He offered her the faintest curl of a grin.
“Could you give me a moment alone with the view?”
“Of course.”
“No need to keep anyone out. When Ezra arrives, send him in. And I was thinking of having some dinner. A chicken stew, perhaps? You know how I take to a stew.”
“Can your stomach manage?”
“I believe it can.”
“Then you will have it.”
*
The afternoon had nearly passed by the time Ezra made it to the farm. The chicken was already boiling, the vegetables lined up on the cutting board, and she asked her brother to deliver him to George so she didn’t have to wash up. There could be no distractions. The recipe was a classic of George’s, and its execution, although not the most difficult, would nevertheless take her total devotion.
When Ezra reemerged from the bedroom and came back down the stairs after only a short time, the mood of the house grew dire. Isabelle was convinced there was a darkness that followed the man, and when he appeared before her, checking his timepiece, she felt his presence loom over the cabin like a hex enchanted. The hallway was hardly lit and his shadow seemed quite larger than his being.
“He’s…not well,” Ezra said. “I believe I will delay my trip until his injuries are resolved. I can be called upon at any hour. Remember that.”
“You’re never far, are you, Ezra?”
“Not when I am needed.”
She helped him to the front door, for he could hardly manage himself, and when he got there Silas rose from the couch and prepared to bring him home.
“Enjoy your dinner,” Ezra said. “It smells delectable.”
“Have a good evening yourself. Silas, get him home safe.”
She thought when they were gone the home would be hers and George’s alone, but before she could even get his stew ladled, hooves sounded on the lane once more, and she had to wash her hands and return to the door. The man was patient walking toward the cabin, and smaller than she’d estimated him atop his horse. She wouldn’t have recognized him at all if not for the blue uniform and his shaggy mustache, which George had fixated on whenever he became so frustrated that only a violent monologue could bring him any peace.
“You are General Glass,” she said.
“And you must be Isabelle,” the man said.
His cheeks were rosy from the ride, his lips cracked, and she invited him inside and offered him water. He told her he’d been with Ezra earlier in the day and heard of George’s worsening condition. That he’d wanted to give him time to see his friend, and perhaps, once he’d returned, make his way over himself.
“I can’t fathom why,” she said. “From what I’ve gathered you weren’t my husband’s biggest admirer.”
Glass ran his hand over what little hair he had before answering. She reckoned he was much more imposing when surrounded by his soldiers, yet he retained his dignity alone, standing at attention in a stranger’s home.
“My time posted in Old Ox has resulted in a number of regrets that I cannot make right. My treatment of your husband ranks high amongst them.”
Having no interest in alleviating whatever discomfort or guilt he might feel, she held her tongue. Better to let him finish.
“My own aims occupied me so entirely that they became something of an obsession. Given as much, I did not find George’s plight to be worth the trouble. Wade Webler assured me it would be handled in a manner that was fair, that would preserve a sense of calm…”
He seemed to need a moment, and he used it to look out the window—at the very land, she imagined, that George was just now staring at himself.
“He betrayed me in the exact manner George told me he would. And I have paid for it.”
A smile spread across his face, yet it was false, and quickly curdled into a grimace of humility. Indeed, he said, he was being reassigned to go west, with only half as many men under his command as he was currently responsible for.
“I have no reason to wonder why,” he said. “I have acted beneath my rank. And I believe George deserves to hear as much from me before I depart.”
Isabelle had no words for this man, divorced as he was from whatever sense of certainty had once fueled him. She simply walked to the bottom of the stairs and indicated for him to follow.
“Don’t take long,” she said. “He really does need his rest.”
Glass was upstairs no more than five or ten minutes and he soon appeared again, picking a loose hair from his jacket, taking a deep breath as he found her at the foot of the stairs.