Chapter Seven
The first thing Isabel noticed was the way the light from the candle on her dresser danced on the mask. The hollows and curves of his face were shadowed and deep, making his face look gaunt.
When her gaze shifted to his eyes, she knew she was blushing. The intense heat was creeping up her face slowly, denying her any veil of dignity. Dropping her hands to her sides, she twisted her skirt miserably. Head cast down, she felt like a schoolgirl awaiting a scolding.
"Have you, perchance, seen any rags in these rooms during the course of the day?"
Isabel lifted her head and stared at the man in front of her with unrestrained bewilderment. Mr. Bertrand stood erect, his expression perfectly mild. He was the very picture of polite elegance, in spite of his mussed, soiled clothes and the blood dripping from his hand. She opened her mouth soundlessly and he raised his eyebrow, looking infinitely patient.
"I'm sorry?" Isabel said hoarsely, daring to hope for a moment that perhaps he hasn't seen her performance.
"Rags," he repeated quietly, still clutching his bleeding hand. "I was quite sure I saw some on this floor earlier in the week."
Dropping her skirt from her fingers, she laid a hand on her stomach, silently willing the churning sickness settled there to cease.
"Ah, yes," she said, quickly spinning around and striding across the room to her window. She snatched a damp cut of cloth off the sill. "I used them to wipe off the furniture earlier. It was terribly dusty up here." She folded the rag carefully, keeping her back to him. Taking a deep breath, she lowered her eyes to the ground and turned, her hands shaking.
Mr. Bertrand had crossed the room silently and now stood inches from her, his imposing height suddenly frighteningly obvious. She jerked her head up and took a step back, the backs of her legs pressing against the footboard of the bed.
Mr. Bertrand observed her for a moment, his dark eyes roving over her figure openly. A streak of indignation ran through Isabel and she straightened herself, raising her arm and holding the rag out to him. He glanced at it briefly, tilting his head, a thoughtful look crossing his face. Then his eyes were suddenly locked on hers and very slowly, he reached out his uninjured hand and grasped the cloth, his fingers brushing her skin. She pulled back at the contact, leaning harder against the footboard. She felt a coolness spreading down her arm at the impression his cold, damp skin had left on her.
He wrapped the rag around his hand and turned, walking across the room in complete silence. Isabel watched him awkwardly, searching for something to say to break this tension.
"Are you alright, sir?" came out sounding natural enough, though she bit her lip harshly after she said it. The air was still for a moment. Mr. Bertrand raised his bleeding hand and waved it slightly, silently answering her question. Isabel felt her face flush again. "Would you like me to have a look at it, sir?" she asked gently.
"No," Mr. Bertrand snapped, drawing his hand back and tightening the cloth around it securely. "I thank you for the generous offer, Madame, but I am perfectly capable of tending to my own wounds."
Madame. French, she thought. Of course. That was the accent she heard so faintly.
Desperate for some sort of clarification of what this entire interaction was about, she thought for a moment, trying to concoct a conversation to draw him into. She cleared her throat delicately. "Are you building something, sir?"
His expression was one of an exasperated adult explaining something to a particularly simple child. "Yes, Mrs. Bauer. I am building something."
She blinked. He stared.
"Anything especially, sir?"
"A stable."
"A stable, sir?"
"You must thrive on inane questions, Mrs. Bauer," he said, his tone cool. "You certainly ask enough of them."
"I... I'm sorry, sir."
"But yes, a stable." He paused. "For horses?" he added wearily, as if willing her to understand this simple concept.
"Oh. I didn't know you had any."
"I don't."
"Ah," she said politely, silently accepting her confusion.
Mr. Bertrand shot her a look of mild disgust and stepped towards the door once more. "I apologize for bothering you, Mrs. Bauer. There are no rag scraps among my possessions and I did not wish to stain the good linen of my handkerchief with blood."
"There are cleaner ones here, sir. Perhaps using one of them would be a better idea."
He waved the suggestion off. "I doubt anything here is clean. The former owners of this estate left many items here: tools, books, dinnerware." He glanced at his bandaged hand. "Scraps of cloth, apparently. And everything is filthy, as I'm sure you've noticed. The house has been abandoned for nearly three years, I am told." He trailed off, muttering bitterly. Isabel folded her hands, wearing her most patient expression.
"Yes, sir."
"You have made it quite plain that you have little or no respect for me, Mrs. Bauer. Do not act as if you do. Kindly cease the increasingly irritating habit of adding "sir" to the end of every sentence."
Her face warmed again. "Yes, sir."
His eyes narrowed.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Bertrand."
He made a small tut of annoyance and walked out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him. "Goodnight, Mrs. Bauer."
"Goodnight, Mr. Bertrand." She pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead and clenched her eyes shut.
"Oh, and Mrs. Bauer?"
She dropped her hands to her side and looked up.
"I really did mean it about the door." Mr. Bertrand gave a very slight smirk. "You never know what manner of creature may be lurking about." He bowed briefly and shut the door.
Sinking to the floor, Isabel numbly wondered if it was at all possible to die of embarrassment.
Hitching her satchel higher onto her shoulder, Isabel glanced around the crowded marketplace. Thomas lagged behind her, pulling a small, rusted wooden wagon he had found sitting in the yard. The wheels were creaking, groaning against the heavy weight of the purchases Isabel had made so far.
"Just to the tailors', darling," she said soothingly, pausing to smooth his damp hair off his forehead. "Then we can go back."
"It's hot," he observed glumly, wiping his brow with his shirtsleeve.
"I know, Tom. We'll just get you a new pair of trousers ordered and we'll be on our way."
He grumbled incoherently in reply.
"Tom, they're almost up to your knees as it is."
"I don't mind."
"It will only take a few minutes," she sighed, pulling the shop's door open and ushering him inside. The wagon squeaked on the freshly-polished floor of the small shop and a short, mousy man looked up from behind the counter. His mouth twitched when he eyed the wagon leaving a faint trail of dirt behind it, but when his eyes moved to Isabel, he smiled widely and hurried out to greet her.
"'Ello, Miss! How can I be of service today?"
Isabel smiled politely and placed a hand on Thomas' shoulder. "My son could do with a new pair of trousers, sir."
"Ah! Yes, yes, I can see that." The man placed a finger to his chin as he leaned down to scrutinize Thomas' pant leg. "Just got a bolt of lovely wool in. That should do nicely." He turned and ran to the counter again, ducking behind it and snatching a small wooden stool off the floor. Trotting over to Thomas, he set it next to him and picked the boy up, dropping him onto it carelessly and snapping a measuring tape off his shoulders. "Just stand still, my boy," he said cheerfully, ignoring Thomas' offended look. "This won't take but a moment."
Isabel turned to hide her amused smile and wandered over to the side of the shop. Several velvet-and-silk gowns were hanging on racks, formal dresses that were of little necessity this far removed from a city. She lifted a dress off the rack and examined it closely. The material was obviously not new -- the purple of the silk trimming the neckline and wrists was dull with age, the black velvet of the skirt crushed in places, but it was still beautiful. More beautiful than anything she had ever owned. She put it back carefully, running her fingers down the sleeve. Stifling a sigh, she turned back to Thomas, who was balancing himself on the stool admirably. The tailor was holding the tape in his teeth and marking down measurements into a small book in his hand. Looking up at Isabel, he gave another exuberant grin and waved merrily. "All done here, Miss! They'll be ready within the week." He tucked the book into his pocket and nudged Thomas off the stool. "Would be done sooner, of course, but it's the busy season. Everyone's getting prepared for summer." He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, his chest swelling. "The best of all the seasons, say I!"
Thomas scrambled to his mother's side and grabbed her hand, looking at her with barely concealed disgruntlement.
"Indeed, sir."
"Timothy Sanders, ma'am! At your service!" He gave a very low bow, shuddering slightly as he bent, and Isabel wondered briefly if he was going to fall over.
"Isabel Bauer."
"A pleasure, Ma'am, a true pleasure!" He extended his hand and she shook it gently, marveling at his enthusiasm.
"Yes, Mr. Sanders. It is indeed." She put an arm around Thomas and gave a sweet smile. "I'll be back in a few days to collect the trousers."
"Of course! Have a lovely day, ma'am!" He reached out and tapped Thomas' forehead. "And you as well, young sir! A lovely day!"
Still smiling, Isabel edged Thomas towards the door and grabbing the handle of the wagon, yanking it outside.
"Mama!" Thomas gasped, pulling her along roughly. "He was too happy!"
Isabel laughed. "What do you mean? What's wrong with being happy?"
"He kept hitting me with his measuring tape and smiling!"
"Your lack of welts leads me to believe he was gentle, despite the beating."
"He kept poking my ribs! He said I have little chicken ankles!"
"I'm sure he meant it kindly." Isabel rolled her shoulders to loosen the knots that were forming. "Do you want to go back now?"
The house was still too foreign and unwelcoming to call "home". The thought saddened her.
Thomas nodded and gentled his tugging on her hand. Silently, they began the walk back to Mr. Bertrand's house, the wagon creaking behind them.
The house came into view as the sun reached the highest point in the sky, its rays beating onto Isabel's shoulders and face mercilessly. Dabbing her forehead with her threadbare cloak, she stumbled down the road and onto the house's walkway weakly, Thomas dropping the wagon's handle and seating himself on the front steps, panting.
"There," Isabel said brightly, leaning against the house heavily, "that wasn't so bad, was it?"
Thomas glared at her.
"At least we had the wagon," she muttered, wiping her brow.
A soft tapping noise drew her attention away from Thomas' indignant expression and she moved to the edge of the house, listening intently.
"Do you hear that?"
"No," Thomas said grumpily, folding his arms.
Turning the corner, she wandered towards the gardens, the sound getting louder. Stopping near the orchard, she drew a breath sharply.
A small building was standing next to the orchard. Nearing it, Isabel felt her mouth open, struck with awe.
Mr. Bertrand emerged from the other side of the building, holding a hammer and a small bucket of nails.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Bauer." He passed her and bent next to the opening of the building, a large hole placed in the center of the wall. "How was your trip to the market?"
"Very well," Isabel said absently, staring at the structure. "Mr. Bertrand, was this here yesterday?"
"No," he replied, carefully placing the hammer aside the bucket of nails and straightening. "It's just the basic frame of the stable. I began construction this morning."
She shifted her eyes from the building to the man. "You built this in one morning?"
"Of course not. I made all the preparations last night. That is normally what takes the longest in such a simple structure. I haven't the materials to complete building it yet, but they should be easy enough to acquire."
She tilted her head and peered at the gaping opening he was next to. "What's that?"
"The door will be installed here." His eyes flicked up to the roofline. "I will need to purchase some items from a metal shop to construct the door I wish to useā¦" He raised a finger to his chin thoughtfully, still gazing at the roof.
Isabel drew near the building and placed a hand on the pale wood. She noticed a large red mark next to her, and she traced a finger over it. "What's this?"
"Blood," Mr. Bertrand grunted. "The damnable wound on my hand refused to stop bleeding for hours."
She turned to him. "You worked with your injured hand?"
He glanced at her. "Yes."
Shaking her head, she dropped her hand from the smooth wood and stepped back, shielding her eyes from the sun. "I'm very impressed, Mr. Bertrand. It's a beautiful building."
He cast her a look of amusement. "They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Mrs. Bauer, but I find that most people are blind."
Re: The Beta. Chatastic, the coolest cat around.
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