Read Online My Heart Remembers by Kim Vogel Sawyer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kim Vogel Sawyer
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to her, seeming to examine the portrait that hung in prominence over the mantel. Suddenly he snatched the portrait from the wall and threw it into the fire. The glass shattered as the frame struck the brick of the inner hearth, exposing the picture to the fire’s licking tongues.
“Randolph, no!” Isabelle tossed the Bible aside and raced to the fireplace, reaching to retrieve the picture taken only three years ago of her with her parents and brother. Before she could grasp the frame, Randolph caught her arms and flung her backward. She fell into a table, knocking a lamp to the floor. It crashed into slivers of rose-colored glass.
“See what you’ve done!” Randolph stood over her, his angry face only inches from hers. “You ruin everything, Isabelle; you always have! You took Mother’s love, Father’s attention. . . .
You won’t take my inheritance!” Grabbing her by the arms, he shook her violently. “No longer will I continue the pretense of you carrying the Standler name! I want you out, Isabelle! Today, do you hear me? Out!”
He released her with another shove. She stumbled but didn’t fall, clutching her arm where his fingers had bruised her flesh. Tears coursed down her face. “But . . . but this is my home. Where will I go?”
Randolph spun around and stared into the fire as the last bit of the photograph was consumed by greedy flames. “That isn’t my concern.” The cold tone chilled Isabelle thoroughly. “I just want you gone.” Glancing briefly over his shoulder, his gaze dropped to the settee where the Bible lay, open, its curled pages seeming to invite examination. “And take that book with you. I need no reminder of you in my house.”
Isabelle stared at his back for several moments, unable to believe he truly meant what he said. When he remained as if planted in front of the fireplace, she moved carefully past the shattered lamp—the sharp shards an ignominious picture of her shattered heart—and lifted the Bible. Clutching it to her breast, she walked out of the room, her steps measured, with the grace and dignity her mother had taught her.
By the time she reached her bedroom, hurt had grown to anger. How dare Randolph treat her in such a reprehensible manner? Papa would be appalled—he would never allow her to be cast from her home. She would see that Randolph was taken to task and forced to apologize. She knew just who would accomplish it, too.
Picking up the little brass bell that sat on her bedside table, she rang it furiously. In moments, her personal maid appeared in the doorway.
“Yes, miss?”
By the girl’s bright red cheeks, Isabelle knew she’d heard every bit of Randolph’s tirade. She swallowed her humiliation and assumed a tart tone. “Pack me a bag, Myrtle. I’ll need clothing for a stay of perhaps a week. Be sure to include all of the personal effects from my dressing table, as well as this Bible.” She held out the Bible, and Myrtle took it with both hands. “Then have Toby bring the carriage around.”
Suddenly Randolph stepped into the doorway. “Myrtle, do not instruct Toby to bring the carriage. She can hire a cab. Here.” He threw a handful of bills and coins onto the carpeted floor of the bedroom. One coin rolled past Isabelle’s feet and disappeared under the bed. He swung around and disappeared down the hall.
Myrtle looked uncertainly at the money flung across the floor.
“Do . . . do you want me pick this up an’ put it with your belongings, miss?”
Isabelle shook her head, her curls bouncing against her tearstained cheeks. “No. I want nothing from him. Just pack my bag as I’ve asked. I’ll be back after I’ve arranged transport.” With her chin held high, she swept from the room.
She paused for a moment in the hallway, looking at the closed door of her parents’ bedroom. Randolph would never have dared to behave so high-handedly if Papa were alive. The pain of her loss struck again, bringing a new rush of tears. But she
“Randolph, no!” Isabelle tossed the Bible aside and raced to the fireplace, reaching to retrieve the picture taken only three years ago of her with her parents and brother. Before she could grasp the frame, Randolph caught her arms and flung her backward. She fell into a table, knocking a lamp to the floor. It crashed into slivers of rose-colored glass.
“See what you’ve done!” Randolph stood over her, his angry face only inches from hers. “You ruin everything, Isabelle; you always have! You took Mother’s love, Father’s attention. . . .
You won’t take my inheritance!” Grabbing her by the arms, he shook her violently. “No longer will I continue the pretense of you carrying the Standler name! I want you out, Isabelle! Today, do you hear me? Out!”
He released her with another shove. She stumbled but didn’t fall, clutching her arm where his fingers had bruised her flesh. Tears coursed down her face. “But . . . but this is my home. Where will I go?”
Randolph spun around and stared into the fire as the last bit of the photograph was consumed by greedy flames. “That isn’t my concern.” The cold tone chilled Isabelle thoroughly. “I just want you gone.” Glancing briefly over his shoulder, his gaze dropped to the settee where the Bible lay, open, its curled pages seeming to invite examination. “And take that book with you. I need no reminder of you in my house.”
Isabelle stared at his back for several moments, unable to believe he truly meant what he said. When he remained as if planted in front of the fireplace, she moved carefully past the shattered lamp—the sharp shards an ignominious picture of her shattered heart—and lifted the Bible. Clutching it to her breast, she walked out of the room, her steps measured, with the grace and dignity her mother had taught her.
By the time she reached her bedroom, hurt had grown to anger. How dare Randolph treat her in such a reprehensible manner? Papa would be appalled—he would never allow her to be cast from her home. She would see that Randolph was taken to task and forced to apologize. She knew just who would accomplish it, too.
Picking up the little brass bell that sat on her bedside table, she rang it furiously. In moments, her personal maid appeared in the doorway.
“Yes, miss?”
By the girl’s bright red cheeks, Isabelle knew she’d heard every bit of Randolph’s tirade. She swallowed her humiliation and assumed a tart tone. “Pack me a bag, Myrtle. I’ll need clothing for a stay of perhaps a week. Be sure to include all of the personal effects from my dressing table, as well as this Bible.” She held out the Bible, and Myrtle took it with both hands. “Then have Toby bring the carriage around.”
Suddenly Randolph stepped into the doorway. “Myrtle, do not instruct Toby to bring the carriage. She can hire a cab. Here.” He threw a handful of bills and coins onto the carpeted floor of the bedroom. One coin rolled past Isabelle’s feet and disappeared under the bed. He swung around and disappeared down the hall.
Myrtle looked uncertainly at the money flung across the floor.
“Do . . . do you want me pick this up an’ put it with your belongings, miss?”
Isabelle shook her head, her curls bouncing against her tearstained cheeks. “No. I want nothing from him. Just pack my bag as I’ve asked. I’ll be back after I’ve arranged transport.” With her chin held high, she swept from the room.
She paused for a moment in the hallway, looking at the closed door of her parents’ bedroom. Randolph would never have dared to behave so high-handedly if Papa were alive. The pain of her loss struck again, bringing a new rush of tears. But she
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