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His wife follows where he goes. It becomes an unspoken rule between them: where one steps, the other trails. For what can separate love? Surely not death, who sees too much of it to bask in cruelty.
They have existed this way for years; they will stay like this for many more.
~
He meets his future wife through his father’s younger brother. The man has ruddy cheeks and a jovial temperament, perhaps too much of a beer gut. His belt could use several more holes in the end, and young Macduff feels rather guilty for thinking so.
“Sirrah,” his father says, and he snaps to attention. “Your uncle has a fit match to meet you.”
They have endured this for two years, and he wearies of it all. The last girl he had courted rather seriously, a pretty thing in lavender and trailing rose, before consumption took her family and the lands went to Cawdor. He knows enough to push aside the grievings of the heart.
His uncle drains his flagon, and shifts his weight as he grins. The other Macduff, his father’s brother, has a tendency to smile relentlessly. Young Macduff finds some trivialities in his behavior, and some obscenities in his words.
“A pretty peach,” his uncle says with a leer. Strength requires much of him, to reserve his look of disgust. “A moment of your time, and your thoughts will find themselves aligned with mine.”
The girl he beckons forward has blond hair loose and free, somewhat frizzed by the air. Her gown is green, a deep olive young Macduff has not seen tonight. Her eyes are blue, her face rather unremarkable. She is almost pretty, but has fallen slightly off the mark. Nothing like the girls he’s tried before.
“May I present MacGowan’s daughter,” his uncle says, a hand on the girl’s shoulder. His fingers show no signs of releasing her at any time. “A lovely piece of work, and spurn me if I lie.”
His father considers her with a critical eye. She offers him a smile, soft but clearly frightened, and Macduff feels the urge to leave the ball and ride out on his horse, unstoppable into the night. “You speak the truth, good cousin, and know not falsehoods in your speech. MacGowan has done well as he is able, and surpassed his earlier marks.”
He wishes to be gone from this place, from these stinking court niceties and his father’s desire for his success in a wife. The music changes, and, regrettable though the action is, he sees his chance.
“Milady,” he says, turning to the slight girl in front of him. He bows and extends a hand. “Shall we dance?”
Her small hand slips into his with no hesitation. Perhaps they have the same thoughts, he and this girl with frizzed hair and dreamers’ eyes. “Your words gladden me, milord. We shall.” Her voice is soft soprano, her smile no less graceful. He knows, with a sinking feeling, her laugh will sound like the most perfected of bells.
The musicians are excellent, lively and bold. The room converges into several points of dance, the crowds squeezing together for a moment before spreading back out. The girl’s hands on his are light and tiny, smaller than other hands his own have held. She takes to the dance easily, motions like muscle memory. He fits his arms around her waist, feels strange with his hands on her back. They move apart easily, swept with the motions of the room. He notes the stares from other couples and some of his friends.
“Your name, Milady?” He asks, ducking under another’s arm, spinning her under his own. She nearly unbalances; he steadies her with a hasty hand. Another movement and they’ve found the rhythm of the dance once more.
“Isobel,” she tells him. The name fits her: lively blue eyes, the shock of blonde hair. The smooth cheek, the rosebud mouth. She would do better if she was prettier. His uncle by far exaggerated her praises. “MacGowan’s daughter, but I’m sure your father felt necessary to impart that.”
“He did,” Macduff says. She whirls away from him for a moment, and he joins another couple for the next set of steps. When the dance brings them back together, she’s frowning. He looks over to his left, sees Lennox and his sister, and understands.
“You never told me yours,” she says. He spins her away, pulls her back against his chest, goes through the motions drilled into him since he was a child. He could no more mess this up than she. Not that Isobel looks likely to falter, despite her earlier misstep. There’s a concentration in her eyes that almost becomes her.
“Evander,” he says, letting her move from her position pressed against him. It’s not in the dance, not yet, but he feels rather odd telling her his name while he cannot see her face. It feels like a moment that does not belong to him, not yet. He hates that he’s here. He’d rather be far away, in England perhaps, on his horse underneath the setting sun. He could find a simple girl, a house, and start a family. With money he doesn’t have, with a skill set he does not possess. He was born into so much, and has gotten nothing from it. The others in this room are the same way.
“Is it of your family?” She asks, falling back into step with the dance. He nods. He’s the third of a line of them, each looking like the last. “Mine as well, my mother’s.”
He wraps his arm once more around her waist, politely keeping his hand from touching her back. The closeness he can do nothing about, and he cannot avoid those concentrated eyes. She’s almost pretty. If she tilted her head a certain way, she might get there. There’s a look about her now, and he struggles with the desire to look away. They step together, feet moving quickly in predetermined patterns, her hand cool on his shoulder. He can feel the ice of it through his shirt, and shivers.
The dance comes to an end, Isobel looking up at him curiously. He bows, kisses her hand, and feels a hint of a smile at the flush that creeps across her cheeks. He lets her go, but does not make any move to return to his father. They have a few minutes before the next set, the musicians playing trivial songs in the intervals between.
He begins to ask her about her family, how she found herself here, what she might enjoy (all things his father would frown upon him asking, if it does not concern financials), but is interrupted by the call of his name from several paces away. He turns, Isobel at his shoulder, to see Lennox and his sister, as well as Macbeth and his newly-engaged companion.
“Macduff!” Lennox crows, bowing as he approaches. “And Lady MacGowan, pleased to see you again. A fine fortune you’ve met, Evander.”
“Lennox.” He is not so fond of the other as he appears, but allows the gesture anyway. Lennox bows to kiss Isobel’s hand, and she startles. Macduff looks away, preferring to leave them to it. Lennox’s sister, whose name escapes him upon each meeting, smiles coquettishly at him through her lashes. He turns his attention to the other two.
“Macbeth! It has been several seasons.” Indeed, he has not seen the other since two years ago, but always remembers him fondly. Macbeth is passionate, wise, and a good-hearted man. He is fiercely loyal, something Macduff envies. He himself finds his opinions of others changing like the tide.
“It has,” Macebth says, embracing him. He has always towered over the other youths, brown hair and keen eyes. He looks built for greatness, and Macduff feels unassuming each time he sees him. “How have you fared?”
“I, well,” Macduff answers. They are not close, but are on good terms. “And you, you are engaged! You must be the future Lady Macbeth, then,” he says to the brown-haired woman, nearly the same height as Isobel. Unlike the rest of the women, she does not wear heels.
“My fiancée,” Macbeth says, grinning. His hand is on the small of her back. “Brigit, this is Evander.” So they’re on first name terms, then. Macduff hadn’t known that.
“Milord,” she greets with a smile. Macbeth is lucky; she is quite beautiful. Macduff bows to kiss her hand, and straightens. “And who is this lovely lady?”
At first he thinks she’s speaking of Lennox’s sister, and nearly confides that he’s forgotten her name. But Macbeth looks curious as well, and he turns to see Lennox with a proprietary hand on Isobel’s waist. Lennox’s sister looks bored with the proceedings, more interested in watching Macduff.
“This is Lady MacGowan,” he says, not moving. Brigit cuts him a glance from the corner of her eye, and he wonders what he’s missing.
“Is she yours, then?” Macbeth asks stiltedly.
“My uncle seems to think so,” Macduff says, more than a hint of resentment in his voice. Isobel looks at him, eyes wide, and he thinks to himself that she appears a little frightened. What has his uncle put her up to? If anything, Lennox can have her.
“We were only dancing,” she stammers. “He is very kind.”
“I’d love to walk with you,” Brigit says. She reaches out to clasp Isobel’s hand, and pull her away from Lennox and his sister. “Your leave, milord?”
Macbeth waves his hand, and both Brigit and Isobel look at Macduff. He looks back at them, unsure what they’re waiting for.
“Evander,” Macbeth says, and inclines his head emphatically. Macduff flushes, realizing his error.
“Yes, go to it.” Brigit tugs Isobel away, vanishing in a swirl of red and green gowns. Lennox and his sister wander away, and Macduff feels a hand on his shoulder.
“Are you alright?” Macbeth asks him. “I’ve never seen you so out of sorts.”
“I believe my father may want me to marry that girl,” he says, nearly spitting. Macbeth stares at him for a moment.
“You could do much worse,” he offers. At the look on Macduff’s face, he hastily backtracks. “Is she really so bad? Insensitive, uncouth, any of those things? She seemed to me most pleasant.”
“She is fine for any man, despite her plainness, but she speaks so little. We have nothing alike about us. I could hardly wish to marry her any more than I would marry Lennox’s sister.”
Macbeth looks at him quite oddly. “You would compare the two?”
“Speech comes easy to you since it does not apply. You are happily engaged, you no longer have to trifle with this madness. If she is my father’s choice, he could pick no worse.”
“I may be in love,” Macbeth tells him, “but I am no fool.”
“Lennox can pursue her, if he wishes,” Macduff says, waving a hand. “I take no part in it.”
Macbeth sighs, and with it comes the disappointment of a close companion, a brother. “You’ll wish your part had saved her from Lennox.”
Macduff turns to him. “Saved her?” There must be something he’s missed. He’s felt this way all evening.
“Did you not see?” Macbeth asks. “How he looked at her, how she looked at you, how she hoped you would take her part? We ourselves are nothing but our actions. Do not disappoint us with yours.”
~
He apologizes to her when Brigit brings her back. She nods, barely saying a word, but the smile she offers him is very nearly pretty. It might be her eyes, he thinks, something about them that alters a plain face into something dazzling. Or maybe her hair, long as it is, or the dress that hugs her figure before spiraling out to the ground.
“And I am sorry about Lennox,” he says, taking her hand only because it is the proper thing to do. They are bound in niceties, the whole of them. “I didn’t realize what my inaction did. I hope you will forgive me.”
“Think nothing of it,” she says, squeezing his hand. Her fingers are cool against his. “Will you be at the event next week?”
“That is up to my father, for the next few days,” he says ruefully, running a hand over his hair. “I will if I’m able.” He doesn’t think it would be so bad, but neither is it what he prefers. She seems to understand this, inclining her head.
“Thank you for the night, milord,” she says quietly. Macbeth’s words run through his head. He will not disappoint.
“It was my pleasure,” he tells her, leaving her with the rest of her family. She doesn’t have to know that he believes the words untrue.
~
His father insists on attending the next event, heading directly to the MacGowan clan when they arrive. Macduff trails behind him, bound to follow, and hovers at his shoulder. Isobel is nowhere to be seen, but there are many pretty girls here. He glances through the crowd, searching for her, and sees Banquo speaking to Macbeth and his fiancée.
He clasps his hands behind his back and answers the questions that both fathers throw his way. Lady MacGowan eyes him curiously, but says nothing unless directly spoken to. He knows what this signifies, and what it means for him. Clearly, he should not have apologized at the previous event.
“And are you pleased with our Isobel?” MacGowan asks. Macduff freezes, unsure what to say.
“She is a fine girl,” he settles on. “Very sweet, and a talented dancer.” He knows absolutely nothing of her, despite the hours they were forced to spend together. Judging from his father’s pinched expression, he could have said much better.
The conversation turns to the upkeep of Fife. Macduff lets his eyes wander, to find Isobel ensconced in conversation across the room. Her companion, a red headed, pretty little thing in yellow, catches his eye, winks, and then turns to Isobel. The blonde looks up, meets his gaze, and pales. Within moments, she’s departed from her friend and hurried over.
“Excuse my tardiness, milord,” she says with a curtsy, and her father glares down at her. Macduff feels something sour in his stomach at the cause.
“You’ve brought no offense,” he tells her gently, and makes a note to praise the musicians as they strike up a lively beat. “Shall we dance?”
“I’d be honored to comply,” she says, and he wonders if she means it, how many times she’s said the same words to other men. She’s dressed in lavender today, square neckline and puffed sleeves and a swirl of skirts. She looked better in the green, less strange against her pale skin. And yet she looks very near pretty, or she would if she was not shaking with nerves. He does not understand the cause of her neuroticism.
He leads her to the center of the floor, takes her hands, and begins to dance. It’s easy to follow with her, despite the learning it takes for their bodies to adapt to one another. They are not a seamless fit, although both are well-trained. Still, it is much more fun than the last. This dance is livelier, something he claps his hands to before spinning her. The motion has her smiling, her shoulders lowering from where they hid near her ears.
“You’re an excellent dancer,” he says, trying to begin a conversation as they move. She blushes, and shakes her head before looking away. “What, you don’t believe me?”
“You flatter me, milord,” she says quietly, eyes on her feet. He squeezes her hand before letting go to weave through other couples. When they meet again, she refuses to look at him. Her hair is up today, exposing the back of her neck and the small strands of yellow that hang down on it. He looks back at her face, still continuing the dance.
“I do not. My words are in truth only.”
She looks up then, startled. “I did not mean to offend. I am not…” She flushes, and he notes the dampness near her hairline. He doesn’t press, merely twirls her twice and holds her steady against his chest for the next few steps. She seems fragile and distracted in his hands, and he misses a sequence while he holds her, mind whirling.
The dance ends, thankfully. The lively ones are oftentimes the shortest. He offers her his arm and leads her away from the floor. “There are gardens,” he says quietly, watching her intently. “Are you alright?”
She waves him away, but tightens her grip on his arm. He slows, taking careful steps. “Quite, thank you.”
“I’d like to go outside and sit,” he says, trying a different approach. “Would you care to accompany me?”
“If that’s what you’d like,” she says, and he nods to a servant to open the door. They descend the stairs outside, into the vast gardens, and he keeps a careful grip on her arm. There is no one else out here, and he notices it the minute he spots a bench. Perhaps they can talk without any expectation of being overheard.
When they sit, neither one speaks for a moment. The coolness of the air has seemed to do her some good, but she still looks worried and fatigued.
“Lady MacGowan,” he says, and watches her closely. “You seem rather unwell.”
She doesn’t meet his eyes for a moment, blotting at her forehead with a handkerchief she produced from somewhere. “A bit overheated,” she confesses. “It happens quite regularly, no need to worry.”
“I can get someone to bring you water,” he says, half-standing, already in search of a servant. She moves to grab his wrist before pulling her hand back sharply.
“I’m alright,” she tells him firmly. “It will pass. I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.” He is too, looking at all the layers of her dress. She notices his look, and flushes. He tears his eyes away, out to the dark light of the gardens. A lovely place, really. He’s always been fond of the outdoors.
“You’ll tell me if it doesn’t improve?” He asks, watching her for any signs of dishonesty. He’s surprising himself, really.
“You’re quite the gentleman, milord.”
“Evander, please,” he tells her. “You don’t have to rely on such formalities when we’re alone.” The moment the words leave his mouth, he realises what they could mean. She doesn’t comment on how his face falls.
“Yes, I suppose we will be seeing rather much of each other. My father has been speaking to your uncle and father for about a month.” She clasps her hands in her lap, gathers a fistful of lavender skirt. It looks better in the moonlight than it does indoors. The watery hue emphasizes the paleness of her skin and the smattering of faint freckles across her nose. He can only see them since they’re sitting so close.
He must make some sort of disappointed expression, because she takes a look at him and retreats into herself. “I apologize. This must seem a misuse of your company.”
Her self-esteem issues might be worse than his. “You don’t need to do that. I could have—they could have done worse.” Clearly those were not the right words to say. “I speak incorrectly. You are not a misuse of my time nor my company. I just meant that you don’t have to stand on pleasantries when there is no one but me around.”
“And you the same,” she says, but a flush has risen to her cheeks. She smiles, embarrassed, at the ground, but it’s a good look for her, an expression that edges her close to pretty.
“Isobel,” he says, and she looks at him in surprise, blue eyes wide and questioning. “Might we be friends? Despite our circumstances?”
She takes his hands, gives it a small squeeze. “I should like that very much.”
~
Over the next two months, he learns quite a bit about her. She prefers autumns to spring, moderate chills to excessive heat, and can sing without playing any instruments. She’s quite a good runner, which astonishes him, but has never ridden a horse. She’s the third-oldest of eight, and the first girl. She gets cold easily and says nothing, and he always finds himself draping a coat or even his arm around her shoulders when he notices her shivering. She loves children and sometimes minds them during dances, while he watches from across the room and every so often gets reprimanded for not paying attention to his friends.
She is surprised by little kindnesses, which sometimes breaks his heart. All of the compliments she gets paid fluster her, but he’s grown to see that people do not exaggerate her traits. Lady Macbeth is fond of her, Ross enamoured with her, Banquo charmed. They all call him lucky, even though nothing has been said about a betrothal or engagement. Macduff feels that it’s only a matter of time, but he says nothing. He does not want to ruin the friendship they’ve built.
If he loses that, what does he have left? What does he gain back? Simply staying as he is with her would be a much greater reward than losing altogether, her affections and present remote from him, even if she was by his side for the rest of his life. He delights in her, in her company and her subtle wit and her bright charms, the way she makes him feel. If he loses her, what little affection does he keep for himself? This is something public he wishes desperately were private, just so it was his and his alone. But it’s not.
~
Sometimes he thinks about kissing her, about what it would be like to hold her, to push her hair away from her face, and pull her close to him, closer than they could ever get while dancing. She is a good size for him; they look well together. He thinks about other things too, going further, maybe even kids with blue eyes and blonde hair and the grin that quirks up on one side just like Isobel’s smile, and he has to walk around and clear his head before speaking to anyone, before his desires get too high that he can’t bring himself back to reality. The problem is that he thinks he might want some of these things—not now, not for sure, definitely not in this life with this girl with his situation because face it, he’ll be both a terrible husband and a terrible father—and the wanting drives him crazy.
He thinks these things and chalks them up to the fact that his father wants him engaged by the end of the year. He has seven months left, and he doesn’t want to waste a single moment of them thinking about the future.
~
He doesn’t mean to disclose that he plays the piano, but her eyes light up when he does. She catches his wrist in her tiny hand and pulls him down the hall from the ballroom, toward a large room with instruments. The event, this time, is at the Macbeth castle in Dunsinane, and both Macduff and Isobel have been here before. He hopes Macbeth won’t mind that they’re using it.
“Play something,” she says as he slides onto the bench. She hovers a few feet away as he puts his hands on the keys, thinking about music selections. Now that she’s asked, he can’t remember a single thing. “Anything at all, as long as it’s something you like.” She’s smiling, and it’s something unrestrained he hasn’t seen from her before.
There’s a piece with a story attached about a girl from a wood, lighter harmonies to a somber but challenging melody. He launches into it, his fingers knowing the keys from memory as he makes his way through the notes. The sound floats around them, and he focuses on the keys instead of her face. He misses one or two notes, and fumbles through three entire measures, but gets himself back on track nearer the middle.
He begins to pick up the piece, adding in the variations he’s fond of, his own experimentation to the bits he likes differently. All he is aware of are his hands on the piano and the weight of her gaze on him; he doesn’t look up for fear of her expression. The music is lovely, charming just like she is, engaging and relentless and pulling him in, not letting him go. He throws his soul behind it as he finishes. His fingers still on the keys, and his entire body buzzes.
He looks up to find her staring at him as if he’s some unearthly creature capable of strange things. “Was it alright?” He asks, hesitantly.
“Evander, it was beautiful,” she gushes, and then she launches into a series of sentences about music as art, and the bits of himself he leaves behind in it, and even though she’s no musician she gets it exactly right, every word of it. “It was you,” she says, “You made it yours.” And no words about the piece matter anymore, only hers.
“Play something else,” she says when she finishes her speech, her rambling, crashing words that strike his heart. He reaches out his hand and catches her wrist, pulling her to sit on the piano bench with him. She fits against his side, room enough for the two of them, and she hasn’t stopped smiling. His face hurts, and he’s willing to bet he’s got a grin wide enough to span rivers.
“I’ll teach you something,” he says, and her face lights up, improbably, even more. “Here, Isobel, your hands go here.” He helps her place them, nudging her fingers to the spots where they belong, and she already looks overwhelmed. “It’s much simpler than it looks, I promise.”
So they work through a piece he learned when he was seven, something light and easy and one of the first songs taught when learning. It was a favorite of his mother’s, he’s heard. Isobel seems delighted with it. Her laughter when she errors sounds nothing like bells: it’s wild and unrestrained and perfect. He’s never heard anything like it.
They get to the point where she can play the melody nearly flawlessly, so he improvises the accompaniment. She falls silent in concentration, watching her hands, but he knows what he’s doing enough to watch her focus. The look of determination in her pretty blue eyes is striking, something he catches rare glimpses of when he’s this close. So close to her, in fact, that he can see the elusive freckles on her nose and the makeup smear just barely under her eye, the profile view of her lips and the carefully styled curl of her hair.
They close out the song, and she looks up at him, awaiting judgement. He doesn’t expect her to, and doesn’t have time to move away. He watches her eyes drift over his face, down to his lips, and he’s thinking about how much courage it would require to ask her when a voice interrupts.
“That was excellent, you two,” Brigit says from the doorway, Banquo near her shoulder. Isobel shirks away on the bench, face beginning to flame. “You’re both wonderful.”
“Lady Macbeth,” Macduff says, rising from his seat and bowing. She and Macbeth are due to be married in six months’ time. It’s been joyous to see his friend so happy. “How do you fare?”
“Better now, having heard you play,” she says. Banquo nods from beside her. “We were sent looking for you by my fiancé. The next set is beginning soon, and he’d like you to be there.”
“Of course,” Isobel says, curtsying from where she stands by Macduff. Brigit smiles at her, brown hair done up into a series of elaborate braids. She wears orange today, a curious color for her to so successfully pull off. Banquo turns to leave, and the rest follow. Macduff offers Isobel his arm, which she takes routinely. They walk side-by-side to the ballroom, and he tries to quiet the thrumming of his heart in his chest.
~
They go for a ride one day, and it takes more out of him than he would have thought. He’s half-sure he’s becoming ill, but always manages to forget it for a few hours when he sees his friends. And Isobel, who should be in the same category, but it feels unfair to put her there.
He sits behind her, since she’s never ridden a horse on her own. He thinks it dangerous to take her out for the first time with her own mount, so he chooses one able to easily bear their combined weights. Isobel is skittish of the horse, something he didn’t expect seeing her around other animals, but she has never stopped surprising him.
Macduff holds the reins in his hands, keeps a steady pace as they get out to flat land and he can go faster. It might have been better to sit in the front, but he’s alright with having her pressed back against him, in the circle of his arms. He wonders what that says about him, and what he needs to do to get rid of it. He feels unable to speak or breathe around her, sometimes so terribly caught up in a rush of emotion that he feels unsteady on his feet.
Their ride is short, their families expecting them back sooner rather than later. The sun beats down over their heads, and he really hopes he doesn’t smell like sweat. As a servant meets them back at the house to stable the horse, he leans forward to speak in her ear.
“I’m glad we decided to be friends,” he says, and it’s long overdue. She shivers, and he wonders how she can be cold with the sun beating down on them like this. “Thank you for going with me.”
She looks over her shoulder, smiling. “I wouldn’t miss it. I always seem to try new things, with you.”
But then the servant’s there, curbing the reply on his tongue, and he gets down in order to be the one to help Isobel. As she dismounts, he gets his hands on her waist and takes her weight, swinging her down with a swirl of pink skirts and a small, girly squeak. He keeps his hands on her even after she’s settled firmly on the ground, and she looks up to meet his eyes.
She’s so pretty it hurts him to see. He doesn’t know why his heart is doing this to him, putting this perfect girl in front of him and then setting up a situation where they will be forced to marry. He wants to be able to choose her, some years in the future when they’re ready for it, to have his words be the ones that reach her. Not a parental announcement of their decision, or a suggestion for an advantageous match.
He has to let go before he does something stupid like kiss her. His hands come off her waist just as she slides one of her own up to his face, brushing the hair from his eyes. She has that concentrated look again, with a hint of nervousness underneath. His mind screams at the touch of her, her fingers cupping his face, the look in her eyes. She doesn’t move her hand, and they stand frozen like that, alone.
“There,” she says. “Now you can see.”
He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, staring into those pretty blue eyes. “Yes,” he says. “Now I can.”
~
He arrives at the next event only to see the prince talking with her. He’s met Malcolm once or twice, thoroughly more impressed with him than with his brother Donalbain.
His father sees them at the same time, looking over just in time to see his son’s face pale. He reaches over to place a hand on his shoulder. Across the room, Malcolm bends to kiss Isobel’s hand.
“Evander,” his father says, “I am sorry.” Perhaps he’s been more obvious than he thought, with how much he liked her, especially if his father knows.
“I suppose this means I’ll have to start over again,” he says. His father looks at him in surprise.
“I didn’t know you were considering it. I was simply grateful to see you happy once more.” The words hurt as he hears them, as he watches Isobel take Malcolm’s hand to dance, to see her glance around the room. Ross meets his eyes and looks just as heartbroken as he is.
“I think I’m going to go talk to Ross,” he hears himself say, and his father dismisses him with a sympathetic look. Ross meets him halfway, dark hair carefully slicked back. He’s older by two or three years, compassionate and eloquent and one of Macduff’s best friends. He’s been sweet with Isobel since he met her, and his expression now looks crushed on Macduff’s behalf.
“Evander,” Ross says, but Macduff waves it away. “None of us knew. I promise.”
“What’s there to know?” Macduff says. He stares at the two of them, Malcolm dressed sharply, Isobel in a green-blue dress that goes beautifully with her hair. No wonder she’s dancing with the future king. Even without the facial expressions that turn her radiant, she still looks gorgeous.
“I didn’t think she would do something like this,” Ross says. He was close to her too, sharing her delight in the written word, in singing, in dance. They are friendly as siblings, the two of them, both good with children and both unwittingly kind.
“I don’t think she did,” Macduff says, watching her look around the room more than she focuses on Malcolm. “But how could she deny a prince?”
“So she’s his, then,” Ross says, sounding miserable. From across the room, Banquo looks pained to see it as well. He can see Brigit’s horrified expression as she dances, Macbeth’s angry glance.
“If he wants her, yes. There’s nothing anyone can do.” He hates the words as they leave his mouth. Isobel is his friend, not a currency to be traded. The hard part is that he can’t begrudge Malcolm dancing with her. The way she moves, the way she laughs, the smile that curls over her lips in a private joke—
But that smile isn't there now, no trace of secret laughter in her eyes. It’s as if something has torn away a part of him he hadn’t realized he used, and now he is left with a gaping smear where that piece should be. He hadn’t realized how much he was used to Isobel, to being the one she danced with.
“We know you liked her,” Ross says, and Macduff nods absently.
“I did, didn’t I?” He asks, although he’s admitted the answer to himself before. Never has it taken shape out loud.
The dance has reached the midway point, faster and with more footwork. Brigit’s blue skirts swirl as she passes, throwing Macduff a worried look over Macbeth’s shoulder. Ross has a hand on his arm, but he can barely feel it. Macduff recognizes Donalbain in the corner, speaking to Lennox’s sly sister, looking very uncomfortable. Banquo leaves the woman he was speaking to with her friends, and makes his way over to Macduff.
“How do you fare?” He asks as Malcolm and Isobel edge closer on the dance floor. He can’t help but think he looks better with her. But then, at one point he would have never considered her pretty enough to win over royalty. It is something about how her personality bleeds through to her face.
“Well enough,” Macduff answers, trying to tear his eyes away from the couple. “If I should be so resigned, I would be much better.”
“That would not stop the hurting,” Banquo says, placing a hand on his shoulder. Macduff likes him very much, oftentimes finds him the wisest of his friends. He’s right, even though Macduff doesn’t want to hear it. Ross agrees on his other side, and together the two of them stand like pillars around him.
The dance comes to an end, and Macbeth and Brigit come over instantly. “Macbeth, Lady Macbeth,” he begins, but Brigit takes his hand with flaming eyes.
“We’re on first-name terms, Evander. Don’t waste your formalities, they take up so much room.” Macbeth backs up her words with a hand atop Ross’s. For a moment, he feels secure.
He looks up, and pales. Isobel is headed toward them on Malcolm’s arm. She looks uneasy, and Brigit releases Macduff’s hand. Ross and Banquo straighten, and Macbeth draws himself up to his full, towering height. Macduff can’t make himself look away from her, turquoise dress and hair that’s been released from elaborate braids.
“His Royal Highness, Prince Malcolm,” Isobel introduces, and the group bows as one. Malcolm does not remove his arm from Isobel’s, even though she looks skittish and uncomfortable.
“Lady MacGowan, these are your friends?” Malcolm asks, pleasantly enough. There’s nothing sly about him, just a congenial front. She nods, and Macbeth steps forward to introduce himself.
“Macbeth. Lady Macbeth,” he says, and Brigit curtsies again. Malcolm’s eyes go to the rings on their fingers, and nods. “These two are Ross and Banquo.” The others offer pleasantries, but Malcolm looks bemused. One glance at them shows a hostile look on Ross’s face. Banquo must notice it as well, since he elbows Ross when Malcolm turns his attention elsewhere.
“And you are…?” Malcolm asks, and Macduff tries to place himself back into reality.
“Macduff,” he says, bowing. His voice must sound strangled, because Brigit looks at him sharply, and Banquo places his hand back on his shoulder. Malcolm’s eyes flit around the group, and back to Isobel. His eyes widen with understanding.
“Oh dear,” he says, sounding miserable. “I’ve made quite a mistake, haven’t I?” Ross makes a miffed sound of agreement, and Banquo elbows him again. Brigit takes Macbeth’s hand, but Malcolm still has not let go of Isobel. “She is yours, then?”
Macduff freezes, the panicked gaze Isobel throws him doing absolutely nothing to help. Banquo squeezes his shoulder, Ross his elbow. The two may be the only things holding him up. “She is whomever’s that will bring her greatest happiness.” The words sear his throat. He can barely push them out.
Malcolm’s eyes change. To what, he cannot tell. “So if I had her stay with me, you would not deny that?” Macbeth straightens, but Brigit must do something to stop him, because he says nothing.
“She is not currency to be given away, and I don’t intend for her to be treated as such,” Macduff says hotly. “But I would rather not make things worse for her, even if I dislike what must happen.” He looks to Isobel, eyes pleading for forgiveness. She has gone terribly pale, one hand tangled in the skirt of her dress. Fear is never a look he wants to see on her. This might be the last face she makes that he’s allowed to see.
“I am glad to hear you say so,” Malcolm says, breaking into a smile. He lets go of Isobel’s arm, and everyone looks at him, startled. “She deserves someone like that.” She stares at him with uncertainty, and he offers her a polite and gentle smile. “You are remarkable, Lady MacGowan. I wish you well.” He turns to the rest of the group, offering them that same congenial smile. “I hope to see you around soon.” And then he leaves, Macduff’s head reeling.
“What a peculiar man,” Macbeth says. Banquo nods his head in agreement.
~
Macduff remains quiet for the rest of the night. Everyone shoots him worried glances, and Brigit keeps up a steady stream of conversation with Isobel, who still looks nervous. At one point, while they stand several paces away, Banquo and Ross sidle up to him, expressions blank.
“You know you’ll have to marry her, now,” Banquo says. “Malcolm let her go, and now you’ll never be able to walk away from her.”
Macduff feels his throat tensing up, and says nothing. Ross looks at him, confused.
“Why do you look troubled? Was she not yours?” He asks, and Macduff shakes his head.
“She has never been mine to choose,” he says. Understanding crosses Banquo’s face.
“Be that as it may,” he replies carefully, “you will never lose her now.”
Macduff shakes his head, Ross’s hand back on his arm. “Losing her is the only thing I will be able to do.” He says nothing more for hours, not even when Isobel tries to speak to him. They dance in silence, his hands a respectable distance from her. He knows she looks to be on the verge of tears. Macbeth casts him an angry glance when Brigit whispers something to him. There is nothing to be said.
~
Eventually, Isobel gets his attention. “Could we go outside?” She asks, voice so small he barely hears her.
“Overheated?” He says, and she nods faintly. He offers her his arm, and holds onto her securely as they walk. They descend the steps into a small garden, uninhabited just like the one so many months ago. He heads for a small bench, but doesn’t sit down when she does.
A bird cries overhead, and he looks up at it. The sky glitters with stars, the moon fat and luminous. She looks lovely in this light, the silver of the sky against her blue-green dress, dusting her hair with shine. To think, she could have been queen. But his pride got in the way of that.
When he looks at her again, she has her head in her hands. He comes a little closer, trying to shake off the mood he’s been in all night. He doesn’t want to make this worse for her.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and he stares at her. “I didn’t realize anything like that would happen. And once I knew what it meant, it was too late.” He doesn’t say anything, and she doesn’t look up. “I’m sorry I offended you.” This sounds too much like the conversations they had when they weren’t even friends, back when he first met her.
“He asked to dance with you,” Macduff says, and she nods, still with her head in her hands. Her turquoise skirts spill over the bench. “You could hardly turn down a dance from the future king. There’s no harm in that.”
She raises her head, finally, but doesn’t meet his eye. “I saw your face,” she says. “You looked agonized. You still do.”
“I’ll have to marry you, now,” he says tonelessly. “There’s no other choice left for us.” It’s the first they’ve spoken of it since the other garden night. She looks sick at his words. So she hates it too, the situation they’re in, that they’ll be forced to be together someday.
“I suppose so,” she says carefully. “I believe His Highness would be rather cross if you refused.”
“Did you turn him down?” Macduff asks. He knows he’s being cruel. He can’t help it. “You could have been queen.”
“I don’t want to be queen,” she says helplessly. She might be crying, now. He’s not sure, and he doesn’t want to know. He can barely look at her. She pauses, waiting for him to say something. He doesn’t.
“What else could you possibly want?” He asks. He can give her nothing to compare to Malcolm. He wouldn’t even have fought for her if it came down to it.
He leaves, then, and she doesn’t follow. Brigit goes out to her, Macbeth staring at him, but his father understands and lets him sit in silence the whole ride home.
~
He doesn’t see her for a month. He doesn’t want to. He’s as good as lost her, and it’s entirely his own fault.
~
Macbeth’s wedding is lovely. Brigit looks resplendent in her gown, brown hair down around her shoulders for once. Macbeth has never smiled wider, his hair slicked back neatly, his eyes only on her. They’re sickeningly in love. It would make Macduff bitter if he weren’t so happy for them.
Banquo and Ross are there, Banquo’s fiancée on his arm. Macduff has never met her before, but Isla is a petite girl with dark hair and a witty tongue. She balances Banquo perfectly, something between them connecting even when they’re across the room. This, Macduff is envious of.
Isobel is there, of course, but he barely speaks to her when he arrives. She floats between groups, oftentimes accompanied by Ross, sometimes on her own. Despite barely speaking, he knows where she is at every second. She’s dressed in purple, a deep jewel tone he never would have picked for her. She looks lovely.
His avoidance of her changes when Lennox makes an appearance next to her. He’s got her by the arm, face much too close to her ear, and he’s pulling her out the doorway. Macduff strides over before he can think it through. When he rounds the corner, Lennox scrambles away, and Isobel closes her eyes. Macduff takes her hand, pulls her down to the room with the piano, and closes the door firmly.
“Are you alright?” He says, running over her face with his eyes, mind racing.
“Perfectly fine,” she says, but looks like she’s about to burst into tears. He guides her to a chair. She half-fights him, but he kneels before her on the ground and runs his hand along her arm, checking for any sign of a bruise in the shape of Lennox’s fingers. He doesn’t find anything, but he can’t bring himself to stop.
“He didn’t hurt you?” Macduff asks, not looking at her face. “I thought I would be too late, or that something had already happened, and I…” He doesn’t know how to finish his sentence. There are too many things he’d like to say, too many thoughts screaming through his brain.
“Nothing happened,” she says, and she pulls her arm from his grip. He looks up at her, and she falters. He wonders what expression must be on his face, if he looks as desperate as he feels.
“Isobel, I’ve been awful these past few weeks. It hasn’t been fair to you, and you’ve had to suffer for my actions.” He pulls himself to his feet, runs a hand through his hair as he begins to pace the room. His fingers itch to do something, so he continues to move. “There’s no excuse. I’ve been absolutely horrid.”
“Evander,” she says, and he turns around. She’s standing, pretty in that purple dress, blonde hair pin-straight and falling down her back. “Come here.”
He does, and she pulls him into her arms. He sinks into the hug, holding her tightly against him, a weight disappearing off his chest that he didn’t know he was carrying. That piece of him that he had lost seems to be returning.
“You’re shaking,” she tells him, and he holds her tighter, needing her steadiness. She twines her arms around his with great force, and he buries his face in her hair. “Evander, what’s the matter?”
“Just a minute,” he says, not wanting to let her go. “Just let me have this for a moment, that’s all I ask.”
She pulls away, to the loveseat in the corner. “Let’s sit down, then,” she says, and he doesn’t hesitate. The minute they’re situated, he pulls her closer once more, into the circle of his arms. He says nothing just holds her, and only knows how much his hands shake because she makes a noise and reaches a hand up to run through his hair. Her head is on his shoulder, and his eyes are closed.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, over and over until he’s sure he’s crying, and she’s pulling away in alarm. He keeps his hands on her waist, not sure he could bear to let her go.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I’m okay, we’re alright. Breathe for me, that’s it. Did something happen?”
“I’ve trapped you into this,” he says. “I turned down the crown prince for you and now there’s no one out there who you could have if you wanted. I’m all you get to have. And I didn’t want that to ruin what we have, but it will. Neither of us have a choice.”
“Would it be so awful?” She asks quietly. “Being married to me?”
“Isobel, Isobel, that’s not what I mean,” he says frantically, and she shushes him until he’s calmer. “You’re my friend, and that means so much to me that I didn’t want to let this get in the way of that. Neither of us have a choice, that’s all. I didn’t want that to ruin anything.”
“You’ve been torturing yourself over something you knew would happen anyway,” Isobel says. She slides her hands to his face, makes him look at her. “Why didn’t you talk to me about it?” His expression must say it all, must say that he didn’t know how, because she softens, wipes her thumb underneath his eye. She’s on her knees now, making up for the height difference, both of them curled together on the couch.
“I’ve missed you,” he tells her, and she smiles sadly.
“You have me now.” She pulls him back in for another hug, dress spilling over his legs. He clings to her, tries to keep his hands on her waist and not move, and he needs to pull away before he kisses her or tells her he likes her. “You can talk to me about this, you know. These things concern the both of us.”
“I promise I will,” he says, and silently vows to keep it. Perhaps not everything is better sequestered inside his head.
“I’m glad it’s you,” she says after some time has passed. They’re still embracing, and he cannot see his face. “There were so many others it could have been. It was almost Lennox, and very nearly Ross. I am glad you were the one, even if we had a rather unfortunate start.”
“I as well,” he says. “I have wronged you terribly, Isobel.”
“Make it up to me, then, however you see fit.” There is something in her words that begs him to look at her. A kindness in her expression, worry hiding underneath it. He wants to kiss her, wants it very badly.
“I would not know what to do, to be what you deserve.”
She takes his face in her hands once more, fingertips very nearly in his hair. “Just yourself,” she says. “That’s all I want.”
~
Things change between them. When they return to the wedding celebration, Ross raises his eyebrows before breaking into a smile. He elbows Banquo, who offers them a grin. Brigit looks relieved, Macbeth amused. Macduff says nothing, simply smiles. His face begins to hurt, but he doesn’t stop.
He dances with Isobel and doesn’t stop. His father watches from the side of the room and smiles when Macduff catches his eye.
~
He tells her that he likes her three weeks later, on a walk through the meadows on Fife’s estate. She takes his hand, smiles, and then pushes him with her shoulder.
“I already know,” she says. “I feel the same.”
It’s as simple as that. It’s the most perfect thing in the world.
~
Months pass. The summer season draws to a full business, and they are nearly never apart. He learns pieces of her he didn’t know to expect, and gives away his own secrets in return. Everything is beautiful. He has never been this happy.
His father starts to look at him like he’s expecting something; months have passed since he’s met her. He wakes up one morning to find rings by his bed, and places them in a drawer for safekeeping.
He knows what he’s expected to do. He never thought he’d be excited for it.
~
The summer draws to an end, the season of events over, and he’s beginning to realize he’ll see her much less often. He’ll miss the moments she’s not at his side. He tells her as much, trailing off the end of their group, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “Were we given more time, I could only be happier,” he says. She smiles, leans into his touch. She looks beautiful like this, dressed in the blue of the sky, sunny hair and soft eyes.
“I could not,” she replies. “This time we have with each other is never enough.”
He thinks about kissing her, wonders if he’s allowed by now. He’s nearly kissed her twice in the Macbeths’ piano room, many more times inside his home and only stopping himself before it was too late.
Their group wanders outside, each beginning to fan off into couples, Macbeth and Lady Macbeth leading the way as they so often do, Banquo and his fiancée, Ross and the newest girl he’s been courting. They bring up the rear, and he pauses as they pass under an archway draped with dark green ivy.
“Isobel,” he says, and then takes her in once more. Sky-blue dress, wind-frizzed blonde hair, eyes that glitter with her smile. She grins a little wider, seeing him speechless, and raises her eyebrows. “Isobel,” he says once more, and then he has her in his arms, a hand on her face, watching those eyes stare up at him. “May I kiss you?”
Her face softens, and she nods. He takes her in his hands tilts up her face, brings her lips to his. It’s like no kiss he’s ever had, making him weak at the knees, and he finds himself backing up against the archway, Isobel pressed against him. The kiss goes on and on, her lips soft, her hands on his wrist, one of his hands around her waist. He pulls back to breathe, his heart threatening to leap from his chest, and kisses her again. And again. And then once more, and it’s everything he never knew he wanted, never thought he could have.
It is beautiful. It is glorious. It is like coming home.
~
Banquo finds them minutes later, still kissing, and coughs in order to interrupt. They’re both thoroughly embarrassed, but Macduff feels like he’s walking on clouds. He doesn’t let go of Isobel’s hand, even when their friends look at them and smirk, even when Isobel joins in at the expression on his face. It’s perfect. She’s perfect.
So the summer ends with a kiss and an enjoyable evening with friends. He does not know what else he could ask for.
~
He sees her barely at all during the autumn, and perhaps once during the winter season. His father takes ill during September, and he spends the next four months by his side, frightened that each day will render him an orphan. Isobel visits him twice, listens to his worries, holds him while he puts himself back together. He misses her even when she is there with him. His father is dying, and he can think of nothing else.
~
In March, a recovery begins to come. By April, his father can leave his bed, walk about the estate for an hour, and be only in a state of exhaustion, not illness. Macduff rejoices, sends a letter to his friends, and thanks the heavens that he will not become thane of Fife this month.
~
Others are not so fortunate. Macbeth becomes thane of Glamis in these months Macduff is absent, and the death of his father shows when next they meet. Lady Macbeth has carried no child, which grieves him further still.
~
In May, Ross loses his sister. Macduff did not know her, but Ross has been a good and worthy friend. It saddens his heart to see his companion so distraught.
He spends a week with Ross and his family, holding his friend up, startled when Prince Malcolm pays a visit to show his respects. They had known each other for several months, Macduff discovers. There too, another love gone.
~
But the sad days do not last. With fair weather comes fair spirits, despite Macbeth’s brooding tendencies and Ross’s reserved attitude. Banquo does his best to cheer them up, his fiancée helping tremendously, and Malcolm soon finds himself attached to their group. Ross looks at him admiringly, casting even his footprints worthy of praise. There is something in his friend’s eye he does not recognize.
Isobel and Brigit confer often. Everyone knows, to Brigit’s humiliation, that she lost a child to miscarriage, but no one thinks any different of her for it. She is a little quieter, a little more easy to tuck into someone’s side, but Macduff offers her smiles and praise whenever he can, if only to get that expression off her face.
The spring season brings up social events once again, but Macduff has gotten busier during his father’s infirmity and the duties he managed have stayed with him. He still manages to attend one every two weeks, just to see Isobel, but it’s become easier to just visit her at her home, or to invite her to his.
He dances with her in the rooms left abandoned, their feet leaving traces in the dust. One day, he reaches the second level to find the windows open, Isobel singing as she helps two servants sweep out a room. The maids look very nervous when they see him, glancing at Isobel with a broom in hand, but he knows she’s a force of nature when she wants to be, and doesn’t get mad. They leave before she notices he’s there, and he’s left with her singing.
That stops as soon as she turns and sees him. Her cheeks flush, and he knows he has an awestruck expression about him.
“I’m in love with you,” he says, staring at her in her green gown, pretty smile, and her voice still echoing in his ears. She stares at him. “I’m in love with you and it’s the luckiest I’ve ever been.”
She’s in his arms before he finishes his sentence. “I love you too,” she says, right in his ear, and then they’re kissing, sweet and gentle and like a homecoming, like how kisses with her always taste.
~
Six months later, he finds her in his bedroom, looking around, singing to herself. It’s art the way he plays the piano, the way the notes come to life though her voice and under his hands. She looks like she belongs here, perfectly fitting into his life, filling every missing piece.
“Evander,” she says, noticing him in the doorway. “I was wondering where you went.” She pauses, looks at him closer. “Is everything alright?”
He’s on his knees, ring in hand, before he even thinks. “Marry me,” he says, and her eyes widen. “When I met you I was afraid of what knowing you would bring. It has brought me greater happiness than I have ever dreamed of. I have never met another with the other half of my soul.” He sees her look at him, something in her expression change. He should have planned this more. “Will you marry me, Isobel?”
“Yes,” she breathes, and then the ring is on her finger and they’re kissing. He gets her legs around his waist, lifts her up and pins her against the door. She gasps into the kiss, arms around his neck, his own hands underneath her things. The skirts of her blue dress, the one she wore when he first kissed her, spills around them.
They stay like that for eternity, or what feels like it. After a minute or two he slides her down, still kissing her, and walks them backwards to his bed. “You could have anyone,’ he gasps against her neck, hands running up her back, pulling her against him, feeling like he might die if she moves away. “Anyone, and you chose me.”
“You are what I want,” she tells him firmly, giving as good as she gets, hands tangled in his shirt and in his hair. It must be a mess right now. He hopes it is. “You make me a better person. I didn’t know it right away, what it was, what it meant. But I know now.”
He kisses her again, and again, firm and heavy and filled with the words he doesn’t know how to say. He loves this girl beside him, curled in his lap, mouthing at his jaw. If they don’t stop soon, he won’t be able to stop at all. But just a moment more, a moment of feeling her against him like this, the press of it all between them.
“I’m what you want,” he whispers, half-marveling at the fact that she should want him, anything close to him at all. He’s a shadow of who he should be.
“You always are,” she tells him, breaking the kiss and pulling him in for a hug. She is small in his arms, filled with immeasurable strength. Her arms are still around his neck, his around her waist. To wait is a torture too cruel for man’s devising.
“I love you,” he says, and the words are no less heavy for having been repeated a hundred times. “Isobel, my love, we are engaged.” This excitement he cannot contain. “Our families—I must tell my father.’
She laughs, smooths her hair down, and kisses him once more. When they part, he pulls her off the bed, spins her around just to hear her laugh. It sounds nothing like bells. It is wild and unrestrained and free. It is the most perfect sound in the world.
~
They are married eight months later on a Sunday morning surrounded by family and friends. Brigit beams the whole day, Macbeth proudly by her side. Malcolm shows, next to Ross, with Banquo and his wife beside them. His father never stops smiling.
The ceremony closes as he kisses her, pulls her to him and takes the moment for just the two of them. The first kiss of the rest of their lives. One of the best things he has come to know.
She looks gorgeous, unearthly in white and her blonde hair let down from elaborate braids. Her dress has a long train he keeps reminding himself not to trip over. They pull apart, to the adulation of their friends and family.
“Are you ready, Lady Macduff?” He asks, offering her his hand. Her smile is all the answer he needs.