mething she had sought out, all while telling even herself that she was looking for Abraham.
Abraham. Cecelia felt her face fall and she looked around to make sure he had not found his way out of the sanctuary yet. No one must see. No one must know. There was hardly anything improper in the way they stood, several feet apart, but surely anyone could see that the air between them had heated, and their eyes were wide with emotion.
Perhaps, Cecelia reflected, she was going mad. That would explain a great deal. It would certainly explain why, as Isaiah turned to leave, she called out to keep him there when she should have gone to find her family.
“Are you employed by the Thompsons now?” As she said it, she felt her face flush, to bring up such employment. One did not remark on another’s misfortune, such as servitude.
But he smiled easily, not ashamed in the slightest.
“Yes. It was a fine advancement. I am to be their groom.”
“Mr. Butler must have been sad to see you go,” Cecelia said lightly.
“Aye, he wasn’t best pleased,” Isaiah admitted. “But he said he’d not stand in the way of me making a good living for myself and my...”
His voice trailed off, and Cecelia felt her smile falter as she realized what he meant. Jeanine, his betrothed. Also a servant in the Thompson household. Yes, Isaiah must have been very pleased to gain employment there. And—her blood heated, this time with anger—how dare he be so pleased to see her, smiling at her as if they were courting, when he was betrothed?
“Of course,” she said, almost icily. “Good day, Mr. Rourke.”
“Wait.”
“Yes?” She hated how quickly she turned, and how hopefully.
He was twisting his cap in his hands, worriedly. “I hope...I hope you won’t take this poorly,” he said softly, “but I was hoping to see you today.”
“Oh?” She wanted to warm to the words, but something in his manner said that this was no mere flirting.
“Yes. To...to warn you.”
“What?” That, she had not expected.
He took a deep breath and looked around them before leaning close. “It’s about Mr. Thompson,” he said in a rush. “Cecelia—Miss Dalton, I beg your pardon—please be cautious with him.”
“Why?” But of course, she could think of half a dozen reasons, herself: his kisses, the scent of ale on his breath. Still, he was no more than a young man, was he not? He was only showing his desire, a thing that would be godly between a husband and a wife.
“He does not respect you,” Isaiah told her now. “He is very free with his affections, with...well, I would not carry gossip, only warnings.”
“What?” In all her dreams, Clara had not imagined that. She had thought of danger from her admirer, not that...
But he desired her, her mind whispered. Surely he would not betray her so.
A score of memories crowded in her head, women laughing to one another about those whose husbands strayed, mocking their desirability and their figures, sharing the scandal of the straying man. It was a story that played out time and again, with the woman holding her head high and only the tightness of her jaw and the tremble in her chin betraying her hurt to the world. Cecelia had seen those women, pitied those women, laughed at the gossip about one. She had never meant to be one of them, and too late, she realized the cruelty of it.
“You’re wrong,” she whispered.
“I wish I was,” he said passionately now. His eyes were pitying, and she looked away while he held out his hands, pleading. “I would never want you to suffer this from a husband, Miss Dalton. Especially not....well, especially not now.”
“What do you mean, not now?” Cecelia demanded.
Don’t say it. But he did.
“I mean, when there is so much other sadness in your life—”
“What sadness? My brother’s capture?”
“I thought—”
“That he was dead?” Cecelia challenged him. Her panic was rising. Was this how Clara felt, listening to them all? “Well, he’s not dead, he can’t be. Bodies don’t just disappear, Mr. Rourke. If they haven’t found him dead, he’s still alive. And we’ll receive a ransom request soon enough, and...” She was shaking so hard that she could barely speak.