Chapter Four
"Ow!"
Isabel jerked awake as the carriage came to a violent, shaky stop. Thomas was rubbing the side of his head – he had collided with the wall when the cab had halted so abruptly. Kneeling before him, Isabel gently cradled his cheek in her palm and tilted her head, examining him for injuries.
"Are you alright, Tom?"
Thomas nodded mutely, still massaging his temple.
Isabel opened the door and stuck her head out. "What on earth is going on?"
The driver appeared, ruddy-faced and apparently flustered. "Wheel got caught in a rut, ma'am. Broke the axel."
Isabel groaned and pulled back inside the cab. "Well, we'll just have to get there on foot, then."
"With our bags?" Thomas said incredulously, his hand dropping from his bruised forehead to the soft velvet of the carriage's seat.
"Yes, dear. With our bags."
"But it's miles yet!"
"No more than two. Come, now. We'll take plenty of rests."
They stepped out of the carriage and Isabel paid the driver while Thomas gazed woefully at the small collection of luggage on the roof of the cab.
"Are you sure, ma'am? That trunk you've got's not too heavy, but it's a long ways for a lady and a young one to carry. Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."
She lifted herself onto the carriages' step and hoisted the trunk down, shaking her head at him. The driver looked alarmed. "I'll get that for you, ma'am!"
She plunked it gently on the ground, placing her hands on her hips. "I can manage, sir. Thank you." She motioned at her son. "Thomas, come take one end of this, please."
Grumbling, he picked up his small case in one hand and grabbed one handle of his mother's trunk in the other. Isabel gripped the strap of her satchel and picked up her end of the trunk. The driver stared after them, not bothering to shut his gaping mouth.
The house looked no more welcoming the second time she approached it. The late-afternoon sun shone through the trees, casting ominous shadows on the dull-white sides of the building. Thomas set his case down, setting his weight on it heavily and panting. Isabel seated herself on her trunk and held her arms out. "Come here, darling."
Glancing unhappily at the house, the boy walked to his mother and pulled himself onto her lap, leaning his head against her shoulder.
Isabel wrapped her arms around Thomas tightly and rested her temple on his forehead.
"Are we going to stay here forever?" Thomas murmured.
She shut her eyes. "I don't know, dearest. Probably not forever." She kissed his forehead and stood, gently sliding him off her knee. "Mr. Bertrand is a kind, respectable gentleman, and we're going to enjoy every day here. I promise."
She could tell from the skeptical look on his face he didn't believe her anymore than she believed herself.
Thomas' gaze suddenly set behind her and his eyes grew round, a familiar expression of silent fear taking his features. She spun on her heel, nearly tripping on the gravel beneath her feet, and looked up into the cold, masked face of Mr. Bertrand.
"I believe I said Monday morning, Mrs. Bauer."
Isabel took a step back. His arms were folded over each other, back erect, looking vaguely irritated. She grabbed a fistful of skirt and twisted it nervously. "Our carriage had an accident, sir. We've walked the last two miles." She glanced at Thomas. "We're quite tired."
Mr. Bertrand's expression remained cool and disinterested. "I see. I shall have to remember to nominate you for martyrdom."
Isabel narrowed her eyes and released the folds of her skirt. "I wasn't asking for pity, sir." She turned back to her luggage and bent to lift her satchel. "Thomas, dear, the trunk, please."
Thomas gave a groan and heaved himself off the crate. "Yes, mother." He lifted one side and gave a wince. He dropped it immediately and looked at his hands: large blisters were forming, angry red patches assaulting the soft skin of his palms.
Isabel started at the sight. "Oh, darling, I'm sorry."
"It's alright, Mama."
"When we get inside, I'll treat them straight away."
Mr. Bertrand made an impatient noise and strode forward, brushing past Isabel and bending over the trunk. Lifting it easily, he walked towards the door silently, his footsteps leaving clouds of dust in the road. He disappeared into the doorway.
Isabel picked up her satchel and Thomas' case and began towards the door, beckoning him to follow. He stayed close to her, as before, and paused before crossing the threshold.
"Still think there's a ghost, dear?"
Thomas nodded furiously. "I know there is, Mama."
She felt herself smiling. "I'll ask Mr. Bertrand about it later." She topped in the hallway and looked around. "Where is he?"
"Mrs. Bauer."
She looked to her right and saw Mr. Bertrand standing in the stairwell, still grasping her trunk. "Please follow me." He continued up the stairs without waiting for a reply.
Annoyance stabbed at Isabel as she watched his retreating back. "Such rudeness," she muttered, gathering her skirts and walking up the steps.
The stairway was steep, and she had to keep the railing gripped firmly as she made her way up. She could hear Thomas' pained grunts as he climbed behind her, his hands surely protesting anymore use today. She panted slightly as she reached the second floor. Glancing around, she noted that it was the same as the first; bare walls and worn carpets, not a stick of furniture anywhere to be seen.
"Mrs. Bauer," came Mr. Bertrand's smooth voice. "This way."
She followed the sound, Thomas still behind her, and crossed the hall quickly. Mr. Bertrand stood in the doorway of another staircase. "The third floor," he said quietly, walking up the steps and setting the trunk down in the small hallway. "Divide the rooms as you see fit. I have left the windows open for a few days, so the smell should be bearable." He started down the steps again, ignoring Thomas' faint yelp as he was brushed past. "I will be in my study on the second floor. Kindly do not disturb me until six-thirty, when you will bring me my dinner." He turned briefly and looked directly at Isabel. "If there is anything you need, I am quite sure you will be able to figure it out on your own." He swept down the stairs and shut the door behind him.
Isabel set the bags down and looked around the third floor solemnly. Two large walls stood to her right, separated by a slim corridor. She walked forward and stepped into it cautiously. A window sat in the wall at the end of the hallway, aged lace curtains fluttering against the spring breeze. Bright beams of sunlight broke through the thin material and lit the small space warmly. The two walls flanking her were wallpapered a dull gray and a pair of doors were on either wall. She opened the nearest, ignoring Thomas' nervous cough behind her, and stepped inside. A plain room, to say the least; dark green wallpaper with faded yellow flowers, the dark mahogany trim, one small window with cracked glass. She turned back into the hall, leaving the door open. Thomas was already opening all the doors and peering inside; apparently his curiosity had won over any fears he may have carried into the house. She glanced into each room she passed, all dimly-lit and dark-walled.
"Mama!"
Isabel tore her eyes from a crack in the ceiling to look in the direction her son's voice was coming from. "Yes?"
"Come look!"
She walked across the hall and into the farthest room on the left. It was brighter than the others, a light blue, and the window was slightly larger and undamaged. Thomas stood in front of it, pressing his forehead into the glass and smiling.
"What is it?"
He pointed out the window. "Look at the lake, Mama. And the trees are beginning to grow flowers."
"Cherry trees," Isabel said softly. She placed a hand on the pane on the window, savoring the coolness of the glass against her palm.
"You could make pies," Thomas said cheerfully – the first time Isabel had heard him speak in such a tone while in this house.
"Perhaps, if Mr. Bertrand permits it."
Thomas sighed. "Is he very strict, Mama?"
Still gazing at the lake through the glass, Isabel slowly shook her head. "I don't know, darling."
"A strict as Papa?"
"I'm sure he's stricter than Papa, Thomas. Papa is not the strictest of men." She resisted the urge to scoff at her understatement
Thomas rested his chin in his palms. "May this be my room?"
Isabel turned her head and gazed down at her son. His light brown hair was getting a touch shaggy, locks curling around his heart-shaped face. He had his father's aquiline nose and full mouth, which was threatening to display a pout. He looked utterly endearing.
"Yes, Tom. This can be your room." She glanced at the sunlight streaming in through the window. "I'll take the one directly across the hall." She turned and began walking out the room, unfastening her traveling cloak, stopping at the doorway and looking back.
Thomas was sitting by the window, arms folded over the sill. The sun was shining on his face and for one moment, Isabel could have sworn she was looking at her husband.
Se felt herself grow cold at the thought.
