Chapter Twelve
Sunlight poured through the thin lace curtains covering Isabel's window and spread over her form, warming the bare skin it touched. Her nightshift had slid up her leg during the night, pooling around her waist, and she had kicked the blankets off her body in her sleep, exposing her legs to the rays. She reveled in the heat silently, keeping her eyes shut. More than anything at this moment, she wanted to stay in this bed, unneeded and unmoving. To rest for a while. It annoyed her to no end, knowing that such a simple desire was impossible to fulfill. Groaning at her childishly selfish wants, she rolled over. Cracking an eye open, she blinked hard at the bright light that met her, and pushed herself up. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and gasped at the sharp pain that streaked up her calves, a hard stinging that nestled into her thighs and hips. Cursing softly, she forced herself to stand, wincing as her muscles screamed in protest. The journeys into town were certainly making themselves known. She was unused to walking such distances, and to travel so far by foot, so many times in such few days, had given her body a thorough beating.
Rubbing the small of her back gently, she opened her trunk, selected a gray dress and laid it on the bed. The small chest of drawers that had been in her room was still empty; she lacked the motivation to unpack. She was hardly ever on the third floor, except to sleep, and by the time she remembered that all her belongings were still waiting to be put away, she was too exhausted to do anything about it.
Fastening her corset, she grabbed the dress off the bed and stepped into it gingerly, ignoring the dull throb of pain coursing down her legs. She slipped her shoes on and wandered into the hall blearily, pinning her dark hair up in a neat chignon. Thomas's door was open and she peeked into his room, tskingat the mess. Clothes were strewn on the floor and draped on the bed, books were splayed everywhere, sheets of paper with stick figures drawn on them were scattered across the room. She stepped into the room fully, calling Thomas's name softly. There was no response. A flicker of panic rose in her chest. If he was up… if he was awake, God only knew what he was up to… and with Mr. Bertrand's fickle tendencies… the man was still an enigma to her, and she didn't trust him around her child.
Gathering her skirts, Isabel fled down the stairs. "Tom?" she called, fighting to keep the alarm out of her voice. "Tom!"
"In here, Mama!"
Heaving a shuddering sigh in relief, she moved towards his voice, pausing at the doorway of the library.
Thomas sat on a cushioned chair, a large atlas in his hands. The Persian was on a seat next to him, reading over the boy's shoulder. The man looked up at Isabel and smiled warmly. "Good morning, Mrs. Bauer."
"Mr. Khan," Isabel said breathlessly, leaning against the doorframe for support. "A very good morning to you."
"Mr. Khan is telling me about Persia!" Thomas' small face glowed with enthusiasm, and the dark-skinned man chortled.
"Your son has a sharp mind, Mrs. Bauer. He is very eager to learn."
"Oh, yes," Isabel said, smiling faintly. "We're very proud of him."
Mr. Khan's eyebrow quirked. "Does your husband also reside here? Erik did not mention him."
"No, my husband is in Liverpool."
"I see." Not pursuing the subject, Mr. Khan turned his attention back to the book Thomas was holding. He pointed to place on the page. "Mazenderan. Where I am from."
"Please pardon the interruption," Isabel said, straightening herself, "but do you know if Mr. Bertrand is still in bed?"
"Bed?" An amused smile graced the Persian's mouth. "I doubt he went to bed at all. He tends not to, you know. He never was one for rest." He paused, looking thoughtful. "No, I haven't seen him since last night. The last I saw of him, he was nursing a large glass of brandy and thumbing through a Brontë novel."
Isabel let her shoulders slump dejectedly at the mention of the spirits. "Oh," she said, looking around the library idly. "Well, thank you. I'll go start breakfast."
"More likely than not, Madame, he simply went for a walk." Mr. Khan's kind smile was still on his lips. "He does that from time to time. He insists it clears his head, though I have yet to see that particular phenomenon."
Thomas snorted.
Casting him a stern glance, Isabel turned back to Mr. Khan and curtseyed briefly. "Thank you, sir. I am sure he is fine, wherever he is."
Mr. Khan inclined his head briefly and went back to the atlas, pointing at various landmarks on the page and reciting bits of Persian history to Thomas. The boy sat perfectly still, obviously awed by the fountain of knowledge currently seated beside him. Smiling to herself, Isabel left the room quietly. Entering the kitchen, she quickly collected ingredients for the morning's meal. Placing the eggs, bread, and butter on the counter, she began searching for a clean bowl. She ducked into a lower cabinet and retrieved the item, placing it on the table in front of her with another small feeling of triumph. She would send Thomas down to fetch the cream from the cellar later.
She moved to the water basin and leaned over it, opening the window. She closed her eyes, breathing in the fresh air contently. Simple beauty. She opened her eyes and they fell on the stable. A large door now stood where the gaping hole had been, and she peered at it in surprise. The man really did never rest. She gazed on the structure with approval, admiring the craftsmanship. She knew nothing about carpentry, of course, but she knew what an attractive building looked like, and this particular one was lovely. She saw no sign of Mr. Bertrand lurking about, so she cautiously walked towards the door outside. Opening it, she stepped into the yard, strolling towards the stable quietly. "Mr. Bertrand?" she said softly, looking around her. "Sir?"
She was met with silence.
Shrugging to herself, she examined the new door. It slid open easily and she looked inside the building, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Two large pens were constructed inside, a feeding net hanging in both of them, small gates standing open and inviting. She wandered further in and ran a hand along the smooth wood of the wall. Another door had been installed opposite the one she had entered, and she pushed it open slowly. He had built a corral around the back of the stable, a simple fence surrounding a large patch of firm ground. She was certain it hadn't been there the previous evening. Turning, she walked back through the stable and slid the door shut behind her.
A faint thudding caught her attention and she shielded her eyes from the sun, searching for the source.
Mr. Bertrand's lithe form emerged from the shadows in the orchard, his tall body striding towards Isabel. He gracefully swept past the blossoming trees, his appearance, once more, immaculate and pristine. His dark hair was slicked back, combed neatly away from the pale skin and white mask. His black coat was slung over one arm and the white lawn of his dress shirt looked crisp and clean, complimenting the midnight-blue waistcoat he wore. The pressed trousers rustled against his legs with every step he took. She noticed that his face remained unshaven, the dark hair still covering his chin. It struck her, not for the first time, what a terribly impressive presence he was.
"Good morning, Mrs. Bauer," he said coolly, pausing in front of her.
"Mr. Bertrand," she nodded. "I took the liberty of touring the stable. My compliments."
"A true challenge," he said dryly. "A sturdy shack. Still," he added, looking behind her at the building, "it did serve a certain purpose." He fell silent, still gazing at the structure.
A branch just behind Mr. Bertrand swayed and Isabel glanced at it absently. It moved again, and she furrowed her forehead as a dark shape appeared from behind the tree, peeking out curiously. Jumping back in alarm, Isabel tripped over her skits and fell onto her bottom with a loud thud.
Mr. Bertrand looked down at her with a mildly puzzled expression. "Looking for something?"
"What is that!" she pointed to the shape and scooted back on the grass.
"I beg your pardon?" Mr. Bertrand looked in the direction she was indicating and released a sound not entirely unlike a chuckle. "That, madame, is a horse."
"What is it doing here?" Isabel gathered her skirts, her face flushing, and made to get herself up. Mr. Bertrand sighed impatiently and offered her his uninjured hand. Eyeing it uncertainly, she grasped it and let herself be helped up.
He dropped her hand. "It appears to be staring at us."
"Where did it come from?"
"Really, Mrs. Bauer, you must learn to control your impulsive inquisitions. They grow tiresome."
Isabel shut her eyes tightly and counted to ten, silently urging the annoyance building in her chest to cease.
"I happened upon them this morning. The owner was only too glad to be rid of them, for a price. So here we are." A corner of his mouth lifted. "They are rather handsome, are they not?"
Walking towards the orchard slowly, Isabel caught sight of another form lurking just behind the animal she was staring at. The horse that was cautiously walking towards her was dapple gray, brown-eyed and smaller than the one behind him. The other animal was pure black, save for a white streak that ran across its face like a scar. It gazed at her with dark eyes, completely still.
"They're beautiful," she breathed. "Where did you get them?"
"Some poor fellow I met on the road. He was in desperate need of money, I daresay." Mr. Bertrand approached the animals silently, and both horses merely stared as he neared them. "I offered him a good price and he agreed immediately." He stood before the pitch-black animal, holding one hand up and gently placing it on the horse's neck. "Two geldings, already broken. An unfortunate term," he added quietly.
Isabel absently dusted her skits off and stood back, crossing her arms. "You don't have them on leads."
Mr. Bertrand turned his head towards her, looking surprised. "There was no need. They followed me."
"They followed you?"
"Animals have senses we humans can never hope to achieve, Mrs. Bauer." He continued patting the horse's neck, and the animal nudged closer to the touch. "They know I mean them no harm." A faint smile crossed his lips. "And I do not."
Isabel remained silent, gazing at the animals with unconcealed wonder.
Turning abruptly, Mr. Bertrand strode towards the stable, passing Isabel wordlessly. The horses trotted silently behind him, ignoring the presence of the bewildered woman in their midst.
Daniel,
Mr. Bertrand has a guest. Mr. Nadir Khan is an old friend of Mr. Bertrand's and will be staying at least a month. He is Persian and his entire appearance seems out of place among us Europeans, what with his dark skin and strange accent. Mr. Khan has been terribly kind so far, teaching Thomas about the Middle East and its customs. He seems very well-educated, Mr. Khan. I think I shall enjoy his visit.
Mr. Bertrand has completed a stable in record time. For several days, the entire endeavor seemed rather pointless, but still, he worked day and night on it, sending me into town to fetch materials from the blacksmith and being too absorbed in his work to properly thank me. The result is surprisingly pleasing; it is a simple structure, but it was made with care, and it will do well for the horses he has just purchased.
Yes, horses. Mr. Bertrand bought them just this morning, quite unexpectedly. He got them, for a good price, off a farmer not too terribly far from us. Two geldings, barely five years old. Thomas is ecstatic, of course. He can't stop staring at them with his usual wide-eyed wonderment. There are days when I do not know what to make of him… one moment he's in awe of everything around him, and the next he makes comments that sound so wise, I would mistake him for an old man. Perhaps this is the nature of all children… perhaps we are born with all the world's knowledge instilled in us, and it slowly slips away as we grow older and more cynical.
I find myself wondering what Liverpool is like this time of year. It has been so long since I was near the ocean… yet I can still smell the waves, the salt stinging your senses as you breathe it in. It is almost as if you're drawing part of every living creature in that ocean into your body each time you inhale; every whale, every shark, every manner of life that dwells in that endless sea. I remember feeling my heart beating when I was near the ocean, strong vibrations in my chest that I had never noticed before, and it made me more alive than I ever have been. I do hope that is how you feel, Daniel. If I have one hope, it is that.
Forgive me, I am writing thoughts as they run through my head, and this is not the appropriate place to do so.
I trust you are well, and that you will write soon.
Sincerely,
Isabel
Lifting her skirts, Isabel slowly climbed the stairs, not bothering to grip the handrail. Her entire body felt drained from the walk to town earlier in the day, haggling with the apothecary, and all the hours spent waging war on the parlor. Dinner had been a simple meat sauce with fresh bread and vegetables, but she had only the energy to give Thomas a dish, serve Mr. Bertrand and Mr. Khan in the library, and head for her room. After finishing a letter to Daniel, she had tucked Thomas in and forced herself to go back to the kitchen to clean so that she wouldn't be greeted with a mess in the morning. Now she was dragging herself up those damnable stairs, too exhausted to eat and far too exhausted to care. Slowly making her way across the hall on the second floor, she saw a thin stream of light glowing from Mr. Bertrand's bedroom door. A faint grunt sounded from the room and she paused.
Mr. Khan, she had been told, was staying in Mr. Bertrand's study, and she had never seen her employer's bedroom door ajar before. She leaned against the railing briefly. That curiosity… that horrid curiosity that she had always been without… it was beginning to pull at her, to needle at her brain the way she had been told it did for other people. She had never seen inside Mr. Bertrand's study or his bedroom, and the knowledge that there were parts of the house that she was forbidden to view, forbidden to be a part of, incensed her. He was like a child. He wanted things immediately – a maid, a meal, a stable – and he had a streak of selfishness that reminded her of her son, a possessiveness most children have for a favorite toy. The sharp look he had given Thomas when the boy had rushed near the horses; it was pure venom! The meaning in the expression was perfectly clear: mine.
She shook her head. She was being ridiculous again. It was late; she was just tired and oversensitive.
Let him have his toys, she thought. Let him keep his secrets.
A hiss of pain came from the room and she groaned in irritation. It was her duty to see what the matter was. Not just as his employee, but as someone with some concern for his well-being. That hand had been enough proof to her that Mr. Bertrand was entirely incapable of caring for himself, and Isabel felt the uncomfortable weight of disquietude settle over her.
"Do not disturb me," he had said.
"Well," she muttered, gathering her strength, "he can just hang himself." She approached the door and knocked gently, waiting to be either ignored or met with a cool, sarcastic voice. There was a silent pause, then rustling from within the room.
Mr. Bertrand opened the door, a calm expression on his visible features. His white lawn shirt was tucked into his trousers, the blue waistcoat clearly having been removed for the evening. She glanced down and saw one of his bare feet tapping impatiently. Drawing back, she cleared her throat. "Your door was open, sir." She bit her tongue, silently cursing herself. "Mr. Bertrand. I thought it would be prudent to inform you that I am retiring for the evening. Is there anything else you will be requiring?"
He waved a hand dismissively. "No, of course not. Good evening." He began to shut the door. Isabel peered at his face for a moment and slammed a hand onto the door, pushing it open. "Mr. Bertrand," she said in a low voice, too tired and incredulous to care if the tone offended him. "What have you done to your face?"
Mr. Bertrand's eyes narrowed and he yanked the door out of her grasp. "My face," he hissed, "is none of your concern."
"Why is it bleeding?" She stepped closer to him and lifted her hand to his chin, turning his head away to better examine the injury.
He jerked his head away from her. "An accident while shaving, Mrs. Bauer. It happens to all men, I am afraid. Now, if you will kindly take your leave."
"An accident shaving?" she said rudely. "You're shaving before bed?"
"Mrs. Bauer," he snarled, "you have crossed the line of impudence with this conversation. I will say it one more time: good night!"
"I will not have more infected wounds to attend to, Mr. Bertrand. If you require help, all you need to do is ask. Request, command, order, I don't care what you call it, but it is my job to obey your every whim, however odd it may be, and I will be damned if I don't do what is expected of me."
Mr. Bertrand swung the door open and stared at Isabel. His eyebrow had arched into his hairline and his mouth was set in a firm line. If he was alarmed by the outburst, he was hiding it well.
"Very well, Mrs. Bauer," he replied finally, that silken voice gliding across her. "If you wish." He held the door open.
Crossing her arms protectively, she walked into the room and glanced around. A large fireplace was situated in the wall, an overstuffed chair in front of it. A four-poster bed with blood-red velvet hangings stood majestically in the corner, and Isabel suddenly felt terribly uncomfortable with the situation.
"You wish to attend to me, Mrs. Bauer, and you shall."
She turned to face him. He stood next to a table with a basin, a small mirror hanging on the wall in front of him. A razor sat on the table, a small bottle of lather next to it.
"My injured hand is, as fate would have it, my dominant one. I simply cannot use my left hand for something as precise as this. It was not the way my body was made to function, I suppose." He picked up the lather brush and stuck it in the bottle, stirring absently. "I cannot stand this beard, you see… cannot stand it for one moment longer, but I cannot appear to be rid of it without assistance." He smiled slowly, a devastating curling of his lips that left Isabel filled with a sense of cold foreboding.
Carefully lifting the bottle of lather, he held it out to Isabel.
"Please, Mrs. Bauer. Do help me."
Uncrossing her arms, she took the bottle from him with a nerveless hand. His eyebrow quirked once more, and a surprised expression flitted across his face. She raised her hand to his face and pressed his head to the side once more, dabbing the lather onto the skin, carefully avoiding the mask. Placing the bottle back down, she took up the razor and looked Mr. Bertrand in the eye. "If you're sure, sir."
He lifted his chin slightly in answer.
Isabel gripped the razor and brought it to his face, slowly sweeping along the curve of his jaw. She bit her lip as her brow furrowed in concentration. She had done this before, but it had been years ago, when she and Daniel were newly-married and easily amused with each other's bodies.
Mr. Bertrand remained stock-still. The only movement she saw on him at all was the slow throb of the pulse in his neck, a rhythmic thrum that was almost hypnotizing to look at. Focusing back on carefully scraping the razor against his skin, she mindlessly searched for a conversation.
"How are the horses?" she asked quietly, swishing the razor in the basin's water.
"They are adjusting well," he replied. She stared at him for a moment; though he had certainly spoken, he still had not moved. It was almost as if he were talking through closed lips.
"I see," she said, moving the razor back into place. She tilted his head back slightly, positioning the razor against his throat. His muscles tightened, but he remained stationary as she swept the razor across the skin lightly, rinsing it in the basin water again. "Do they have names, or shall we refer to them as the noble steeds?"
"They were named this morning." Mr. Bertrand's hands rose to rest on the table behind Isabel, and she found herself being flanked by his arms. Stepping back slightly, she jerked his head down harder than necessary and scowled at his smirk.
"May I be privileged to learn their new titles?"
"The dapple is Loki. The black is Bellerophon."
Isabel paused, the razor hovering above his cheek. "Odd names for livestock."
Mr. Bertrand's eyes flicked to hers briefly. "Loki was the Norse god of mischief. A fitting namesake, considering the somewhat overly playful nature of the creature." He flinched as she ran the blade over the small cut he had made on his face. She apologized quickly and pressed a finger to the wound, stemming the flow of blood.
"Bellerophon," he continued evenly, "was the hero who defeated the Chimera with the aide of the Pegasus. I thought that particular animal had a certain heroic quality about it."
"Hmm." She slowly scraped the blade against his chin, peering at the raw skin closely. She didn't dare ask about what to do with the mask – he had made no move to adjust or remove it, and she knew better than to request that he do so. Wiping the blade against her skirts to dry it, she reached behind her and picked up a handkerchief that had lain next to the basin. Dipping a corner of it into the water, she gently wiped away the excess lather and the small stream of dried blood on his cheek. Placing the handkerchief behind her, she folded her hands in front of her and waited politely for Mr. Bertrand to step back.
He didn't move, but gazed at his reflection in the small mirror behind her. He lifted one hand and ran it over the smooth flesh of the visible half of his face, his fingertips dancing on his own skin. He turned his head and looked at Isabel intently. She gazed back, undaunted.
"You have done this before."
She nodded, although it wasn't a question.
"An acceptable job, Mrs. Bauer." He touched his face once more, his eyes still fixed on hers. "I thank you." His slow, deliberate smile came to his face once more, and Isabel suddenly felt every inch of her skin grow hot. She remembered the music she had heard… the part of this man who had gripped her mind unknowingly, torn memories from her with no effort. His dark gaze was beginning to unnerve her. She could feel those memories slipping from the firm grasp of her mind again… he was drawing them out with his eyes, just as he had with his music.
She slid away from him, mumbling a "goodnight" and stepped out of the room quickly, shutting the door behind her. Rushing down the hall, she hurried up the stairs and into her room, closing the door and leaning against it. She let out a long, slow breath and slid to the floor.
"He is not powerful," she whispered. "He is not powerful." Over and over she repeated it, like a desperate prayer in the darkness.
Attack of the long chapters! Will they ever stop growing? Gah!
Chat the Wonder Beta still rocks the world, and I loff her.
As always, the reviews undo me. Reviewers are my heroes.
