Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, recommended, and followed the story this far. All of your words are motivation to keep going, even when I feel so ready to move on to a story where there will be zero research!
A few folks have commented on the use of the word 'ma'am,' in the past handful of chapters. I haven't found anything definitive which states this short form of 'madam' was not used in the U.K. at this time. I was able to find multiple incidents of the word in texts from the time, including Fanny Burney's novels, which have been quoted through out-as well as Maria Edgeworth and Jane Austen, who would have been roughly contemporary to the time. It does *not* show up in Samuel Richardson's Pamela, which would have been written earlier in the 1700s, so I'm not certain if some convention in writing changed during Burney, Austen, and Edgeworth's lifetime. There's also the possibility all of those texts were edited to conform to American standards (eg: swapping out English spellings for their American versions), but I'd be surprised if the editing included abbreviating 'madam' in some instances but not others. Any additional resources on this issue would be interesting to see!
I've actually found it more problematic to continually use the first names of the many characters in the past few chapters as the convention at that time was to pretty strictly use Miss, Mrs, Mr, or the person's surname alone - even between husbands and wives. This seems so out of sync with our own modern customs that it's hard to maintain the convention - but I fully acknowledge it's anachronistic!
Thank you again!
I resolved to go away and trust all to Providence, and nothing to myself. And how ought I to be thankful for this resolution!
Pamela; or, Virtue Rewarded
Samuel Richardson
thirty six
'Tis much better they be together in death…
Isabella's words echoed in his head, the alto of her voice like a song. He had cursed the perfect recall of his kind in the past, but never so much as he did now, overcome by the memories of their interactions. It was because of him that she was here, frail and small beneath layers of blankets, her chestnut hair like a wing against the pillow beneath her head, lashes dark against the pale blue shadows beneath her eyes. Had he never succumbed to curiosity, to temptation, she would be safe in Mousehole, quietly leading a life without turmoil, danger, and fear.
The warm hand resting within his palm beneath the counterpane gave a weak squeeze.
Edward lifted his head, his gaze flickering over her drawn features; her breathing came steady and even, indicating she was still asleep. A self-loathing smile flitted over his lips, thinking that even in slumber she sought to comfort him.
The quiet murmur of thoughts preceded the sound of slippered footfalls upon the bare floorboards in the corridor; Edward did not turn his head, nor did he speak to note the arrival of the young girl in the doorway of the bedchamber. He continued to gaze upon his wife, his countenance bearing a bewildering mixture of consternation, resignation, and impatience.
"I have not your talents, Monsieur Maçon," Alice spoke quietly, lingering in the doorway without stepping further into the room.
"And I do not have yours." His response was dry but there was no humor in his tone. "You must tell me—what do I intend to say next? What does my future hold?"
Though his sarcasm was apparent, Alice responded as though the question was genuine, silent as the images flickered through her mind.
Edward could not restrain a groan, dropping his head into his hands as he saw the play of possibilities in his own mind: the flash of a garden filled with sunlight, Isabella's figure bent over a tangle of blooming roses as Alice tugged a needle through an embroidery hoop nearby; Emmett splashing through a creek in pursuit of a darting deer, only to abruptly stop and swear as he realized he'd ruined his new boots—while Edward and Carlisle collapsed in laughter on the bank; Isabella perched upon a cliff he knew all too well, her chestnut hair tossing in the wind, a smile flitting over her lips.
"How can you be so certain?" he growled. His head remained bowed, his eyes closed as he struggled to take a calming breath.
"Because it was never certain until now," Alice quietly replied. "You can't know how many times I saw you destroy Emmett." She moved into the room but did not cross to the bed or to his side, instead drifting to the window and trailing a pale hand upon the sill. "Sometimes it was instantly, when you first came upon him in the wood. Sometimes you questioned him before the direction of the conversation would ultimately doom him."
"He might have explained himself in Oxford and allied with us," Edward bit out, dropping his hands and opening his eyes. He still could not accept that Isabella had had to suffer, that there was no other way to avoid that outcome.
"Your fear for Isabella and suspicion of his motivations made that impossible," Alice's answer was soft but certain.
"Because he was motivated by his loyalty to you." It was only with this statement that Edward's demeanor softened, his shoulders sagging.
Alice simply nodded. She knew now what she had not known when she had envisioned Edward again and again in her future: he could hear the thoughts of everyone around him, everyone but for Isabella. He would have seen Alice in Emmett's thoughts, and would have known that Emmett was motivated not by a need to defend Isabella, or by vengeance for his human life having been so cruelly ended, but by the young French girl who had saved him and guided him from the time of his change. Emmett would have been riddled with worry for Alice, knowing Victoire's temper would not have allowed her to survive if Victoire suspected Emmett's duplicity.
"He calls you petite souer." The thin line of Edward's mouth softened, almost a smile as his gaze focused upon Isabella.
Alice's smile was less hesitant, the weariness briefly fading from her eyes as she answered, "Perhaps I should learn Gaelic if he insists I teach him French."
Edward's smile faded, the line of his back straightening as he spoke, "Though you have shown me, I still find it difficult to believe…"
"The visions I have seen?" Alice finished the statement for him, her gaze steady as her lips pursed stubbornly. "It was only in pursuing those visions that any of us are present now," she insisted, turning from the window to face him. This was not the first time they'd had this discussion, her tone nearing impatience as she added, "It was not always all of us. I warned Emmett again and again that he might not survive—"
"But he knew there was a chance," Edward's gaze lifted from his wife, black eyes unyielding as he regarded Alice with a steady stare. "There is always a chance the outcome might change." Though Alice could not read minds, she understood what he did not say: there remained a possibility that the idyllic future she saw more reliably now might still alter, might still fall apart with a decision she could not yet see.
"Emmett knew there was a chance, however slim," Edward continued, "that I might show mercy—however shadowy that future might be."
Alice did not disagree, her head bowing in a single nod. "He refused to leave," her voice fell to a whisper as she returned her gaze to the window panes, the glass damp with condensation. She did not see the stretch of patchy turf that fell away to sandy shore a short distance from the inn, nor did she see the blue gray dance of the sea that lapped quietly at the shore just beyond. "I warned him of the risk—"
"But he refused to leave you in Victoire's hands," Edward quietly finished. His gaze fell to his own hands, his brow smooth. "Having convinced her to change him, she would have been enraged that your vision could not anticipate his lack of loyalty."
A line formed between Alice's brow, her hands lifting in a helpless gesture. "I did not exercise kindness towards Emmett out of some desire to gain his loyalty—"
Edward did not allow her to finish, his voice quiet, "Perhaps not, but that is what occurred." Alice's lips thinned and though she had no sense of his thoughts, she knew without asking that this remained his central concern; Edward could not trust that she was not manipulating him as she had once manipulated Victoire.
"It is not the same," she spoke, her voice low. "I could leave now, if I wished. That was never the case with Victoire."
Edward did not reply, his gaze focused on Isabella's pale face, his expression inscrutable. Imposed over the reality of her slender figure shrouded in blankets before him was the memory of the turret, the roof in flames despite the lashing rain, Victoire's shouts audible to his ears. He had not fully believed Emmett's explanation, though he knew of Isabella's ability, and had witnessed it personally the day Carlisle had dared to question their relationship.
It had taken all of his willpower to refrain from destroying Emmett the moment they'd come upon the young vampire in the sparse woods surrounding the manor. He had relived the moment he'd returned to the house to find Isabella gone too many times to count, castigating himself for leaving her side for even a second. Edward had barely heard Carlisle's heartfelt apologies, waving a hand impatiently at the explanation of the diversion that had distracted him from the book he'd been sent to fetch on Isabella's behalf.
"It was a fawn—a wounded deer dragging it's limb. I thought to take it across the road to the woods—I couldn't very well end its suffering in plain sight."
Carlisle had heard Isabella's cry, but by the time he'd sped back through the house, she was already gone. When Emmett realized Carlisle was in pursuit, he'd turned, her limp body slung over his shoulder, and threatened to wring her neck should Carlisle continue to follow.
How was Edward to believe that Emmett had not meant his threat? He had not been present to hear his thoughts, to know his intentions. He had been near crazed with outrage and fear, barely able to heed Carlisle's words of caution—that if Victoire had changed his former footman, she might have changed others. It had only been Carlisle's level thinking that had prevented Edward from slaughtering Emmett the moment they'd tracked him to the northern woodlands near the Scottish border.
Though his arm was coiled around Emmett's neck, Carlisle's gaze had been fixed upon Edward, his eyes piercing as he silently reminded him to question the man first. We have no notion of what other reinforcements Victoire might have brought to bear.
But even had Carlisle failed to mentally voice the warning, Edward was shocked by the tenor of Emmett's thoughts; he was all resignation, the image of his own death so vivid in his mind that Edward could not bring himself to act as his instincts demanded.
Edward's shock had grown tenfold when he witnessed the pale girl he'd once encountered in Montcarvel in Emmett's mind, black eyes flecked with gold as she asked him if he was willing to accept the risk.
"He could reconcile himself to death if he felt some certainty his death would not be meaningless." Alice's voice was soft, but Edward's eyes sank shut as though she had shouted, pained by the truth of her statement. He could not forget his first encounter with the good-natured, hopeful young man who had been certain his accent and background would prevent him finding any employment. Edward recalled his quiet but unembarrassed admission that he'd defended a young, blameless housemaid, and could not help the thought that it was this protectiveness, this sense of honor, that had driven Emmett's actions as equally as his loyalty to Alice.
But he did not speak to voice these thoughts to Alice, his gaze fixed upon Isabella, his mind circling back to the regrets that had haunted him from the moment he'd plunged into the icy sea. How could he have prevented this? How could it be necessary that she suffer as she had?
Seeing that Edward's thoughts had again turned pensive, Alice realized any further conversation would be quite futile. Her gaze cast to the bare floorboards, she padded from the room on slippered feet, her own thoughts in confusion.
She was unsurprised to find Carlisle Cullen in the private sitting room at the end of the corridor, seated where she had left him moments before; he reclined with apparent ease in an upholstered chair before the window, a slim volume in his hands. Like the bedchamber, the room was sparsely furnished, the rug covering the floorboards faded and worn thin in places, the window panes damp with the mist that seemed to hang upon the air in this northern clime.
Though the pastor's son gave no indication he intended to speak, his gaze fixed upon the page, Alice tensed as she braced herself for his coming words. "You should understand," he began, "I have never expected to be anything but a solitary creature."
His gaze rose from the book and Alice found herself unable to look away. Unlike Edward, his expression indicated no turmoil or aggravation, his hazel gaze impassive. "When Edward and I first encountered one another in London," he continued, "we were very cautious of one another." He closed the book, his gaze falling to his lap as he quietly added, "It is sometimes difficult enough to believe the reality of what I am, much less the choices I've made that set me apart from others like me."
Alice crossed the room and took a seat in the armchair opposite his seated figure, her countenance filled with such hopeful expectation that Carlisle felt he glimpsed her youth in a way that circumstances had not yet allowed for. "Is it so shocking," Alice replied, her dark head tilting, "that your humanity should linger though you are changed?"
Carlisle had no desire to discourage her optimism, but could not help pointing out her naiveté. "You are aware of what a mob of humans intended to do to Madame Maçon? Their brutality would have meant her death had Edward failed to intervene." He thought of his own unforgiving father, intent upon hunting down any Catholics who dared to continue to practice their faith. Simply because humans did not require blood to survive did not somehow make angels of them.
Alice's gaze fell, her expression revealing a brief flash of defeat before her lips pursed with stubborn resolve. "Then perhaps it should be all the more unlikely that creatures such as us could have been brought together." Carlisle's lips parted to respond but she quickly continued, "If most vampires are like Victoire, then how fortuitous that we should come together as a—"
But Carlisle did not allow her to finish, his voice gentle as he interrupted, "Alice, you must give it time."
Her brow furrowed in response. She felt as if she had already waited so long, that she had endured so much at Victoire's hands, suffering constant fear and danger—and it was only Emmett's fatal decision to investigate the disturbing sounds he'd heard in what should have been the empty townhouse on Half Moon Street that had changed the dire visions she'd witnessed to that point. She'd begun to catch glimpses of a future so promising that she could not help doing everything she could to bring it to pass. The doubts Edward expressed, and the patience Carlisle bade her to practice ran contrary to all of her instincts. Victoire was gone, Isabella lived, and they had all escaped with nary a scratch upon their unnatural hides.
But instead of speaking any of this aloud to Carlisle, Alice instead rose from her seat with her hands fisted in her skirts, struggling to conceal her frustration. At Carlisle's questioning glance, she sharply explained, "To find Emmett." At least he would not tell her to be patient.
But he also did not perceive Edward or Carlisle's response to her visions as unreasonable. "Ah, don't fret, petite souer," he laughed. "They will come around." Alice sighed, wishing she had his faith. She reluctantly settled at his side, gazing around the common room of the inn with disinterest, her hands folded before her on the rough table. Unlike Emmett, she did not pretend to swig from a tankard, for she felt certain none of the other patrons noted their presence.
It was fortunate that Old Saltburn had not shaken its reputation as a smuggler's hideaway, for the Ship Inn's patrons knew better than to express interest in any strangers who happened to appear in the common room—especially strangers whose heads nearly brushed the low beams of the ceiling as Emmett's did. Emmett had been reading newspapers that dated from several weeks ago for the greater part of the morning, unwilling to subject himself to the tension and melancholy of the private rooms abovestairs. The few fishermen who had come and gone had paid him no mind, and the innkeeper had done little more than plop a tankard before him, seeming not to note that Emmett had yet to need it refilled.
The innkeeper had asked no questions when Alice and Emmett had appeared the prior day, without horses or baggage, struggling to conceal their exhilaration as they asked for rooms. It was Carlisle who'd had his wits about him enough to direct them here once they were all confident of Victoire's demise, explaining that he and Edward had secured rooms in the tiny hamlet earlier that week in expectation of needing a safe place to retreat once Isabella had been rescued. It was only a short time after she and Emmett had arrived that Alice had discerned Edward clambering through the window of the room next to her own; she had rushed to the bedchamber to assist him—but he had barked at her, insisting he needed no help. Alice had longed to explain, seeing the suspicion in his gaze, the mistrust in his very movements—but she swiftly realized it could wait.
But even hours later, though she had shown him the promising future that continued to dance through her visions, Edward remained intractable.
"He cannot bear that he was not able to save her," Emmett's words were so quiet, that no human in the common room would have detected that he had spoken. "He blames himself for endangering her," Emmett continued, "and was then forced to stand by while she suffered." He shook his head, lifting the tankard to his mouth to allow the ale to dampen his lips. "He needs time," Emmett murmured, his gaze fixed on the depths of his cup. Then, turning his head, his mouth curved into a confident smile as he met Alice's worried gaze. "But he will come around, little sister. I have no doubt."
~ • ~
Perhaps it was because this had happened once before. Perhaps she sensed the warmth and safety that cocooned her figure, and could not think to feel fear as consciousness crept over her. Perhaps plunging into the cold sea water so soon after she'd suffered the vision of Edward's death had shocked her so thoroughly, that it was not possible to forget Edward's hand wrapping around her own, wrenching her into his arms before he speared to the surface.
Whatever the reason, when Isabella's eyes opened, she felt no fear, her gaze shifting to where she knew Edward would be sitting.
"Isabella." Her name was an exhale upon his lips, filled with such relief and love that her mouth weakly curved into a smile in response.
"Edward." His name was a croak, her throat parched, her lips dry. He moved so swiftly, she saw only the blur of his hands as he reached for a pitcher of water and poured her a glass, before he was gently helping her to sit upright.
She drank from the glass greedily, shivering at the sensation of the water filling her empty belly. "You came," she finally continued, her eyes filled with such brightness that he found he had to look away, his brow furrowing.
"Not soon enough." He saw her hand reach for him in the corner of his vision, and fought the desire to rear away, to deny that he was at all worthy of her. She should have been safe with him. His eyes sank shut as the warmth of her palm met his own, the sensation seeming to travel up his wrist and forearm to heat his core. "I should have never left your side."
Isabella's response was tinged with soft laughter. "Your recriminations sound much like my own."
Edward's gaze flew from his lap, shocked to see the sardonic humor in her chocolate gaze. He could not think how she could find herself at fault for what had happened—or see any humor in the situation. His countenance was riddled with confusion as he regarded her silently, brow deeply furrowed.
"I told myself," Isabella explained, toying with the empty glass in her hand, "that I should not have gone outside. Though you had not expressly forbidden it, I should have known. Carlisle was hesitant, but I knew he would not stop me—and it was clearly the opportunity Victoire needed to act."
Edward's lips thinned. "It was not Victoire." Isabella's gaze rose from the glass, her eyes wide with surprise at the vehemence in his voice. "It was Alice."
A line formed between her brows. "What do you mean?"
"Alice convinced Victoire that she would risk her own life were she to make an attempt to attack me—or you—and that she should leave the task to Emmett."
"Is that not true?" Isabella asked, unable to understand the bitterness in his voice.
"There was a risk to all of us, apparently," Edward explained, his hand slipping from her own to wave with a gesture of dismissive impatience. "It was only when Emmett acted alone that any of us escaped harm."
Isabella was silent for a long moment, absorbing the words, the meaning behind them, the bitterness of his tone. When she spoke, the words were drawn out, almost hesitant as she formed the question, "Do you doubt it?"
Edward opened his mouth to immediately respond before his lips snapped shut. "What does it matter?" He struggled to relax, leaning forward and raking a hand through his hair. "You are safe now."
"As are you," Isabella softly replied, reaching for his hand again. Her eyes sank shut. "I saw you gone, Edward," her voice broke on his name. "Carlisle was too late to save you—and you were so intent upon saving me."
Edward's lips parted, for it was what Alice had told him, what she insisted might happen if he and Carlisle had acted alone. He struggled to form words, to voice the doubts and reservations he'd felt from the moment Carlisle had directed the tiny French girl and his enormous former footman to the inn at Old Saltburn, uncertain they could be trusted, suspicious of their motivations.
But as his wide, stunned gaze saw the torment evident in Isabella's tightly closed eyes and trembling lips, as he heard the tears in her voice, he found he could not speak. For he had no doubt as to the verity of Isabella's visions, and he had no doubt as to her truthfulness now. Isabella would not lie—she had no motivation other than her improbable love for him.
Still, he could not help asking, "You are—certain?" The final word came forth hesitantly, for he knew the answer before the question was fully voiced.
Isabella mutely nodded, her hand tightening around his own. Her fierce grip would have been painful had he been human.
It was then that Edward shifted, moving from the hard backed chair to the bed, wrapping his arms around her waist and dragging her onto his lap. "Oh, Isabella," he murmured, his lips against her hair. He had known she had caused the storm, had feared for her life as the lightning began to arc around the turret—and had momentarily thought to defy Alice and Emmett, to storm the manor despite their warnings of what such a decision would cause.
"I would do anything to have spared you this," he murmured against her hair, the words a fervent vow.
Isabella shifted in his arms, pulling back only so she could meet his gaze. She spoke hesitantly, fear tinting the words. "Are we not safe now?"
She could only vaguely recall the storm, the feel of the rain pouring through the crack in the turret roof—her brow furrowing as the memories mixed confusingly with the recollection of the waters of Tiller's spring closing over her head. "Victoire is gone, is she not?" She did not think it possible she could be safe in Edward's embrace if this was not the case.
Edward nodded, his countenance somber. "The manor caught fire, and the smoke began to draw attention—" It had been only a few miners at first, but it became clear that others would soon follow, intent upon rescuing anyone who happened to be inside. Alice had insisted it was better this way, that the death of the steward and the few servants who had been in residence when Victoire descended upon the house would be attributed to the fire—and Victoire would be only ashes, indiscernible in death. "But Alice is certain lightning struck Victoire—and I am certain she would have been hard upon our heels had she somehow survived."
Isabella nodded, shivering as she remembered the cold hand around her throat, the beautiful face contorted with rage. "We are safe," she repeated the words, her arms tightening around Edward's shoulders.
Edward nodded, content to simply hold her, to relish her warmth, the fierce beat of her heart, the rise and fall of her breast against his own. They sat in this manner for some time, silent, absorbing the reality of their circumstances, content to simply hold one another with the knowledge that they were safe and no immediate dangers threatened.
It was only the grumble of Isabella's stomach that could distract him, castigating himself for forgetting how long it had been since she had properly eaten. But before he could ring for a maid, there was a rap upon the door.
He quickly rose to his feet to answer, frowning with confusion and momentary concern. When he saw the maid upon the other side with a ready tray of stew, a tankard of cider, and a wedge of bread, he could only sigh.
He remembered himself enough to quietly thank her before taking the tray and closing the door. It was only as he turned and crossed to the bed that he quietly muttered, "Alice." The name might have been a mild curse for the manner in which he spoke it.
Isabella's puzzled expression prompted him to finally fully explain. He began at the start, confessing what he had not told her long ago in St. Austell—that Alice had slipped when he had first encountered her, indicating she had met him once before…though he knew such a thing was not possible.
"She is like me?" Isabella breathed in between avid sips of stew.
Edward nodded. "Only more so. Perhaps it was the change that heightened her ability. Perhaps she no longer has the need to suppress the ability as she once did." He went on, explaining Emmett's role in the ordeal, and how close a call it had been that the former footman had survived. "Alice has guided all of us like pawns upon a chess board." Bitterness had unmistakably returned to his voice.
Isabella frowned. "But I do not feel like a pawn," she replied, lowering her spoon to the bowl. She shook her head, a faint smile tilting her lips. "I feel like the queen," her smile broadened as she elaborated. "Everyone was intent upon protecting me, upon saving me." Her smile turned wry. "And I did all I could to call you, to bring my rescuer to me." She reached for his hand, seeming not to note the consternation in his expression as she intertwined her fingers with his own.
"But in the end, it was me." Her voice softened. "I defeated Victoire, though I had no notion I was capable of it."
Edward could not deny the truth of her statements, silent as he regarded her with undisguised surprise. For though she was pale and too thin, there was a strength in her countenance that had not been present before.
"And even then, had you not been there," Isabella quietly continued, her gaze falling to their joined hands, "I might still have perished." She closed her eyes, thinking of the roar of the waves in her ears, drowned out by the notes of the minuet she and Edward had once danced to long ago. She had not been certain she had the strength, or the will, to fight the current and strike for the surface.
"I wish—" he began, the words tight.
"You wish it could have been another way," Isabella softly finished. "You wish I had not suffered. You wish that Emmett had not been changed." She shook her head, her lips thinning. "But would you have returned to England had Alice not suffered the fate she did?" Her gaze was unyielding as it met his own "We would have never met had you not been searching for her."
"And you would be safe," Edward quietly replied, unable to meet her gaze.
"Perhaps," Isabella lifted a shoulder. "Or perhaps some other incident would have incited James Eldritch Junior's suspicions, and I would have suffered the same fate." Her fingers tightened their grip. "I would not change a thing, Edward, if it meant we were not together."
"No," Edward nodded, exhaling. There was a part of him that wished she was not right, but he could not imagine returning to the life he had led before. His black eyes rose to her own, sincerity evident in his gaze. "Nothing could keep me from you."
Isabella simply nodded, knowing it to be true.
It was only then that the future Alice had foretold began to take shape. For Isabella could be nothing but smiling and welcoming when Alice worked up the courage to knock on her bedchamber door the following morning, her gaze downcast, her shoulders at her ears as she waited for approbations that never came. "What would I have done in your place?" Isabella asked as they quietly discussed all that had passed. "Would I have fought to survive, even if that meant risking others? Would I have sacrificed myself with no knowledge of whether my demise would have changed Victoire's path?" She shook her head. "Edward has told me that you and Emmett are close. I can understand that you must have been a refuge of support to one another—so how could either of you have left once the possibility of survival was glimpsed?"
Alice could have cried with relief at the depth of Isabella's understanding, struggling to keep her grip loose as she grasped the human girl's hands, afraid she might hurt the frail creature with the force of her emotion. But as she raised wide, doubtful eyes to Isabella's pensive countenance she realized the human girl was not frail, despite her still thin figure and wan pallor. There was strength in her brown eyes, and a fierceness that Alice knew was not to be taken lightly.
It was this same fierceness that came into bear when Carlisle and Edward began to discuss finding a more permanent situation. "While the lack of curiosity demonstrated by the fishermen here is convenient, it cannot last."
Carlisle nodded in agreement, replying, "We can likely find a cottage—perhaps near the Lake District where there is a good deal of wild land—"
But Isabella sensed something unspoken in their plans and could not help interjecting to ask, "And what of Emmett and Alice?" Carlisle had faltered, his brow furrowing, while Edward simply raked a hand through his hair and looked as though he longed to argue. But Isabella would not allow him to, speaking in a hurried voice as she added, "Wouldn't it be preferable to find a situation large enough for all of us? I know Emmett is eager to make amends, however much I tell him it is not necessary."
Though Edward had begun to grudgingly concede that the decisions Alice had made had been necessary, he found it difficult to defer to a slip of a girl—despite his own ability to see exactly what she foretold. Perhaps it was simply a matter of having acted independently for so long, or perhaps he had not yet fully forgiven the fear and worry he had suffered in ensuring that Victoire was destroyed—not to mention the physical suffering Isabella had endured. Whatever the reason, he had not simply assumed that Alice and Emmett would accompany them once they departed Old Saltburn. He could easily see, however, that Isabella had reached an entirely different conclusion regarding their future circumstances.
"It is what she has seen, Edward," Isabella quietly insisted after he remained darkly silent.
"Simply because she has seen it does not mean it must come to pass," Edward spoke more sharply than he intended, and his expression immediately shifted to contrition as he crossed to her side and dropped to his knees. In a softer voice, he asked, "Are you certain, my love?"
Isabella nodded, her hands gentle as they reached for his own. "I cannot think how painful it must have been for my mother," she began, her voice thoughtful as she gazed down at their joined hands, "to have borne such gifts but been forced to conceal it." She shook her head, thinking of her mother's bright smile, eyes sparkling as she rested a hand upon Isabella's head. "She concealed what she was—from me, from my father—from everyone who knew her." Isabella's hands tightened around Edward's own before releasing him. "She longed for me to find a path, a way to live where I would not be forced to hide the truth." Her gaze rose to find his own and there was a fierce protectiveness in her countenance that Edward knew would bear no disagreement. "Perhaps this is that path. Perhaps this is the way."
And so, after a fortnight in Old Saltburn in which Isabella recovered her strength to the point that she was able to take short walks on the beach, the four vampires and the single human girl over whom they all protectively hovered packed their few belongings into a lumbering carriage and made their way west. As Carlisle had predicted, a small cottage was available to let on the outskirts of Egremont, on a sliver of coast in the westernmost reaches of the Lake District, between the Irish Sea and the River Ehen.
For the sake of appearances, Emmett and Alice insisted upon taking the rooms beneath the eaves and planned to claim to be manservant and maid should they encounter anyone curious enough to ask—but Isabella refused to allow either to act as servants. As she had done when Sheil and Mrs. Hammett were the only help available at Swan Cottage, she dressed herself, mended her own clothes, and tended the gardens that surrounded the house in Egremont. And though Emmett might attempt to wait on her hand and foot, he had Edward as competition for fetching wood, building fires, closing and opening shutters, and other heavier duties around the house. Isabella also began to improve her skills in the kitchen, for she could not bring herself to take on the risk of bringing servants into the house, even if only during the day. It was such a risk that had changed the course of Emmett's life irrevocably—and she could not help recalling the suspicions Laura Mallory had begun to voice during their final days in London, that being in close quarters with those who were ignorant of the truth risked exposure for them all.
Edward continued to remain wary of dangers he could not truly identify. It simply seemed as if they had always been in flight, running and hiding from one threat only to find themselves subject to another. He found it frustrating and amusing that contrary to her vulnerability, Isabella was perhaps the least nervous of them all. As she curled against him in bed she had softly reasoned, "After all, I am surrounded by impossibly strong otherworldly creatures—some of whom have already risked their lives to ensure my safety." She trailed a hand upon his chest as she mused, "And given Alice's ability, as well as your own, it seems there would be adequate warning should any danger—human or otherwise—rear its head."
As the winter passed and the ground began to thaw, Edward's wariness began to diminish—though Emmett's contrition did not. He had spent the first few days in Old Saltburn profusely apologizing whenever he was in Isabella's presence, and though he now knew better than to speak the words aloud, she could still discern regret and remorse in his expression whenever he was in her company. It occurred to her that there was only one element of her current circumstances that gave her any regret, and perhaps it would give Emmett a sense of absolution if he were to act on her behalf in resolving the issue.
The moment the thought occurred to her, Alice appeared as though snapping from the ether in the doorway of the sitting room, her countenance alight with excitement. "It is the perfect idea!" she exclaimed, flitting into the room.
Isabella could not help laughing. "Well, you have certainly saved me the trouble of consulting with you on whether there is any risk in pursuing the decision!"
Alice paused, her hands fisted in her skirts as her amber eyes briefly grew vague and unfocused. Then, as if coming out of a daydream, she abruptly spoke with a bright smile, "I see no danger. All shall be quite well!" She darted from the room, her figure a blur, Emmett's name upon her lips.
Isabella could not help another soft laugh at Alice's sprite-like manner, before rising to find the writing table and settling down to pen a letter she had been longing to send.