Page 30 of The Tailor's Treasure

At the touch of her hand, Walter stirred with a hiccup, blinking wet eyes up at her."Mama."He stretched his arms up towards her with a whimper."Hurts, Mama."

"Shhhh," she murmured, gathering him up in her arms as guilt wrapped around her insides, squeezing like a fist.Walter had spent the morning ailing, in a strange bed, wondering why his mother didn't come.And where had she been?In another house, in another bedroom, behaving like the sort of lust-addled doxy who had neither sense, nor feeling, nor any care for her responsibilities.Geoffrey would have said as much if he were alive, she knew, and Hilda would say the same if she were here.And they would both be right.But Geoffrey was dead and Hilda was in Oxford, and Walter did not seem to be of a mind to scold her: he only buried his face in her neck with a wet snuffle.

"You've both welcome to stay as long as you please," Elizabeth said from the doorway."May as well have two sick children on hand as one – certainly they'll be easier to manage with both of us here.And you'll not have to take Walter home in the cold, that way."

On any other day, Isabel may have yielded to temptation and agreed.She knew from experience that nursing Walter through this would be miserable, no matter how mild his illness turned out to be, and she would give a great deal not to have to do it alone.But just then, she couldn't bear the thought of company; every moment felt like a risk that Elizabeth would somehow divine the truth of how she'd passed the day from her face, and the struggle to pretend that all was well was too much for her to manage.She knew she would regret her decision within days, if not hours – but just then, all she wanted was to be alone with her thoughts.

"He'll rest easier in his own bed," she said, bundling him under her cloak as she spoke."And it's not such a walk as I can't manage it.But thank you."She added this last when her conscience, and Elizabeth's worried face, pricked at her: she was only trying to help.It wasn't her fault that Isabel had made an utter mess of things.

"If you're certain," Elizabeth said, standing aside to let Isabel pass.The worry in her eyes had not eased."You will come by to tell us how he's faring, won't you?I'm certain they'll both be recovered soon, but – still."

"Of course," Isabel said.She could hear her own familiar anxiety reflected in Elizabeth's tone, the fear that gripped her whenever her baby was sick or hurt or scared.Probably hewouldbe well in a few days; but the possibility that hewouldn'tloomed over her like a shadow.And if he didn't, and he'd fallen ill while she was off with Constance ...

"I'd best go," she said, moving towards the door.Elizabeth made a small sound of assent, but she wasn't truly paying attention to Isabel any longer: she'd already bent down over the bed, murmuring something to her daughter.Isabel was glad of it.She didn't want any further attention.She let herself out, making sure to close the door softly behind her.

The walk home was short, as she'd predicted – not least which because she fairly ran most of the way there.The shop was, thankfully, deserted when she came in, and no one emerged to accost her as she made her way upstairs.The nursery, with its shutters closed, was dark; she deposited Walter on her bed, then ducked around the privacy screen to lean against the wall, trying to calm her racing heart.

The visions of Constance that she had pushed to the back of her mind while speaking with Elizabeth returned at once in a flood.Constance's hands on her back, Constance's fingers at the nape of her neck, the heat of her palms burning through her kirtle, the weight of her leaning forward against Isabel as she stretched herself upwards to kiss her.The heat of her mouth, her tongue slipping between Isabel's lips, the soft noises she'd made as Isabel had clutched at her.The ends of her hair tickling against Isabel's cheek, the way she had smelled faintly of rosemary

Isabel groaned, pressing her hands to her temples.Her whole body was strung tight with tension and flush with heat, the kind she had never experienced before – hadn't even known she was capable of.She felt almost feverish.Her skin itched in every place where Constance had touched her, and in several places she hadn't.And the apex of her legs, that spot that she had never let anyone touch willingly, throbbed and pulsed until she could feel the rhythm of it in her teeth, behind her eyes, down to the soles of her feet.It was as if the whole room was shaking around her, rattling her down to her bones.She could barely stand straight; she couldn't even think.

She took one hand away from her head and slipped it down between her legs, pressing the heel of her palm down hard against the place that was desperate for sensation.Just that was enough to make her thump her head back against the wall with another groan, this one satisfied rather than desperate.She squeezed her eyes closed, visions of Constance playing against the backs of her eyelids – the freckles that dotted her collarbone, the swell of her breasts pressed tight against her kirtle, the flash of her calves as she picked her skirts up to step over something.If they hadn't been interrupted, she could have run a hand up those calves, traced the bend of her knee, felt warm skin and light hairs tickling her palm.She could have kissed her way across Constance's shoulders, her neck, her breasts.She could have – she had been brave enough, in the moment – but now it was passed, and she never would again –

Her hips were jolting, pressing up against her hand without her meaning to.She let it happen.She couldn't have stopped it even if she'd tried.It wasn't what she wanted, what she was still dreaming of, but even a pale shadow of the real thing was too strong a temptation to resist.She bit down hard on her free hand to silence her whimpers, hips moving faster and faster, the fabric of her skirts growing damp under her hand.She could hear herself panting like an animal and hated herself for it, but she couldn't stop.Release was so close, and she needed it, she needed to purge herself of this, needed to be able to think clearly again without her mind returning over and over to Constance and her hands and her mouth and her breasts and –

Release, when it came, was brief: less a climax and more a brief spasm, followed by an ebbing of sensation until her surroundings came back to her.She was aware, finally, of the hard wood of the wall digging into her shoulder blades and the chill of the room, and the faint sounds of Walter sniffling on the other side of the screen.She felt limp and useless, fit only to slither to the ground and lay there in a heap.She didn't permit herself that, of course; having lapsed once, she had no excuse for doing it again.She rubbed her hands against her face instead, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes until she saw stars.The pain had a sobering effect.

She'd wanted a clear head; well, now she had one.She had risked so much, and for what?For a dream of something that wouldn't –couldn't– live up to her imaginings.Didn't she know better than to go chasing dreams?She'd done it once before, convinced she could change her circumstances, and just look where that had gotten her – a decade of unhappiness, with only more of the same to look forward to.Besides, it wasn't her life to ruin any longer.It had been one thing to make a catastrophic mistake as a girl, with her only responsibility – seeing Matthew safely settled – discharged, and no one's fate but her own to worry about.Now she had Walter, and any foot she set wrong would rebound on him.She couldn't afford to fling herself into a romance that could see her turned out of house and home, separated from her son.And Constance would be better off without her as well- without a woman who'd been a disappointment to her husband, and no doubt would go on disappointing anyone who thought to take her to bed.That morning's events had been a temporary lapse in judgement – a bad one, to be sure, but one she could fix.She had to.She didn't have any other choice.

"Mama, Mama," Walter called from the other side of the screen, his voice wobbling.Isabel scrubbed her hands over her face, taking a deep breath, and set her shoulders.The task at hand was to look after her son – nothing else mattered until he was well.Once that was done, then she could set about repairing the damage her recklessness had done.She could only hope Constance would forgive her for it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The one thing Isabelhad to be grateful for, in the week following her encounter with Constance, was that she was too busy being sick with worry over Walter to brood over what had happened.He cried almost constantly when he was awake; the only thing that seemed to settle him was being walked in slow circles around the room, and even then, he would cling tightly to her neck and whimper all the while.He couldn't breathe properly unless he was upright, wheezing and choking whenever she tried to lay him down in the cradle or on the bed.She occasionally gave her aching arms a rest by propping him up against the wall, but she lived in terror of him falling asleep and toppling over while she wasn't looking.When he did sleep, he did so in her arms, his head resting on her shoulder; she had to sit up all the while.She snatched a few hours' sleep at a time when he did, but it happened rarely enough that by the time five days had passed, she didn't think she'd slept more than two hours at a time since she'd brought him home.

She woke slowly on the fifth day, her whole body protesting as she tried to peel her eyes open.Something had changed, but she was too addled by exhaustion to tell what it was at first.Walter was still in her arms, face tucked into the crook of her neck, snoring faintly.There was no other sound in the room but the faint street noises filtering in through the closed shutters.She had no idea what time of day it was.She only knew she felt cold.