For two days, Arthur hardly allowed Isabella to leave the upper floor.
By the third morning she became furious.
“I am walking downstairs.”
“You nearly collapsed.”
“Three days ago.”
“The doctor said rest.”
“He did not say imprisonment.”
Arthur folded his arms.
“No.”
Isabella stared.
“Did you just tell your wife no?”
“Yes.”
She pushed back the blanket.
Arthur stepped toward the bed.
“Isabella.”
“Arthur.”
They stared at each other.
Then Elvira entered carrying tea.
She looked from one to the other.
“What is happening?”
“Your master believes marriage has transformed him into my jailer.”
Arthur frowned.
“I am preventing her from overexerting herself.”
Elvira set down the tray.
“She is walking downstairs.”
Arthur looked betrayed.
“You were supposed to support me.”
“I supported you when you were sensible.”
Twenty minutes later Isabella sat on the veranda wrapped in a shawl.
Arthur brought a second blanket without comment.
She accepted it.
“I thought I wasn’t made of glass.”
“You aren’t.”
“Then why two blankets?”
“Because I’m allowed to be worried.”
That ended the argument.
Over the following weeks, Isabella began changing Manantial almost without trying.
She filled the empty vases.
Opened the piano.
Organized neglected books.
She asked Elvira why some ranch families bought expensive flour from town while corn grew abundantly on the estate.
She helped redesign winter food storage.
When several workers’ wives came to the manor regarding school supplies, Isabella sat with them in the kitchen rather than making them wait in the hall.
People noticed.
They also noticed Arthur noticed her.
Rumors traveled.
But not every rumor was kind.
One afternoon, Sebastian returned from town with a dark expression.
Arthur was reviewing accounts in the study.
“What happened?” he asked.
Sebastian closed the door.
“There is gossip.”
“There is always gossip.”
“This concerns Isabella.”
Arthur’s pen stopped.
“What gossip?”
“Someone claims Dr. Ortega’s visit occurred because Mrs. Menezes deceived you about her condition.”
Arthur’s eyes hardened.
“Who?”
“No clear source.”
Arthur stood.
Sebastian added, “There is more.”
“Go on.”
“They say she married you to gain Manantial before you discovered she cannot provide an heir.”
Arthur walked toward the window.
Across the courtyard Isabella was helping two children plant herbs.
“Find the source.”
Sebastian nodded.
Arthur said, “Quietly.”
The source came to them instead.
Four days later a carriage arrived.
Beatrice descended first.
Valeria followed wearing an expensive crimson traveling dress that Isabella had never seen.
Ambrosio came last.
Isabella stood on the veranda.
Her happiness disappeared.
Arthur emerged from the stable.
“Why are they here?”
“I don’t know.”
Beatrice climbed the stairs smiling broadly.
“My dear Isabella!”
She attempted an embrace.
Isabella stepped backward.
Beatrice’s smile faltered.
“We have traveled so far.”
“Nobody invited you.”
Valeria looked around the estate.
Her jealousy was almost visible.
“So this is Manantial.”
Arthur approached.
“It is.”
Valeria smiled at him.
“Arthur.”
“Mr. Menezes.”
Her smile disappeared.
Ambrosio removed his hat.
“We hoped to visit Isabella.”
Arthur looked at his wife.
“Do you want them here?”
Three people waited.
Once, Isabella would have surrendered immediately.
Instead, she said, “Father may stay for supper.”
Beatrice stiffened.
“And us?”
“You may have refreshments before your return journey.”
Valeria laughed.
“You think you’re important now.”
“No.”
Isabella met her eyes.
“I think this is my home.”
Arthur said nothing.
He did not need to.
Beatrice changed tactics.
“We came because we were worried.”
“About what?”
“Your health.”
Isabella stared.
“How did you hear about my health?”
A flicker crossed Beatrice’s face.
Arthur noticed.
“So,” he said softly, “you already knew about Dr. Ortega’s visit.”
Valeria interrupted.
“Everyone knows.”
“Interesting,” Arthur said.
Sebastian appeared near the doorway.
Arthur looked at him once.
Sebastian understood.
Beatrice waved dismissively.
“We only want Mr. Menezes to understand Isabella’s history.”
Arthur’s voice cooled.
“I understand enough.”
“No, you don’t.”
Beatrice reached inside her bag.
She produced folded papers.
Isabella’s stomach tightened.
“What are those?”
“A letter from Leonardo’s mother.”
Arthur did not take it.
Beatrice continued.
“She confirms Isabella was incapable of giving her son an heir.”
Arthur looked unimpressed.
“Is Leonardo’s mother a physician?”
“No, but—”
“Then I have no interest.”
Valeria stepped forward.
“You should.”
Arthur looked at her.
She flinched but continued.
“What if Isabella lied to the doctor? What if she has always known she’s barren?”
Isabella went pale.
Arthur’s jaw tightened.
Valeria smiled.
“Ask her why Leonardo slept in another room during the final months of their marriage.”
Isabella felt as if she had been struck.
“Stop.”
Valeria continued.
“Ask her why he avoided her.”
“Valeria.”
“Maybe he knew—”
“Enough.”
Arthur’s voice thundered across the veranda.
Even the servants in the courtyard stopped.
Valeria fell silent.
Arthur stepped between her and Isabella.
“I warned you once.”
Valeria lifted her chin.
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“From my wife?”
“From humiliation.”
Arthur’s expression became almost frighteningly calm.
“The only humiliation I see is a guest entering another woman’s home to insult her.”
Beatrice grabbed Valeria’s arm.
Arthur turned to Sebastian.
“Have their carriage brought around.”
Ambrosio whispered, “Arthur, please.”
Arthur looked at Isabella.
Again, the choice remained hers.
She faced her father.
“You may stay if you wish.”
Ambrosio glanced at Beatrice.
Years of habit battled across his face.
Then, astonishingly, he removed his coat.
“I will stay.”
Beatrice stared at him.
“What?”
“I said I will stay for supper with my daughter.”
Valeria’s mouth fell open.
Beatrice’s expression became venomous.
“You pathetic old fool.”
Ambrosio looked at her.
“No.”
His voice shook.
But he continued.
“I have been a pathetic old fool for many years. Perhaps that is enough.”
Isabella’s eyes filled.
Beatrice turned away furiously.
As servants brought the carriage, Valeria leaned close to Isabella.
“This isn’t over.”
Arthur heard.
“It is on my property.”
Valeria left.
That evening, Ambrosio sat across from Isabella at the smaller dining table.
For several minutes nobody spoke.
Finally he said, “I knew Leonardo’s family never had medical proof.”
Isabella stopped eating.
“What?”
Arthur slowly set down his glass.
Ambrosio’s face crumpled.
“They wrote to me after sending you home.”
“About what?”
“They admitted Leonardo had suffered an illness when he was younger.”
Isabella stared.
“What illness?”
“They believed it might have affected his ability to father children.”
The room went still.
Isabella whispered, “And you never told me.”
Ambrosio began crying.
“Beatrice found the letter.”
“Where is it?”
“She burned it.”
Arthur stood so abruptly his chair scraped the floor.
Isabella raised one hand.
“Please.”
Arthur froze.
She looked at her father.
“You let me believe it was me.”
“Yes.”
“For two years.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I was afraid of Beatrice. Afraid of scandal. Afraid Leonardo’s family would refuse the small pension they sent.”
Isabella’s voice broke.
“You sold my dignity for a pension?”
Ambrosio covered his face.
Arthur walked toward the window because if he remained at the table, Isabella feared he might throw her father out.
She wished he would.
And yet some part of her still saw the tired old man who had once carried her on his shoulders through wheat fields.
That made the betrayal worse.
“You should leave tomorrow,” she said.
Ambrosio lowered his hands.
“I understand.”
“I am not saying I will never see you again.”
Hope appeared in his eyes.
“But forgiveness will not be immediate.”
“I understand.”
“You must earn a relationship with me.”
He nodded.
“I will try.”
After Ambrosio retired to the guest room, Isabella walked outside.
Arthur found her near the barn.
Moonlight stretched across the hay.
“Isabella.”
“I need air.”
He stopped beside her.
She wrapped her arms around herself.
“All those years, Arthur.”
“I know.”
“I prayed for forgiveness for something I didn’t do.”
Arthur’s expression tightened.
“I hate what they did to you.”
She turned.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t tell me to forget it.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
She blinked.
He stepped closer.
“You’re allowed to be angry.”
That broke something inside her.
“I am angry.”
“Good.”
“I hate Beatrice.”
“For tonight, hate her.”
“I hate Valeria.”
“For tonight, hate her too.”
“I hate my father.”
Arthur said nothing.
Tears ran down Isabella’s cheeks.
“And I hate myself because even now I feel guilty for saying that.”
Arthur reached for her slowly.
She did not retreat.
His hand touched her cheek.
“You can love someone and still condemn what they did.”
Isabella looked up at him.
They stood inside the barn doorway with warm hay behind them and moonlight beyond.
“Why are you so patient with me?”
“Because someone should have been.”
Her breath caught.
She leaned into him.
Arthur’s arm circled her waist carefully.
This time when he kissed her, it was not on the forehead.
It was slow.
Gentle.
A question rather than a claim.
Isabella answered by gripping the front of his shirt and kissing him back.
When they separated, Arthur rested his forehead against hers.
“Are you frightened?”
“Yes.”
“Of me?”
“No.”
“Then of what?”
“Being happy.”
He looked at her for a long moment.
“Happiness isn’t a debt, Isabella.”
She swallowed.
“You don’t have to repay it?”
“No.”
“And you don’t have to earn it?”
“No.”
She smiled through her tears.
Behind them, neither noticed a shadow move outside the barn.
A rider waited near the tree line.
He watched the couple for several seconds.
Then turned his horse north.
Toward the village.
Toward Beatrice.
Because Valeria had been truthful about one thing.
She was not finished.
And the next attack would not be made with gossip alone.