Page 4 of Engaging Sir Isaac

“Silas is an important member of Parliament,” Esther reminded, lifting her chin in pride. “People wish to speak to him, to know what his thoughts are on the war, trade, and everything else that goes on in the kingdom. He wants to hear their concerns, too.”

“You needn’t lecture me on your husband’s political ambitions.” Replacing the cap, Isaac tilted it low over his eyes. He affected the accent of their local fishermen. “Aye, everyone about here knows Lord Inglewood cares for we, the common people.”

His sister laughed, as he had intended. “Isaac. Are you coming to dinner this evening?”

A heaviness settled upon his chest, familiar to him now. Every time his sister asked him to be in company, every time he forced himself to have neighbors enter his home, the weight returned. At times it remained light, a gentle pressure reminding him of his brokenness. But there had been instances when the invisible weight crushed his lungs, leaving him gasping for breath.

“Need me to round out the numbers, do you?” If he deflected her long enough, avoided answering, he need not attend at all. Silas did not need him. Isaac held no political clout, no place of importance in their society; his family only invited him because they thought he needed to move about more in society.

They pitied him.

“I should like to have my brother, who also happens to be my husband’s most trusted friend, join us for dinner,” Esther stated firmly, her dark brown eyes challenging him. She appeared rather like their mother when she fixed him with that look, all firm and affectionate disapproval. At least her pity was born of love.

“Fine.” The weight pressed against him more insistently. He needed to get out of doors. “I will come. But I might wear these clothes.” He pushed himself up from the couch, then pushed the front toggle of the coat through its proper hole with ease. Dressing himself with one arm had been the first thing he had taught himself to do. “I find them most comfortable.”

Esther came to her feet, a sparkle back in her eyes. “If you dare, I will let our little Baron Marham here mete out punishment.” She cradled her son close and kissed the top of his head where blond wisps of hair covered his soft skin.

It was a shame Isaac did not have her talent with a brush. He would rather have a portrait of his sister and nephew than one of himself in his dull clothing.

“I will take my leave of you both before I trouble you any further, Countess. Baron.” He bowed, throwing his hand up in a flourish that made his sister laugh. She walked him as far as the landing, then she waved Little Isaac’s hand in a semblance of farewell. He tipped his cap jauntily at them and stepped out of the house, the butler closing the door behind him.

The moment his boots hit the gravel path, his smile faded away. After a few deep breaths, the pressure upon his chest eased. He took up his walk again, compensating for his lack of one arm in the way he held the other. It had never occurred to him, before the amputation, how much he depended upon both arms to keep balanced.

Stubbornness had kept him working at so simple a task as walking after his surgery. Dressing himself. Mounting a horse on his own. He still needed to come up with a way to play billiards, but most card games he had successfully mastered.

Dancing had proved awkward the first time he had attempted it. Not only had he been perilously close to losing his balance, but there were many forms requiring both arms to move through them seamlessly. If only Lord Nelson had thought to write more about living with one arm gone. But in the years since his death, before Isaac had joined the army, the man had turned into an almost mythological being of strength. If he had ever struggled a day in his life without his limb, no stories about such a thing existed.

Making his way northwest, Isaac remained in sight of the beach though his path cut somewhat further inland. His home was only two miles from Silas’s door. A short walk, and an even faster run when they had visited each other as boys.

Isaac cut through a farmer’s fields, then a bit of wooded area, before finally entering the rear of his property. He skirted ditches, caught his balance once on a tree, then went on. He came to the place where the well-maintained grove of cedar trees separated the wilder woods from his gardens, their familiar aroma strong in the warm summer air.

A horse nickered nearby, causing Isaac to stop short. He listened for the sound again, his eyes sweeping through the trees and land beyond for a sight of the beast. Some habits persisted, even after military life. Staying alert had kept him alive, and his lack of awareness had cost him almost everything.

Movement from behind a larger tree caught his eye, and he saw the horse’s head bend downward as though to taste the grass. The animal was dozens of yards away.

With care, Isaac stepped back, keeping trees between himself and the animal as he tried to find an angle that would reveal the rider. Slowly he went closer, but the trees were planted in a staggering formation that kept whoever was atop the horse out of view. Isaac had to come nearly behind the animal before he at last saw the back of the rider.

The shapely curve of a woman’s shoulders, and the deep green gown falling down the horse’s side, made him halt his stalking movements.

He did not recognize the rider immediately, but then how many people did he know well enough to recognize from naught but a view of their back? About all he could tell from his vantage point was that she had an excellent seat—her posture was near perfect.

Tipping his cap back, Isaac decided that his sneaking up on a lone woman would not be a story he wished his neighbors to recount. He set up a whistle, a light-hearted tune, and saw woman and beast both twitch at the sound.

The woman turned, one hand at the back of the saddle to support herself. Beneath the shade of the trees as she was, it was difficult for him to ascertain much until he approached. But of one thing he was soon certain. He had never seen her before.

She wore a beaver-style riding hat, and her long riding habit bore military epaulets and bright colored buttons. From beneath the hat, he glimpsed hair the color of a fox’s coat.

“You there,” the woman called, her voice echoing somewhat against the trees. “Is this the land of Sir Isaac Fox?”

Having never had a lady address him in such a superior tone, Isaac stopped in surprise. Why did a stranger think she could wander onto his grounds and then start demanding answers?

Then he recalled his clothing. He had dressed as a laborer for Esther’s painting. The woman, a stranger to him, did not know she spoke to the baronet. She mistook him for a servant or grounds man.

“This is Sir Isaac’s land,” he admitted, coming closer. She had a slightly upturned nose, fair skin, and darker eyes than he had expected, given the hue of her curls. He bowed differentially when only a few feet remained between him and her horse. “Who might you be, miss?”

Her chin came up at the impertinence of his question, and he nearly grinned. “That is none of your concern. I am a guest of the marquess and his family.”

That explained the haughtiness in her expression. Lady Olivia Duncan, the marquess’s daughter, was an unpleasant person. It made sense that her companions would be cut from a similarly arrogant cloth.