Authors: Sophie Dash
“Well, it is good to see you again,” said Ruth, breathlessly, half meaning it, half not.
The music began again. Captain Gibson, unaware of any tension, asked Lottie to dance and she gleefully accepted. Anything to get away from her husband. Albert was not one for such activities and the moment his wife was occupied, he left, without even a word to the woman he could have been wed to.
Ruth was not sorry to see him go. She watched his round form leave and saw nothing there to pull her in, entice her, tempt her. In a time before, she had tried to trick herself, told her he would be better, kinder, braver and all a man should be once they were married.
Lies
. She had known from the start she would never be happy with him. And the man she’d seen with Lottie was as cruel and unkind and self-absorbed as he had always been.
What have you done, Lottie?
The dances continued, twirling couples, humble country tunes, and Ruth declined any man who wished to be her partner. She had never been so popular, never had such offers in the past, and yet the only man she longed for was gone from her sight. She could not see Isaac anywhere, nor that Griswell fellow – that despicable creature – and so her heart thudded a heavy, cynical beat in her chest and the music carried on without her.
How long had it been since she had seen him? Half an hour? More?
Lottie was breathless, happy, for once. Captain Gibson was delighted too, having long forgotten why he was in the county altogether. He wasn’t the first to be lured in by the woman – and the pair seemed well-matched. Both fickle, ambitious creatures. They danced again and again, until people began to talk and whispers were overtly spoken. In fact, one angular woman tried to prise a little gossip from Ruth at one point, but she gave nothing away, never would, not about a friend – even an old, absent and cruel one.
And she wanted Lottie to forget the troubles she had heaped on herself, if only for tonight.
But where was her own Isaac?
Ruth swept her skirts up in her hands and moved quietly through the dance floor, with gracious smiles to those few friends she had made. Marshall the clergyman nodded in greeting, Colin even forced a smile as she passed and Lady Mawes beamed with pride. Surprisingly, Ruth felt she belonged here. She had never belonged anywhere before.
An oily black figure caught her eye. Lottie’s father, Mr Griswell, slunk upstairs towards the administrative spaces that were empty and quiet. Ruth would have moved past him, forgotten him, been repulsed by him, had she not been so wary. That man had ruined her life (or tried to) and why was he here – to ruin someone else’s? She could not let another fall. If she could help, she would. It was what any decent person would do and she had always craved to be that, only that.
Quiet, cautious, Ruth’s gloved hands smoothed up the bannister as she found the landing. It was deserted, but for Griswell – until she heard another voice. She knew that voice.
Isaac.
No, it couldn’t be. He was not this man any more; he was
better
than this. There had to be a logical, reasonable explanation.
“You are owed nothing by me,” she heard Griswell way.
“Your daughter is married to Pembroke, as you always intended her to be.” She should not have been listening. Eavesdroppers never hear what is good for them, but Ruth could not pull herself away. She stood in the doorway, trapped in its shadow, legs locked, not daring to breathe.
“What of it?”
“I contained any threat to that union, at a great cost to myself,” said Isaac. “Thanks to you I have a wife I never wanted – a life I never sought.”
Ruth’s knees almost buckled. It was as though she were falling, though she stood still, as immobile as glass and just as brittle. There was a stone in her throat, lodged there, closing off her breathing until her head was swimming.
A great cost to myself – a wife I never wanted – a life I never sought.
Ruth’s own mother’s words came back to torture her, tangled through time, as distorted as the view before her blurry eyes: “
Never be a burden, my darling
.” Was she that to him? Had Isaac forgotten all he’d done to her, had he forgotten that she’d never had a choice in this? Had he forgotten all they’d done together and what it had meant to her?
“Yours was always a risky business,” surmised Griswell.
“And you hired me,” said Isaac, though Ruth was certain she did not want to hear any more. “But you only gave me half the funds agreed to ensure the deed was done…”
No – no more –
no more.
Isaac had been all she’d never had, all she had been left with, all she had clung to in the storm. That first night they had spent with one another found her, tormented her, reminded her she was a fool – and a tool – to be used by others. And she had let herself be used.
My love,
he had said, kissing her, holding her, and she’d assumed he’d never said it to another.
How stupid she was, to ever think he was Home.
Ruth gripped the bannister, her feet tripping down the stairs. She didn’t want to be seen and she did not want whatever cold comfort those below could offer. With a hand over her eyes, she dashed through the hallway, searching for privacy, needing to be alone. The servants had been darting in and out of a narrow door all evening and she felt a cool breeze come from it and chased it down. A small courtyard welcomed her and Ruth collapsed on the nearest stable crate.
There was no one to hear her cry and cry she did. It was a minor breakdown, a quiet sob, and it did not last. She would never let it. Self-pity was for other people and she was better than that, more controlled than that. Anger was better, and anger came.
Kitchen sounds and smells met her from a nearby doorway and there was comfort in that normalcy. Life continued, in one way or another and so would she. But he would never take her in again. It was what he did, wasn’t it? Trick people, use them, and then throw them away. He had not changed and he never would. To think she’d
pitied
him, almost forgiven him…
Above, the sky had lost its daytime warmth and it was colder now – a cold that seeped into her bones and sobered her emotions. She’d leave; she’d have to. Weren’t the French always looking for English governesses, for tutors? Lottie had mentioned it a long time ago, about a former student they’d known who’d fled across the Channel. Ruth would sell her new clothes. She’d pull enough funds together to buy passage. She would seek out a new life where no one knew her.
And it would be far,
far
away from Isaac Roscoe.
“Miss?”
“I am fine,” she choked out, seeing a clean white apron before her.
“That’s good to hear, miss,” said the servant, who looked over her shoulder to a few other faces from the kitchens. She shot them a severe look and gripped her hands: it was clear she had drawn the short straw of the lot in being forced to approach her. As much as Ruth appreciated the gesture, she wanted none of it.
“Please, leave me.”
“Well, I would,” continued the young girl, “But you’re sitting on a box.”
“And?”
“We need what’s in the box for tonight, the supper, you know?”
“Oh,
yes,
” said Ruth quickly, cheeks colouring with embarrassment. She rose quickly, brushing off her dress, swiping at her eyes though she was nowhere near done with her heartache. “I apologise. Please, do what you must.”
“You can sit in the kitchen if you want? It’d be more comfortable than squatting on a box.”
“No, I should go back.”
I should leave now, leave for good.
“Thank you.”
“It’s not a proper ball if there’s no tears before the end,” said the girl, lifting the crate with a wiry strength and balancing it on her hip. “You sure you’ll be all right?”
Ruth nodded with more conviction than she felt. “I shall have to be.”
***
No sooner had Ruth returned to the ball did a scream split the vast room. The noise chilled all the assembled guests, like a storm sweeping in, pressing icy hands under collars. Numerous men and women within the ballroom took the sound to be a hysterical figure, driven to fits by too much wine and excitement. The shrill cry came again, accompanied by further startled noises that caught on and spread. The guests were crowding back from the main hallway and there, on the stairs, was a figure splayed out on the red carpet and another over him – no, it wasn’t a carpet – and it should not have been red.
Ruth gingerly edged through the mass. A curious Lottie had found her way beside Ruth, fingers resting on her elbow as if it were old times at Miss Lamont’s Academy and they were pushing through their peers to find the latest talk, gossip and scandal.
The scene before Ruth was hard to decipher, as though her mind was unable to make sense of what her eyes were seeing, almost protecting her from what reality offered. Lottie released a gasped cry, a raw, ragged noise. It pulled Ruth’s senses together, a sharp, brutal snap. Albert was lying across the stairs, motionless, head draining over the marble.
There was too much blood.
Ruth knew head wounds always bled a lot.
Everyone knew that.
But this was far too much blood.
Albert was not moving and he looked as though he would never move again.
A man stood over him, sleeves stained crimson. He looked lost and angry – and it was only when he looked up, through dark strands of hair, straight into Ruth’s eyes, that she saw him, knew him, and wished she did not.
Isaac.
He was crouching over her almost-had-been husband.
With blood on his hands.
Ruth did not hear the first person hiss,
“Murderer,”
and yet, before long, the whole crowd was teeming with the accusation.
No.
They had to be wrong; Isaac was not capable of it. They didn’t know him like she did. And then it struck her, an unwelcome seed of a thought: did she really know him? She knew he was strong, capable, at times impulsive and…a liar. He’d lied to her, hadn’t he?
God, no, it couldn’t be true.
Ruth did not know what to do or how to act, but Lottie was at her side, unable to walk alone, to see through her tears, shaking uncontrollably. It gave her purpose. The croaks that left Lottie’s mouth were startled, warped sounds, like a frightened animal. Lottie had never been a strong woman and now she crumpled entirely, turning to the only one who’d ever been there to comfort her. Ruth did so now, though her own nerves were shot, her skin had grown pale and her eyes felt as though they had widened too far to ever fit back into her skull.
Captain Gibson acted fast, as he was trained to do.
“Detain him,” he instructed, as two uniformed men broke away from the assembled guests towards Ruth’s husband. She wanted to stop them, shout, protest and yet nothing came – no action, no thought, nothing.
“I did not do this,” said Isaac automatically, more to Ruth than to them.
He flexed his hands as though he did not recognise them – and Ruth did not recognise him in that moment, nor the man she had thought he was. So often she had wiped away the blood from his brow – how many times had it been someone else’s?
“Ruth, please,” he said, shoving aside one man who went to grasp him. “Trust me on this. It is not how it looks; I had no need to hurt him.”
His hand grasped Ruth’s free one, staining it a rosy, smeared colour. Lottie was hysterical, shaking, held in Ruth’s other arm, face against her shoulder. The men and women around them gasped in fright, as though Isaac’s wild movements would reach them, as though they too were in danger. It was catching, that horror. Ruth could feel it humming under her skin, sense all the glares upon her, hear the rising tide of whispers.
“I know you believe me,” Isaac said earnestly, pushing the words onto to her, as if willing them to be true. “I know you do.”
Ruth wanted to reply, wanted to assure him, wanted to do one thousand and one things and yet could only stand there, gaping at him, while Albert’s blood could be heard – softly dripping – a quiet noise down the stairs, one drop, two, into a larger puddle.
“Ruth?” he said lastly, as Gibson’s men dragged him back and held him fast.
And still, she could not speak.
Those endless brown eyes searched hers and at last, when the silence reigned for too long and all attention was fixed on those two, Ruth shook her head. For what could she say when all words had gone? She could not think, could not speak.
“What have you done?”
The whisper escaped her, unbidden.
Though she had not meant to refuse him, to turn him away, to condemn him as a killer, he saw it as such. Ruth could see it on his face, on those lips she’d once kissed, that she would never kiss again.
Isaac stared at her, long and hard, before he ceased his struggle. Even though he had betrayed her, had strung her along, had made her think she was special, she felt as though she had been the one to let him down tonight.
Because he plays people. He toys with their emotions. It’s what he does; it’s who he is.
They took Isaac away, head down, into the cold night.
And I let them,
thought Ruth.
Lady Mawes looked her age when at last she came to stand beside Ruth, fingers bunched tight, knuckles bone-white. “What are they doing to my nephew? Where are they taking him? What is the meaning of this?”
“They believe he has killed someone,” said Ruth, breathless though she had not moved, tired though moments before she had been infused with energy, alone though she was surrounded by people.
Lady Mawes gawped at Ruth, at the blood on her hands and the expression she held. “And do you?”
Ruth shook her head and knew what she should have replied, but that was not what escaped her lips. “I honestly do not know.”
***
Lottie was inconsolable and Ruth tried her hardest to calm her, to even up her breathing. Because the woman was so hysterical, it enabled Ruth to find clarity, as though someone else was feeling all the devastation she felt and sparing her the trouble of it.
“You will make yourself sick,” said Ruth, a little harsher than she intended to be as she led the girl – and herself – away from it all, somewhere private, far from the stares and pitying remarks.