman all believed the stones were benevolent in their sorcery. "When a babe has suffered some enchantment, likely caused by the piskeys," her mouth quirked, "the Mên-an-Tol can dispell the curse."

Mr. Maçon was silent for some time and Isabella's gaze finally rose from her lap, curious as to his response. His countenance was one of contemplation, black eyes slightly narrowed, chin lifted as he regarded her from beneath hooded lids.

"Enchantment," he finally murmured. Isabella felt her heart thump more powerfully against her ribs, though she was uncertain why she should be surprised that he would focus on this element of her explanation. His voice was silky as he continued. "An apt choice of words."

Isabella could not help her gaze again returning to her hands, fingers twisting, her cheeks aflame with confusion and an emotion she could not identify.

"But enchantment implies will," Mr. Maçon went on, his voice thoughtful. Isabella's gaze flew from her hands, captured by his words. She saw his own gaze had drifted away, looking towards the cottage, his expression pensive. "A will to bring others under your sway."

Isabella bit her lip, wildly thinking he already knew too much. But she could not bear to remain silent, clinging to the hope that her grandmother had known what she spoke of.

"I have no such will," she whispered, the words the softest exhale, so quiet she wasn't certain he would heed them.

But his dark head whipped around, black eyes intent as he regarded her with undisguised interest. He was silent for some time, the only sound the whisper of the breeze in the trees above. When he finally replied, his voice was equally soft. "I do see this is so." He tilted his head, the faintest hint of a smile dancing over his lips. "Which means I cannot blame you for my fascination."

Isabella's breath caught in her throat but he was speaking again and it took her several seconds to realize he was changing the subject, his expression blithe, affecting a lack of concern.

"You did not stay to supper last night."

Isabella shook her head, having almost forgotten entirely the events at the assembly ball. She tried to think of a response as her gaze searched the ground; when the silence grew awkward, she began to rise, hoping the motion of climbing to her feet would appear to be enough reason for her delay in answering—rather than her need to think of an excuse. As she pretended to focus on brushing at her skirts and slowly crossed to the fence, she lightly replied, "I suffered a headache and could not stay." It was only partially a lie. There was no need for him to know about the conversation she'd overheard; she would be mortified to share the particulars and he would likely only be amused at her embarrassment.

But he would not be deterred by her diversion, nor the partial truth of her explanation. "Forsooth, Miss Swan," his voice was equally light but there was a chiding undercurrent to the words, "I would prefer no answer to a falsehood."

She knew by the growing heat in her face that her cheeks were likely red as roses, and her gaze fell, fixing on her hands, on the rusted wrought iron between them, on anything but the gentle accusation in his expression. But what could she say?

Before she could think of another excuse, or some version of the truth that she could bear to tell, he was speaking again. "Are you certain it was not my company you were avoiding?"

Isabella's gaze flew to his face for though she thought the question must be in jest, there was nothing droll in his tone, the words spoken with sincere curiosity. "No! Never!" she exclaimed before she could think, seeking to reassure him.

Too late, she realized she had now impulsively admitted her own partiality, her cheeks flaming brighter than before as she ducked her head, wishing with all her might that whatever gifts she possessed would allow the earth to swallow her whole.

"How delightful to hear." The words were a quiet purr, and she could not bring herself to raise her gaze and meet his eyes, mortified at her unwitting revelation. But his tone abruptly shifted to one of faint wonderment as he added, "I did not know I had powers of enchantment as well."

Isabella concentrated on breathing, on the motion of air moving past her lips, on anything but the hope and anticipation fluttering beneath her breastbone, alive and undeniable. Could it be that the two gossiping girls at the assembly ball were correct in their estimation? Could it be that her reduced circumstances mattered naught to him, for his own wealth made it possible for him to follow where his interest led?

"I am to depart soon." His shift in subject matter was the only thing that could induce her to lift her gaze again, distracted from her own wonder and speculation at the regret in his voice. It was evident in his expression as well, his brow faintly furrowed, black eyes apologetic.

"It cannot be helped," he quickly added in response to what she knew must be her own expression of dismay. She sought equanimity, if only externally, forcing her brow to smooth, closing lips that had parted with surprise, and clasping her hands tightly before her.

"I see." She found her speculations shifting as abruptly as his change in topic, quickly surmising that he must be returning to London or Brighton—or some sophisticated place that suited his circumstances far better than Mousehole possibly could. Had she ever learned from whence he'd come, beyond the town of his birth? But what did it matter for how could she have expected him to remain in provincial Cornwall for long? Sheil's words echoed in her head. …that she'd come to her senses and leave this dull place as soon as the lustre of first love faded.

She did not know that, despite her efforts, her rapid turn of thought was evident in the faint distress in her countenance, cheeks pale, brown eyes wide and fearful. "The thing I am seeking," Mr. Maçon leaned forward, forearms braced upon the fence, endeavoring to explain. "I must look further afield." She sensed he wished to offer further explanation but could tell her no more, his lips tightly sealed.

"I see," she finally whispered, returning her gaze to her feet. She knew she should be pleased he was no longer supporting the story of his lost mount, but she could not help the despair that was rising like a shadow within. His interest then could only be fleeting. But she was not mistaken—he had demonstrated interest, if only momentary. Could she take heart in that fact?

"So often," he began, his voice quiet and thoughtful. "So often have I been a feckless cad." Her gaze rose, recalling the other instance in which he'd claimed this to be true. She could not see how it was so, with his fine manners and polished demeanor…unless…She bit her lip again, a dart of almost physical pain piercing her breast. Unless he was seeking to admit he had toyed with her, pursuing her company when there was no honorable intent. Her heart thudded in her chest and she clasped her hands more tightly to still their trembling.

Her mind raced. Could she match his fine manners and accept his explanation with calm grace? Rather than stomping her foot and shouting abuse at him as she longed to do? She squared her shoulders, bracing herself for his apology.

But he was shaking his dark head, his own gaze cast to the ground, his shoulders rising and falling with a sigh. "But I cannot be so feckless with you." His eyes rose, so black the pupils were lost in the jet irises. "I could not bring myself to leave without giving you warning."

Isabella's brow furrowed as confusion returned; she felt much like a passenger within a coach flying at too great a pace over rough roads, tossed and buffeted within its rocking confines. She shook her head as she struggled to think of a response, unable to understand the direction of his conversation, the meaning of his words. Finally, recalling her endeavor to maintain manners as well as his own, she stuttered, "I—I thank you." Then, attempting to understand but striving to keep all hope from her tone, she asked, "You mean to return?"

His expression shifted, something shadowed and unnameable crossing his pale features. Mr. Maçon paused only a moment before speaking. "I could not stay away."