A short one to follow on this week's earlier update. Next chapter to be posted this coming weekend. Thanks so much for reading & reviewing.

This discovery, notwithstanding it relieved her from all suspense of his meaning, gave her much vexation…

Cecilia, or Memoirs of an Heiress
Fanny Burney

twenty-one

In that manner to which she suspected she would never become accustomed, Isabella started to find Edward immediately before her. But it was not only the impossible speed with which he reached her side, it was also the shocking posture he assumed, on his knees before her, his ungloved hands covering her own. His touch was cool and undeniably intimate, but she could not have imagined pulling away.

"Isabella," he spoke her name softly, his voice so tender that she felt her hands tremble beneath his touch. She longed for her anxiety and fear to melt away, but even this gesture could not entirely sooth her; she simply listened as he spoke in a low voice. "I am Edward Maçon, as you know." He paused. "I have gone by other names at times, but you have always known the name with which I was christened." She heard the smile on his lips rather than saw it, for she could not drag her gaze from the pale hands covering her own. "My mother would have called me Édouard, but I consider that a matter of pronunciation rather than accuracy."

His fingers shifted, gently caressing her own. She focused on the contrary coolness and warmth of his touch, unaware that her breathing had grown shallow as he continued. "I was born in Châteauroux, as you know. My father was a master mason, as was his father before him."

It was at this that her gaze finally rose, surprised to hear that his background was in trade. His smile was wry as he met her startled stare. "I always imagined I would do the same." He paused, his gaze falling to where his index finger drew gentle circles on the back of her hand. "When I was still young, only an apprentice, they died from an illness that I somehow survived. I traveled to Paris, where I knew my father had a brother. I was seventeen—too young to remain on my own in Châteauroux—and I was certain I could continue my apprenticeship with him." He inhaled. "But the illness that had taken my parents was present in Paris and the city—" His voice faltered. "The city was in chaos."

Isabella was not conscious of the fact that she had shifted her hands to hold his own until she felt their fingers intertwine. She glanced down, a faint flush stealing up her cheeks.

"It was many years before normalcy returned." Edward's voice had grown brisk. "But by then, I was changed—into what I am now." Though she knew there was much he was omitting, she was too grateful for what he'd shared so far to question him. "There were opportunities available to me that had never been possible before, and I took advantage of them." His eyes rose to meet her own, his gaze frank. "You have skills and abilities...as do I. These worked to my advantage in many ways that allowed me to move in circles I would otherwise have had no access to. And then...the revolution came."

Isabella could not help her frown at this juncture, her confusion immediately evident. For she had been an infant when the French king and queen were guillotined. It had never occurred to her that Edward could be much older than her twenty years. Though she loathed to interrupt him, she could not refrain from asking, "But how old are you?"

The room was silent for several seconds and she watched Edward's expression grow surprisingly sad as he met her curious stare, his hands loosening their grasp. "Six and twenty years."

Isabella's lips parted, uncertain of how this could be. How could he speak of his parents' deaths and his move to Paris as a youth of seventeen—if the revolution must have occurred before those events rather than after? But Edward did not speak to clarify, the sadness in his features deepening. Isabella sensed there was a key to the mystery of him in this fact, but her lips pressed into a thin line as she felt his hands drawing away from her own.

She instinctively tighted her grip, refusing to let him go. Though she knew there was much of which she was still ignorant, could she not repress her curiosity to spare him the pain it so obviously gave him to share these details? He was an orphan, like her, with experiences likely colored by trials and travails. What did it cost her to spare him the questions that burgeoned on her lips when he had already done so much for her?

When she failed to speak, her expression emptying of all confusion and curiosity, he finally continued, his voice hesitant. "I had traveled a great deal and took refuge in England for a time…but when it appeared things had settled to some extent in France, I decided to return." He shook his head, his voice filled with regret. "It was a mistake."

The room fell silent, the only sound their steady breathing and the faint clatter of silverware belowstairs.

When Edward went on, the regret was still evident in his voice. "I did not know her." He shook his head. "We had the briefest of conversations in a public market." For the first time, she heard anger tint his words, his voice bitter. "But that was enough to incite the interest of someone I once knew—someone who noticed my return and had been tracking me without my knowledge." His lips tightened. "This girl—she is suffering the consequences of something she has nothing to do with."

Edward's voice grew resolved as he went on. "She is an innocent in all of this and I feel responsible for her...and for whatever may have become of her."

Isabella did not hesitate, her voice firm. "May I see the locket?"

Edward retreated to his seat while Isabella examined the necklace, turning the oval locket over in her hands, head bent as she examined its plain surface. There was no scrollwork or other decorative element marking the metal. The delicate links of the chain danced over her fingers, shining in the soft light of the candle on the table between them.

The locket opened with the faintest click and he watched as she examined the two miniatures inside. "I believe she was…is the elder." The portraits were simple, the pale faces of two girls staring from the pendant; they both boasted black hair and blue eyes, their white gowns unadorned.

"What is her name?" Isabella asked without lifting her gaze from the locket.

"Alice," he answered quietly. "That is as much as I know." He had fled so quickly that there had been no time to learn more.

"Alice…" Isabella softly repeated him and Edward could not deny the jarring sensation of hearing her murmur the name he'd thought so frequently to himself.

"Bon jour à nouveau!"

The young voice had been so brightly pleasant that it had taken Edward the span of a heartbeat to register the meaning of her words. His startled gaze must have indicated to the young girl that her greeting had disarmed him, her smile abruptly fading as her gaze dropped to the flowers spread before her.

"Have we met?" Edward's voice had been polite, successfully striving to keep the edge from his tone. He knew his memory to be perfect, every moment since his change indelibly written in his mind—there was no chance he had forgotten meeting the dark haired girl. He knew without a doubt he'd never seen her before.

Her bright blue eyes darted to his face before falling again to the array of flowers bundled on the table before her, her faltering expression revealing she had sensed his discomfiture despite his best efforts to conceal the reaction. "I apologize, Monsieur, I m-must have mistaken you for someone else."

But he could see it was a lie, for her hands nervously busied themselves with tightening the twine of the nearest bouquet at hand, her gaze averted, her cheeks brightening with the pink of blood. Her thoughts were too flustered to make sense of, a jumble of frantic words and images, including his own as he stood before her in the Montcarvel market—but one thought overrode all the others: Maman will be so angry if she learns I slipped again.

Edward forced his features to ease into a charming smile, gesturing to the flowers he'd been only cursorily examining when she had interrupted his thoughts with her unexpected greeting. "Are these from your family's farm?"

The girl had nodded, her gaze fearful as it darted to his own and then away. A flash of a man he suspected to be her father passed through her mind, bending down to ruffle her hair, blue eyes bright but sad before he turned away. The man marched steadily down the lane, a musket slung under his arm; though the young girl had watched him until he disappeared over the rise, he had never turned to look back. Edward pretended great interest in the flowers, but his mind was occupied with making rapid deductions: it was clear the man had joined the army, perhaps in response to the levée en masse though it may have been later—for even after the treaties were signed Bonaparte had not ceased growing his forces.

Glancing up, he examined the girl's pale face through his lashes; she had not the tanned features of a farm girl accustomed to the fields, her frame small, her dark hair caught beneath a cap with a trim of fine, if worn, lace. Her father had likely died, as had so many others, leaving the family to these reduced circumstances, selling what they could in the Montcavrel market.

"Who is it that I resemble?" Edward lightly asked. He was certain the question would only further fluster the girl but could think of no other excuse for lingering in her stall.

"Ah," she choked out a laugh, blue eyes increasingly frantic, "only someone I glimpsed once, Monsieur!"

But the only image in her thoughts was his own.

"I thought, mayhap, when I touched the locket…" Isabella's soft voice brought him back to the present, her brow furrowed with faint frustration as she continued turning the locket over in her hands.

"How was your mother able to detect…?" Edward began, but she was already shaking her head, raising her gaze to wryly respond.

"I haven't any idea." She inhaled. "My grandmother was quite indignant that she had not taught me…"

"She was trying to protect you," Edward quietly replied.

Isabella's lips quirked. "Which did not end as she intended." Her gaze returned to the locket, a sigh blowing past her lips. "I wish I could help you."

But Edward shook his head, reaching across the table to slowly slip the necklace from her unresisting fingers. "Do not concern yourself. I am in no worse a position than before."

"And that is what you have been endeavoring to do," Isabella softly stated. "To find Alice."

Edward nodded, his gaze falling to the locket. "I began in Dover. I assumed she'd make her way to land for we were within sight of the shore. I've been making my way east—"

"Along the coast," Isabella quietly replied.

Edward nodded again before tightening his hand over the locket, blocking it from his sight. He dared not ponder the prospect of Alice having traversed further inland, disoriented and dangerous.

"I find I have other priorities now," he began, his gaze rising to find Isabella's pale countenance. The distress and fear that had been evident in her gaze had faded, replaced by understanding—but confusion bloomed anew at his words. "I must ensure your safety," he explained. But he knew he desired to do much more than protect her, as wrong as he knew it to be when she remained ignorant still of his true nature.

"You have already done so much," Isabella replied, the words a near whisper.

"I will not feel confident of your safety until we are far from Cornwall," he insisted. "A town of some size will suit, where we can live quietly and without notice."

Her eyes had grown wide as he spoke, a slow flush creeping up her throat, but she did not speak to protest.

"I have an acquaintance who I trust. His presence would help to settle my mind as far as your safety should I wish to begin searching for Alice again." Isabella remained silent and Edward went on, the words almost hurried. "Where he lives is a large enough town, with a transient populace, that our arrival—or departure—will attract little notice."

He lifted his chin, pretending a confidence he did not feel. But her spike of jealousy must be confirmation that her feelings were unchanged despite the repeated demonstration of his inhuman qualities, so surprising that he had reacted with a laugh of disbelief before realizing how troubled she was by her ignorance.

Edward continued when Isabella did not balk. "Before we journey there, however, we shall pause in London. If by chance Captain Hale or Lawrence Eldritch should have managed to track us, we will easily lose them in a city of that size."

Isabella finally spoke, her tone indicating her intimidation at the thought. "I've never been."

Edward's smile was brilliant. "Then I shall show you."

Isabella was silent for some time and he had never longed so much as he did in that moment to sense her thoughts. When she finally spoke, he nearly exhaled with relief that her words indicated her lingering uncertainty as to his intentions rather than reluctance to be in his presence. "You mean to travel with me beyond London, and find lodging for me with someone you trust…"

The words burst past his lips, impulsive, wild, and bold. "I mean to marry you, Isabella."

Her shock could not have been greater. Her cheeks grew so pale he briefly worried she might faint, her eyes wide with stunned wonder; he could discern the pounding of her heart beneath her breast, and her breath was soon panting past parted lips. Edward's gaze fell to his closed fist, speaking quickly in the hope that his words would put off her rejection. "In London, we are more likely to find a vicar I can bribe to perform the service without the need for published banns." He forced a nervous smile as he met her gaze. "Given the risk such a publication would mean."

To his relief, she simply swallowed visibly before slowly nodding. Edward could not help the widening of his smile when he saw she did not mean to protest, his free hand reaching across the table, a supplicating gesture. He could have set the world ablaze with the fire of his joy when she lifted her hand from her lap and tentatively met his own.

But her next words sent a surprised laugh from his lips. "Your father was a mason?"

Edward's amusement was genuine, a mix of delight that however frustrating he often found her mind's silence, it was so refreshing to have no concept of what she might next say—and disbelief that of all the things that might cause her to balk, it was his background in trade that she now questioned.

"My father was not a gentleman, no." He tilted his head, regarding her with an amused gaze. "Do you object?"

"Oh, no!" Isabella exclaimed, realizing her gaffe. "I am no snob, Edward, I promise you." She gestured to his fine clothing with her free hand. "But it was no mistake the innkeeper thought you nobility. Whatever your background, you have clearly risen beyond it." Her gaze dropped to her lap, suddenly filled with shyness. "Can I not be a little relieved that there is something of your history that makes us a bit more equal?"

All amusement faded from Edward's gaze and his hand instinctively tightened over her own. Distantly, he marveled that she did not flinch or shiver from his cold touch, ever unafraid. A dozen responses flickered through his mind—but there was much of him that was still selfish and reckless and he could not bring himself to diminish his chances by admitting how little he deserved her. Instead, he finally allowed in a quiet voice, "As you please."