These dreary thoughts occupied her mind until Bessie brought the tea tray. While Isabelle poured, Lily pulled Bessie aside and murmured to her in a low voice. The maid nodded and collected Lily’s abigail. The women donned cloaks and departed through the front door.
“What was that about?” Isabelle asked wryly, hoping to put aside the somber atmosphere. “You haven’t sacked Bessie, have you? No one else worth a salt will work for such a miserable pittance. I shall never find another like her.” She passed a cup and saucer to Lily.
“I’ve sent them to the butcher.” Lily shrugged guiltily. “You know how particular I am about food. I’m a horrible guest.”
Isabelle shook her head. Again, Lily made her gifts sound like a nuisance.
“Besides,” Lily continued with the spark of the devil in her eyes, “I wanted your dear Bessie out from under our feet. I live in fear of slipping up and calling you Isabelle, instead of Jocelyn or Mrs. Smith.”
Isabelle nodded. “Fair enough.” A strand of her blond hair fell down alongside her cheek. She hooked it behind her ear. She couldn’t remember the last time her hair had been styled by a lady’s maid. “Why have you come, Lily?” She touched her friend’s arm lightly. “Not that I’m not delighted to see you, of course, but I don’t get many surprise visitors.”
Lily set her tea on the small table beside the sofa. “I’ve come to issue an invitation.”
Isabelle’s ears perked. “To what? No one’s invited me anywhere in years.”
“A wedding,” Lily answered. “My cousin, Freddy Bachman, is returned from Spain. He’s getting married in a week. I hoped you’d come as my guest. It will be my first outing in quite a long time, too.”
A wedding? Isabelle wrinkled her brow and buried her face in her teacup. A wedding was so respectable. Two people standing before God, pledging their lives to one another — surely they wouldn’t want a divorcée there. She’d be like a leper at a garden party — completely out of place, abnormal, despised.
“Isabelle?” Lily ventured.
She raised her eyes over the rim of her cup.
“Shall I pour, dear?” Lily asked. “Your cup was empty before you lifted it.”
Isabelle quickly lowered the vacant china. “Ah, so it is. Yes, please,” she said with tight gaiety. She forced a laugh. “Who on earth is married in the dead of winter?”
“My cousin, for one,” Lily said while she poured Isabelle a fresh cup. “His fiancée has been waiting these several years for his discharge from the army.”
Isabelle’s smile faltered. “She waited for him to come home from the war? For years?” Such a testament of devotion was humbling. Isabelle shook her head. “I can’t. It wouldn’t be right.”
Lily’s finely arched brows drew together and she tilted her head to the side. One gleaming curl rested prettily on the shoulder of her red dress. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Isabelle shook her head again. “No.”
“Why not?” Lily took Isabelle’s cup and set it aside, then scooped both of Isabelle’s hands in her own. “You must stop thinking of yourself as some kind of pariah. You’re divorced, not diseased. No one else is going to … catch it.” Her full lips turned up in a sympathetic smile. “You’ve been in exile long enough,” Lily continued. “I assure you, no one is talking about you at all anymore.”
Isabelle regarded her warily. “Really?”
Lily nodded. “You’re not nearly as interesting as you think you are.”
Isabelle laughed, then drew a nervous breath. “Oh, I just don’t know. I would feel so conspicuous.”
“It’s just a family affair,” Lily assured her. “You wouldn’t know anyone there, and they don’t know you, either — except for my parents, of course, and they adore you. It will be a perfect first step.”
Isabelle sighed. “It does sound like an ideal reintroduction to respectable company. But, something has happened that may delay my plans.” She went into her bedchamber to retrieve Alexander’s letter and handed it to her friend.
Lily scanned the page, then clicked her tongue. “The absolute gall of the man.” Her fist closed around an edge of the page. She shook it in front of her. “How dare he? Punishing you yet again? What does he hope to accomplish by cutting you off?”
“I don’t know.” Isabelle pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “But you see, now is not the time for me to try to go back into society. I’ll have to work first, save a little money — ”
“Work?” The word fell from Lily’s mouth like a bite of rotten egg. “What do you mean?”
“I have to earn money,” Isabelle explained calmly. “I’ve given it a great deal of thought. I’ll do something small to start, perhaps take in mending. I can’t rely upon unexpected visitors to keep me in tea.”
Lily blushed.
Isabelle stood and paced the length of the small room. “I should like to open a shop, eventually. Perhaps a millinery.”
“You don’t make hats,” Lily pointed out.
“There is that,” Isabelle agreed. “Perhaps I could import them. From Paris.”
Lily’s eyes widened. “Smuggled bonnets? I really can’t imagine you mingling with the criminal element. Not at all a respectable endeavor.”
“I suppose not.” Isabelle tapped her chin. “There must be something!”
“We’ll think about it this week, all right?” Lily reassured her. “I wonder, though, if you won’t be in your dotage by the time you have enough money to launch yourself again.”
Isabelle sighed and plopped back onto the couch in a rather unladylike fashion. “I just want a family, Lily. Is that really too much to ask? A respectable husband and a few children of my own?”
The familiar emptiness in her heart ached. Childbirth had taken both Isabelle’s mother and the infant girl who would have been her little sister. Her father then fell into a melancholy from which he’d never recovered. Fairfax Hall went without the attention of its master for a decade. Isabelle had likewise gone neglected. Left to the care of doting servants and a tutor, she’d been permitted to do as she pleased.
Her treasured friendship with Justin Miller should never have gone on as long as it did, she now knew. It was not at all the thing for a young lady to be on such close terms with a young man, but no one bothered to put a stop to it. Justin was the one constant source of affection and amusement in her life.
Lily’s family came from their home in Brighton only a couple times a year to visit Mrs. Bachman’s parents, who were neighbors to Fairfax Hall.
Alexander had gone to Oxford, and Isabelle’s Papa spent his time in solitude — in the library, in his study, or wandering the estate. Several times, she and Justin had found him lying on the ground, sleeping beside the white marble tomb he’d built for his wife and child. There was room inside for him, too. It seemed to Isabelle as though he wanted to crawl inside and join her.
Isabelle sometimes wondered how her life would have been different if he had been dead in truth, rather than absent only in mind and spirit. She would have been properly provided for, she supposed, not allowed to develop such hoydenish tendencies. It had been painful, too. As a child, she tried and tried to cheer her father. She danced and sang silly songs. He smiled wanly with eyes devoid of humor and patted her head. Isabelle wondered why she and Alexander weren’t good enough. She missed Mama, too, but there were still people she loved around her. Didn’t Papa love her? She was certain there was something — some one thing — that would make him better. Isabelle spent countless hours trying to find it.
In time, when she was twelve, Papa did the only thing that would end his suffering. Isabelle heard the shot and got to his study first. He’d fallen sideways on the leather sofa, and what she noticed most was not the blood, but the peaceful expression on his face.
Isabelle returned to herself. She blinked a few times and said in a low voice, “I’ve never
had
a family, Lily. Is it too selfish of me to want one of my own?”
“Of course not,” Lily cooed. “We’ll get you there, Isa, never you fear.” She straightened to a businesslike posture. “As much as I dislike the idea, I agree you must do something to generate income. I’ll save up my pin money, too, and maybe in a few months — ”
“No,” Isabelle interjected vehemently. She clutched her skirt in her fists. “I’ll take your tea, but I cannot accept your money.” Lily started to protest, but Isabelle raised a hand to stop her. “Please. I have endured this situation for several years. This is just a new obstacle, and I
shall
overcome it. But not with your allowance.”
Lily sighed. “All right, then. Do say you’ll come to the wedding, though. I should dearly love your company.”
The allure of polite society warred with Isabelle’s practical concerns. At last, she shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t, Lily. Not with things so tight here. The days I’d spend away are days I could be earning money to keep this place heated.”
Worry lines bracketed Lily’s mouth. “I wish you would let me do something for you, dear. Your bleak circumstances cannot persist.”
A half-smile tugged Isabelle’s mouth. “Things will improve. And I’ll tell you something,” she said, pulling her shoulders back. “It will be nice to have reliable income, rather than depend on a man’s whim.”
“Hmm.” A thoughtful expression crossed Lily’s pretty features. “I didn’t think of that, but you’re right. What a novel idea. Since you won’t come to the wedding with me, I’ll do what I can to help you find a position.”
“Maybe it will even be fun,” Isabelle said, her mood brightening. “This is a chance to make a new start. I’ve been living a kind of half-life ever since the divorce. Now I can start over.”
Lily raised her chipped teacup. “To new beginnings.”
Isabelle lifted hers to join the toast. “To new beginnings.
And
, to the devil with men.”
• • •
Lily’s brows shot to her hairline. “A cook? Really, Isabelle, what are you thinking?”
A week after her arrival, the maids bustled to prepare for Miss Bachman’s departure to her cousin’s wedding. In that time, Isabelle had approached every business in the area at which she might be at all useful.
Isabelle playfully swatted her friend’s arm. “Yes, a cook. I’ll have you know, I’m a reasonable hand in the kitchen. At home, Cook taught me out of Mother’s French recipe books.”
The taller woman cast her a dubious look. “Be that as it may, inns are frequently rather seedy.”
“Oh, no, The George is a very clean establishment. Mr. Davies was so impressed with the stew I made, I was even able to negotiate a higher wage.”
“Wage negotiations?” Lily’s shoulders rose and fell with her sigh. “All right, Isabelle, you’ve impressed me. Go ahead and tumble into the working class. I suppose you’re ready as you’ll ever be.”
Isabelle grasped her friend in a tight hug. “Thank you for everything.”
Lily held her back at arm’s length. “You can do anything you put your mind to, Isabelle. Your dreams of a husband and children — you
can
have those, you know. Go and cook for your villagers if you must, but you’re still hiding. Come back to the world and take your proper place.”
Isabelle’s lips curved in a wistful smile. “This
is
my proper place now, Lily. This is the life I must live.”
“On the matter of Thomas Gerald, Your Grace, there has been no progress.”
Marshall Trevelyan Bruckner Lockwood, Duke of Monthwaite looked up from the folding desk in his traveling chaise where he was reviewing the annual expenditure summaries he’d collected from his various stewards over the past month.
His secretary, Perkins, sat opposite, with papers strewn across his lap and the seat. The pale, bespectacled man had a mind as strong as a steel trap. He’d been in Marshall’s employ for several years now, and had become invaluable in keeping Marshall’s dealings sorted out.
“Nothing?” Marshall asked, raising a brow.
Perkins scanned the parchment in his hand. He pressed a handkerchief to his lips, squeezed his eyes shut, and shook his head. “No, sir, nothing.” He cleared his throat. “Thomas Gerald’s name appears on the manifest of the
Destiny
, which sailed from Van Diemen’s Land August 17, 1809. He worked as a deck hand to pay his passage. All told, the voyage took the better part of a year, with stops for provisions, and repairs in the Caribbean islands. He could have disembarked at any one of these locations, rather than return to England. His name is not mentioned again, either in the manifest or the captain’s log. There is nothing more.” Perkins dabbed at the sheen of sweat that had popped out on his forehead as he spoke.
“How does a man just disappear for years?” He muttered to himself. “Are you all right?” he asked Perkins. “You’re looking a touch green.”
“Apologies, sir,” the secretary said through clenched teeth. “Reading in a moving vehicle causes a mild indisposition. I’m quite well, though, I assure you.” Marshall watched his fastidious secretary run a finger under his neck cloth, loosening it. “Shall we continue?”
“No, that will do for now,” Marshall said. “I’d rather you not cast your accounts on my boots.”
Perkins scowled.
“Take a rest,” Marshall suggested. “We’ll soon be stopping for the night.”
“Thank you, sir.” Perkins looked decidedly peaked, but neatly stowed away all the papers before leaning his head back against the squabs.
Marshall took up the Thomas Gerald file and flipped through it. He once again scanned the sole report his investigator had been able to generate about Gerald’s departure from the penal colony, having fulfilled his ten-year sentence for the willful destruction of Marshall’s father’s property, his prize mare and her foal. The information was now several years old. He could be anywhere, Marshall thought in frustration — Brazil, or Haiti … or England.
He closed his eyes, and the whole horrible scene was there, as though the incident had been yesterday, not twelve years ago. In his mind’s eye, he saw the mare, Priscilla, past due for her foaling, and the grooms worried about her. He saw Thomas Gerald, a young man just a couple years older than Marshall, laughing and jovial as he joked with the other grooms, tender and concerned when he looked after the ailing Priscilla.
And then Marshall saw himself: a boy of thirteen, bored with the confines of the schoolroom, desperate to prove his maturity, and longing to earn his father’s approval. His newfound interest in botany consumed his adolescent mind. He’d read a few books and had begun helping the gardener in the greenhouse, observing the way the man planted seeds in different fashions and watching carefully as he grafted one plant onto another. In short order, Marshall became the embodiment of the phrase about a little knowledge being a dangerous thing.