Chapter Eighteen
"Is he a friend of yours?"
Isabel looked up from the basin she was washing the dishes in.
"Pardon?"
"Mr. Smithers or Smothers or whatever his name is."
Isabel wiped the plate she was holding dry and placed it in the open cabinet. "Mr. Sanders?"
"Was that it? Yes, Mr. Sanders. He certainly seemed... intimately acquainted with you."
Isabel's eyes narrowed. "He is the local tailor, as I said. We have conducted multiple business arrangements, the most recent being your cloak. Any other type of relationship we may have..." she leaned over the basin, taking a deep breath.
Mr. Bertrand's posture stiffened and his lips curled into a furious snarl.
"Exists only in your mind," Isabel finished, exhaling slowly.
Mr. Bertrand's stance relaxed and he crossed his arms, casually leaning against the wall and raising an eyebrow. The black mask donned the right side of his face again, his skin looking paler than usual from the contrast.
"Why do you ask?"
His shrug seemed careless, almost absent-minded, yet the roll of the shoulders seemed to possess a certain air of grace. She added "elegant" to the mental list of words she was collecting that described the strange man before her, alongside "arrogant", "sarcastic" and "ungrateful". She had shared her thoughts with Samantha during her visit, and the younger woman had looked positively scandalized until she burst out laughing: a surprisingly gruff, unladylike noise erupting from her throat.
"No particular reason. As I said, he seemed very familiar with you." He flicked a speck of dust off the sleeve of his lawn shirt.
"Mr. Sanders is..." Isabel absently swirled a finger in the cold water of the basin. "Mr. Sanders seems to have taken a liking to me, which I have not encouraged in the slightest."
"A liking to you? The man was practically salivating, Isabel."
She slowly raised her eyes to his, quirking a brow. Mr. Bertrand's gaze remained on his shirtsleeve, his fingertips running over the material in search of more dust to brush off.
"I'm sure it is a harmless infatuation," she said lightly, moving her gaze to the window and peering into the darkness.
"Harmless infatuations can become dangerous," he said softly. Isabel turned her head and took a step back – he was inches from her, towering over her form. "You can take my word on that."
"Mr. Sanders is not a dangerous man," she said, bristling to mask her discomfort.
"Can you be so certain? What man lavishes such praise on a married woman?"
She crossed her arms. "I am not entirely sure the subject of my marriage has come up in conversation, Mr. Bertrand. It is very possible that he does not know." She paused. "Praise? I thought you said he was not complimenting me."
"I did not say that," he sighed, drawing away from her. "I merely suggested you consider the possibility that he could have created a more apropos comparison. I, personally, have never found Venus to be particularly beautiful. Perhaps, however, it was merely a matter of opinion." His lip curled in a faint sneer. "Though I find it somewhat doubtful that that half-wit of a tailor has any education whatsoever in the arts, and therefore his opinion should be void on principle."
"Not everyone can be well educated, monsieur," Isabel snapped. "Some of us need to make do with what we're given, which is more often than not a shoddy school where we are taught the basics of reading and arithmetic. Many adults in this country cannot read at all. But they work the land; they grow the food you eat, they make the clothes you wear, they build the houses you live in. No, perhaps Mr. Sanders does not know as much as you about Botticelli, but without him, this village would be walking around as naked as Adam and Eve in Eden. He deserves your respect."
His mouth had taken that rare form again, one side tightening and drawing up, a barely-discernible smile that relaxed his face remarkably.
"Why, Mrs. Bauer," he said, gazing at her with an air of pleasant surprise. "I really didn't know you had it in you."
Condescending, Isabel added to the list as he turned and stalked out of the kitchen as stealthily as a cat.
Bella,
Tom wrote me about the stable incident and I have to say, I'm not getting a very pleasant image of the man you're living with. In fact, the more I think on it, the more furious I become that he threatened not only Thomas, but you, over something as silly and frivolous as a loose horse. I have half a mind to write him a very strongly worded letter telling him precisely what I think. I don't think that would bode well for your position of employment, so I'll leave it be for now.
I've been asking around the town if anyone has ever heard of the Bertrands and so far no one has. I know you'll think I'm poking my nose into other people's business (Saint Isabel was never guilty of that sin, if memory serves) but I believe my actions are justified, being as I can't be there to size the fellow up myself. I'm trusting you to remove yourself from this man's presence if you actually believe him capable of harming yourself or Tom, do you understand? The entire letter our son sent me sent a chill through me. I do not trust this man (particularly since he appears to be so well-established yet his name is unrecognizable to anyone I've spoken to) and I think you would do well to feel the same.
I'm afraid I have no happy news to report. Robert has broken a leg and it appears that the wound has become infected. It's been five days and he is showing no signs of improvement. Old McKedson insists he knows enough about medicine to treat him, and although I somewhat doubt his knowledge in this particular field, we cannot possibly afford a doctor and will therefore have to make do. I have never seen my brother look so ill; his skin is burning, yet his face is pale and clammy. I'm fearing the worst, Isabel. Please pray for him.
He is stirring in his sleep now; I must go to him. Take care of Tom and yourself, as always.
Yours,
Daniel
Samantha Kinneston's dress looked as if it must have been pink at some point, but as she stood before Isabel, a smile beaming from her face, the material was washed-out with age and covered in a thin layer of dirt.
"Really, Samantha, we could arrange these meetings better, I'm sure. You look as if you've traveled through a war zone to get here."
"Clearly, you've never been to the market on a Saturday morning," the younger woman replied brightly, seating herself on the sofa in the still-peach parlor. Isabel couldn't tell whether the color of the walls was beginning to grow on her or if she was simply too weary to seriously consider repainting it, but either way, the room had remained the same.
"Bit of a nightmare over there, is it?" Isabel settled onto the sofa beside Samantha, pouring tea into the delicate china cups reserved for company.
Samantha sighed theatrically and shot Isabel a grin. "I'm afraid so. I truly believe you haven't seen all that the countryside has to offer until you have seen two old spinsters battle each other for the last fresh loaf of bread from the bakery." She reached for the teacup, an eyebrow quirking thoughtfully. "I was quite sure one was going to bludgeon the other to death with a stale baguette."
Isabel laughed. "A noble way to die."
Samantha sipped the tea and looked around the room. "I must say, Isabel, Mr. Bertrand seems to be quite reclusive. Does he always shut himself up in his study?"
"I believe he comes out at night to stalk young women and drink their blood."
Samantha choked on her tea. "Honestly, what a beastly thing to say."
Isabel's mouth twitched into a smile. "And unwise, as well. Mr. Bertrand is very skilled in lurking; I am convinced he has heard every conversation I've ever had in or around this house."
The noncommittal noise Samantha was making in response was cut short by the door swinging open to reveal a poised form in rumpled attire: Nadir Khan looked tired, his eyelids drooping, his shoulders slumped dejectedly. His vest and coat had been discarded and the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows, the white lawn sweat-stained and stuck to his skin.
Isabel glanced at Samantha. The younger woman's eyes had widened slightly and her teacup was poised in front of her mouth, her lips parted in a slight gape.
"Isabel," the Persian said, pausing for a moment to yawn widely, "pardon me... Isabel, your son and I took a walk through the gardens and I'm afraid he was rather exhausted by the end of it. He went straight upstairs and is asleep on his bed."
"Thank you, Nadir. I appreciate you letting me know."
"This accursed heat, I think, is to blame. It simply drains you of all your energy. I feel as if I have been doing hard labor from dawn 'til dusk." He smiled sheepishly.
Isabel chortled. "You look quite tired, if I may say so." She nodded toward Samantha, now setting her teacup on her lap and fiddling with the arm of the sofa, picking at loose threads and tapping her fingers against the fabric. "You remember Ms. Kinneston, I hope."
Nadir's eyes snapped to the young woman and his face registered momentary surprise. He composed himself quickly and bowed, straightening and adopting his usual refined air. The mussed state of his appearance did not deter from his elegant stance, and Isabel found herself wondering how on earth the man achieved such a level of grace.
"Ms. Kinneston. I trust I find you well."
"Indeed," Samantha replied, tugging at a thread on the couch.
Unless Isabel's eyes were deceiving her, the younger woman's face was slighter pinker than it had been a moment ago.
"Please," Isabel said, indicating the tea tray with a wave of her hand, "join us."
Nadir eyed the tray. "Where is Erik?"
"Preying on innocent maidens, apparently," Samantha said, gazing into her teacup thoughtfully.
Nadir started, staring at Samantha in alarm. "I beg your pardon?"
"He's in his study," Isabel said, ignoring Samantha. "He informed me this morning that he has terribly important business to attend to and that it would be in my best interest not to disturb him."
Nadir sighed. "Important business, indeed."
"What is it that he does, exactly?" Isabel asked casually, sipping her tea as Nadir seated himself at the table and poured himself a cup. "As a profession. I can't bring myself to ask him for fear of being scolded for my curiosity."
A corner of the Persian's mouth lifted in a smile as he finished pouring his tea. "What is it that he does... an unassuming question with a very large answer."
Samantha tilted her head and looked at Isabel quizzically. The two women waited patiently as Nadir tasted his tea and nodded, apparently satisfied with the flavor.
"As you have most likely gathered, he has experience in architecture."
"I suspected as much," Isabel said. "The stable," she added at Samantha's questioning look. She turned back to Nadir. "What sort of things did he build?"
Nadir paused, a slightly pained look taking his face. "Homes," he said finally. "Er... large homes."
"Back in France?" Isabel knew she was prying, but the opportunity to inquire about Mr. Bertrand while he wasn't around may not come again for a while, and she was willing to overlook Nadir's uncomfortable expression if it meant she could learn more about her employer's life before now.
"Well, he did some building in France, yes..." Nadir shifted in his seat, tapping his teacup with his finger. "But that was mostly... has he never spoken of this to you?"
"Sir, Mr. Bertrand has never spoken of anything to me."
Samantha let out a small sigh and placed her teacup back on the tray.
"I apologize, Ms. Kinneston," Nadir said, looking at the young woman squarely. "This must all be rather boring for you."
"Oh, no," Samantha said, waving her hand dismissively. "I've developed my own curiosities about the man, despite only having met him once. He seemed..." she considered her words. "Mysterious," she finished.
"Yes, I fear that observation never changes, no matter how long you have known him." Nadir sighed again. "Ah, well."
"What did he build in France?" Isabel asked.
Nadir shifted again, clearly not pleased with this vein of conversation. "It was mostly… artistic. He helped build a… playhouse of sorts."
"I see." Isabel slumped back on the sofa, bringing her cup to her lips. "So just architecture then? He must have made quite a name for himself to be as wealthy as he is."
"It is a profession that pays well," Nadir said politely, selecting a scone off the tray.
"Do you know what he is doing in his study right now? Planning another structure?"
"Really, Isabel, I have never heard you use such brusque tones, nor would I expect you to ask such invasive questions."
Isabel's face flushed instantly at the chide and she looked down at her hands, nervously kneading her skirts between her fingers. "Forgive me. My pent-up curiosity is simply bursting, I'm afraid."
"Though, if you must know," the Persian continued, biting the scone in half and continuing as if he hadn't heard Isabel's apology, "I believe he is composing at the moment."
Samantha stared blankly. "Composing? Composing what?"
Nadir shrugged. "A symphony, a concerto, an aria… perhaps an entire opera. It is hard to say what he will produce at any given moment." He grinned wryly. "As I am sure you have noticed, his moods tend to change somewhat rapidly."
"Yes, I've been picking up on that," Isabel grunted.
A squeak sounded from the door and it opened slowly, a little, brown-haired head poking into the room.
"That was a short nap," Isabel said, raising an eyebrow.
"I woke up," Thomas said, wiping his eyes.
"We can see that," Samantha quipped.
"Darling," Isabel said, rising from the sofa and nearing Thomas, "you're all flushed. Are you feeling alright?"
Thomas shook his head and slumped over to the sofa, plopping next to Samantha, who wrinkled her nose slightly and moved aside.
Isabel clucked her tongue and walked over to the boy, placing a hand on his forehead. "Thomas, you're absolutely burning up." She dropped to her knees and wiped some locks off his forehead, the hair sticking to his skin from the thin sheen of sweat forming on his brow. "What happened?"
Thomas shrugged, snuggling further into the sofa and sighing. "I'm still tired but I'm too hot to sleep, Mama."
Nadir was kneeling beside the sofa in an instant, worried lines appearing on his face. "Do you feel ill?"
Thomas shrugged again. "Just sleepy." He looked at Nadir. "I'm sorry I couldn't finish our walk. I wanted to see the apple orchard down the road that we were going to visit."
Nadir smiled. "It will be many months before we see any apples on those trees, anyway. We are not missing anything, I think."
Thomas gave a weak smile.
Standing, Isabel gathered her son in her arms and picked him up, ignoring the shriek of protest she could feel in her muscles. She left the room silently, rushing to the third floor as quickly as she could with the weight of Thomas on her. She laid him on his bed gently and kissed his forehead, murmuring vague promises of how well he would be in a few hours. She hurried back down the stairs and into the kitchen, soaking several rags in water from the basin and wringing them out. As she made her way to the staircase again, she saw Samantha and Nadir staring at her from the parlor at the end of the hall and gave them an apologetic smile.
"Is he alright?" Samantha asked, her alarmed expression softening slightly.
"I'm sure he'll be fine… children catch anything that comes their way, you know. If you'll excuse me, I must tend to my son."
Isabel gathered her skirts and fled up the stairs, leaving the two guests staring after her bemusedly.
"A fever? And why was I not informed of this immediately?"
A crack of thunder almost drowned out the last part of Mr. Bertrand's question and Isabel strained to hear, but she got a clear idea of his anger by the ugly twist of his mouth and the lines forming around his eyes. She glanced around his bedroom quickly, uncomfortable by her surroundings. He had summoned her after dinner and bid her to come into his room where they may speak away from prying eyes – apparently he was beginning to grow weary of Nadir's constant observation.
"It's just a trifling cold, Mr. Bertrand. I didn't think you would be interested."
He snarled as he paced in front of the unlit fireplace. "I do not wish to be surrounded by sick children, Mrs. Bauer." He paused in front of a small trunk by the window, kneeling and flipping the top open. He began sifting through it and Isabel heard the tinkling of glass moving against glass. She glanced out the window and saw the thick sheets of rain pouring from the skies. She sighed. At least the horses are behaving themselves this time.
"You will mix these with water," he said, pulling vials out and examining labels carefully before setting them on the ground next to him, "and give a glass of the solution to your son every three hours. Just a pinch of each will do."
Deciding to ignore his commanding tone for now, she knelt down beside him and gathered the vials. "Thank you," she said quietly, keeping her gaze on the floor. An awkward silence followed and she felt a familiar heat creep up her face; though her eyes were steadily cast down, she could feel him looking at her openly. She stood as gracefully as she could manage and left the room, her head still bowed.
As she passed the study, a head popped out of the doorway. "How is he doing?"
Isabel jumped at the sound of Nadir's voice, clearing her throat and shifting the vials in her arms. "He was upset that he was not told of Thomas's condition straight away."
"I meant your son," the Persian said with a small smile.
"Oh." The flames of embarrassment licked up her face once more. "He fell asleep just before dinner. It's been quiet upstairs ever since, so he must still be resting."
Nadir glanced between Mr. Bertrand's shut door down the hall and the vials Isabel was holding. "What are those?"
"Medicines. Mr. Bertrand told me to give them to Thomas."
"Yes," Nadir said quietly, staring down the hall with a pensive expression, "Erik does hate to see children ailing." He gave Isabel a distracted smile and made to shut the door.
"Goodnight, sir," Isabel whispered, turning back to the hall.
"Goodnight, Isabel." He paused and she turned to look at him.
A deep sadness was etched on his face, a look of mourning shading the usual brightness of his countenance. "I would recommend following Erik's advice, Isabel. It occasionally proves invaluable."
Before Isabel could ask him what was wrong, he shut the door.
Blinking at the dark wood for a moment, she stepped back out into the hallway and hurried down it, climbing the stairs to the third floor. Entering Thomas's room quietly, she uncorked the vials and added pinches of the contents into a small glass beside the water pitcher on his dresser.
A roll of thunder sounded outside and she heard a gust of wind beat rain against the window. Pouring water into the glass, she looked over her shoulder. "Darling, you need to take this."
There was no response from the bed.
"Thomas?" She set the glass down and walked to the bed, placing a hand on the blankets gently, squinting to see better in the darkness. "Tom, darling, you need to swallow this down so you'll feel better."
Her coax was met with silence.
She sighed and grasped the blankets, preparing to pull them back. "Honestly, Thomas, you sleep like the de—" She stumbled back in surprise at the sight that greeted her: an empty bed, illuminated by a bolt of lightening streaking across the sky and bathing the room in a split-second of brightness.
"Thomas?" she said loudly, looking around the room for a candle. "Thomas, this is not amusing. Where are you?"
She fumbled around his bedside table as she searched for matches, a weary sort of panic rising in her chest. Finding a box, she struck one and lit the candle, quickly glancing around the room. "Thomas David, where are you?" she called. She swept through the third floor, the panic rising higher. She rushed down the stairs and almost crashed into Nadir. He stood at the bottom of the stairway, looking alarmed. "Whatever happened?"
"Thomas is not upstairs," she said, her voice cracking.
Worry lines instantly appeared on Nadir's forehead. "Oh. Well, perhaps he is simply downstairs. Getting something to eat, possibly." He took her elbow and steered her towards the staircase, going down with her quickly.
"Tom?" Isabel hissed, peering around the kitchen. "Tom!"
"I will go check the library," Nadir said, speeding down the hall. Isabel wrapped her free arm around her stomach and closed her eyes, willing herself to remain calm. It was another bad habit: flying into a state of irrepressible panic at the drop of a hat.
She heard Nadir's footsteps going up the stairs once more and hurrying above her head, pausing as he checked each room. Her stomach began to churn. She looked out the window at the stable and felt a small wave of relief. Perhaps… perhaps... she set the candle on the kitchen table and ducked outside, running through the rain until she reached the building. Wrenching the door open, she felt her entire body deflate as she saw nothing but two confused horses standing in the stable, cocking their heads curiously at her sudden presence. She stepped out and shut the door, hurrying through the storm. She closed to door behind her and slid down it, clutching at her stomach.
Nadir walked into the kitchen, sliding a coat over his shoulders and buttoning it up. "He is not in the house. I am going to go look for him."
Isabel chewed on her lip. "I'm coming with you." She stood up, brushing off her damp skirts and heading towards the hall.
Nadir held an arm out. "No, Isabel. There is no sense in both of us getting drenched." He smiled anxiously. "Besides, what if Erik is in sudden and desperate need of you? I cannot risk that."
"Hang Erik!" she shouted, grabbing a hold of Nadir's shoulders and shaking. "He's my son! He's my son!"
"And I promise," the Persian replied, gently prying her fingers from his coat, "that I will find him. I think I may know where he is." He turned and left the room. She watched him jerk the front door open and glance at her over his shoulder. "Do not worry, Isabel," he called over the raging wind outside. He shut the door behind him.
A loud thumping upstairs startled Isabel into the present.
"What the bloody hell is going on down there? The racket is enough to drive a man mad!"
Isabel gazed up the stairs at the angry form of Mr. Bertrand. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she leaned against the wall and slid down it, shutting her eyes tightly.
She was furious to feel the tears begin falling down her face.
"What is it?" Mr. Bertrand hissed from the top stair.
"Thomas is…" she swallowed thickly, the warm water still flowing from beneath her closed eyelids. "He's gone."
"What?"
"He's not… in the house and Nadir just left… to look for him outside…" her body began to wrack with sobs. "And this storm! He c-could be lost and f-frightened! And he w-was already s-sick!"
"Merde," the man muttered, descending the stairs. "That child of yours was born with no common sense."
Isabel's fresh cries mingled with the deafening clap of thunder overhead.
"Oh, do calm yourself," Mr. Bertrand snapped. She looked up at him through the streams of tears and saw the black mask blending eerily into the darkness around him – he appeared to only possess half a face.
He strode towards her and she shrunk back, pressing against the wall, feeling afraid and foolish and angry all at once. He stopped when he saw her reaction. Drawing back slowly, he straightened himself and narrowed his eyes. "I suppose you wish for me to accompany Nadir in this search."
Not trusting her voice, Isabel shook her head vigorously.
"Nadir Khan is a skilled tracker," he said, and Isabel looked up in surprise at the gentle tone he used. "Finding a small boy should be no challenge."
She nodded, wiping at her eyes.
He glanced towards the kitchen. "Did you check the stable?"
"Yes," she said hoarsely.
"Do you…" he grimaced. "Do you… need anything?"
She stared at him in sheer wonder. His posture was relaxed, his gaze questioning and mild. She had never seen him look so… kind.
"No," she choked out. "Just Thomas."
He nodded stiffly. "Of course. But perhaps some chamomile tea would help soothe your nerves."
"Chamomile?"
"Indeed. She would swear by ginger, but I always found chamomile to be more relaxing."
Isabel furrowed her forehead and sniffed. "Who swore by ginger?"
Mr. Bertrand's presence immediately chilled and his eyes narrowed to slits. "'She', Mrs. Bauer, none of your—"
The front door burst open and Nadir entered, carrying a dripping wet bundle in his arms.
Isabel rose from the floor and rushed to him. "Thomas!"
"As I suspected," Nadir grunted, kicking his boots off. "In the orchard we were going to visit today."
"Is he alright? Thomas, say something!"
"I'm afraid he is not speaking very well, Isabel; I don't know how long he was outside, but he is positively soaked to the skin and freezing."
"As are you, Nadir," Mr. Bertrand said, reaching out and taking the child from the Persian's arms. He turned silently and strode up the stairs. Isabel followed closely behind him, nearly tripping up the stairs.
Mr. Bertrand climbed the stairs to the third floor quickly and entered Thomas's room, laying the boy on his bed and taking the cold, wet coat from his small body. Thomas didn't stir; his face was pale and his breathing was shallow and erratic. Isabel fell to her knees beside the bed and clutched his hand; it was freezing to the touch.
Mr. Bertrand placed a large hand on Thomas's forehead and released a sigh. "It is not good, Isabel," he said, standing. "It is not at all good. I will fetch more remedies, but…" he cursed and shook his head, leaving the room silently.
Isabel held Thomas's hand and felt fresh tears prick behind her eyes.
Oh God, please show us mercy.
Whew,
extra-long chapters. Sorry about the delay — had a nasty bit of
writer's block, but I kicked its sorry ass to the curb. Apparently.
As always, cream-soaked, catnip-filled thanks to Chat(astic), barkeep of Erik's Fuzzy Navel and one fabulous beta.
