Part 48 (1/2)
”No . . . I'm sorry . . . I'm happy, actually.” She glanced up at him quickly, then smiled swiftly, but the smile was wobbly. ”That was my happy face, honestly. It's just. That I . . . I didn't really know my parents, so . . .”
This sentence trailed into nothingness as she pretended to be distracted by rummage through her handbag.
”Ah,” he said instantly, neutrally, a universe of understanding in that syllable.
Isabel looked up at him again. He had doctor's eyes. A way of looking into you that implied you may as well tell him your secrets, because he knew them anyway.
She was certain plenty of women and patients had volunteered their secrets to him.
He wasn't going to find her quite as forthcoming.
She looked forward to his efforts, however.
The silence stretched a bit. She'd created an awkward moment and she regretted it.
He didn't really need to know a thing about her in order for her to enjoy him, and she'd been so caught up in the momentum of the conversation she'd tripped on her own conversational thread.
”The reason I practice medicine in Pennyroyal Green . . .” he ventured. ”. . . . where I was born . . . Sometimes I think it has a bit to do with Jack Fountain, who never knew his own father. Maybe a need to belong, to feel connected to something, is in my DNA.”
She knew why he'd said it: so that she would recognize that her own untold story, however dark or difficult, was simply part of centuries of human experience.
She was very unaccustomed to insightful men.
She wasn't certain how much she liked it ”I wonder if someone might even stand beneath these trees a hundred years from now and tell the story of Isabel Redmond to someone else,” she mused.
He gave a short laugh. ”Given your bloodline, it almost seems inevitable. And a hundred years is like yesterday here in England. For example, Isaiah Redmond, Lyon's father, died later in life under mysterious circ.u.mstances. There's a faction here in England that maintains to this day that Jacob Eversea-Olivia's father-killed him.”
”No!” she was perversely thrilled.
”Nothing was ever proven, of course. Nothing ever seems to be proved when it comes to the Everseas. They traditionally get away with everything, or so legend has it.”
She smiled at him slowly. She loved knowing roguish blood flowed in her veins. And that her history contained mysteries.
”To this day, there's still a bit of tension between the Everseas and Redmonds,” he added idly. ”I thought I should warn you. In case you encountered a bit of tension during your visit.”
She smiled slightly. She knew precisely why he'd said that.
They allowed the word ”tension” to simmer there in silence.
”Thank you,” she said finally.
When he smiled slightly a dimple winked briefly at the corner of his mouth. That dimple was more perfect than anything Postlethwaite's had ever stocked.
”My old school chum, Geoff Hawthorne, owns the Pig & Thistle, just a bit up the road,” he said. ”They have a splendid antique Rowlandson print of Lyon Redmond simmering in a pot presided over by two cannibals. If you're hungry.”
She laughed, and then he laughed at himself when he realized how that had sounded.
”Sounds wonderful,” she told him.