Isabelle shook her hand. “No, sir, nothing like that. My brother has offered me a place to live, so I’m going home.” Her stomach flipped at the fib. She could dream of such a positive reception, but had little hope of it actually happening.
That business concluded, she returned home to deal with Bessie. It pained Isabelle to leave her behind to fend for herself, but she couldn’t very well bring her to Fairfax Hall and insist Alexander give her a place.
Instead, Isabelle offered Bessie the position of stewardess of the cottage. She gave Bessie most of Alexander’s bank draft, keeping out just enough for the post-chaise. The money she left with the woman was more than they had seen in the last six months, and Isabelle promised to send more in a month, provided Alexander was reconciling with her, and not bringing her home just to inform her she was cut from the family for good.
Finally, Isabelle packed her meager belongings into a single trunk and set out. As the countryside rolled by, Isabelle felt a mounting sense of nervous anticipation. Thankfully, it wasn’t a long journey. She was met at the posting house nearest her brother’s estate by Alexander’s own coach.
The sun was setting as the coach carried her down the drive, through the home woods, past a lake full of noisy ducks set in a modest park, to the manor house. Though the rambling Grecian style structure was young by most standards — only a hundred years — Isabelle thought the stuccoed construction was perfect. She loved every inch of it, though she knew most of the
ton
would have scoffed at its insignificant twenty-seven rooms.
Sweat beaded on her upper lip as the coach drew to a stop in front of the broad steps leading down from the door. The footman hopped down and assisted her.
The door swung wide open. “Miss Isabelle!” the butler cried joyously. “Here you are at last. Come in.”
“Hello, Iverson,” Isabelle said, nearly weak with relief at not having the door slammed in her face by the aged retainer. One of the butler’s eyes was clear blue, the other cloudy and blind, yet his face had a stately quality unimpeded by his handicap.
“Welcome home,” he said, smiling warmly.
She stepped into the front hall. The parquet floor gleamed from a fresh waxing. Two footmen passed Isabelle, carrying her trunk to her room. “Where’s Alexander?”
“Mr. Fairfax is going over some business affairs with the bailiff,” the butler answered. “He asks not to be disturbed.”
“Oh,” Isabelle said, deflated. Perhaps this was not the warm homecoming she had hoped for, after all.
“He bade me tell you he would see you at supper tonight, and asks that you join him in the parlor to dine
en famille
.”
“Seven o’clock?” Isabelle asked, recalling the time her brother usually ate.
“Yes, miss. Mr. Fairfax is becoming quite set in his ways,” Iverson noted with a touch of disapproval. Having been at the Hall since well before Isabelle’s birth, the butler felt no compunction in offering his opinion. And because he had been something of a father figure to Isabelle during her unhappy childhood, she would never dream of correcting him. He was more family to her than servant.
Isabelle raised her brows. “Are you of the opinion that Alexander should dine at a different time?”
“Of course not.” The butler’s chest puffed out indignantly. “But it’s high time Mister Alexander brought a wife home,” he said, slipping into his old familiarity with the current master’s name. “Not that you aren’t a perfectly capable mistress, of course,” he amended, “but he’s turning himself into a confirmed bachelor!”
Isabelle smiled wryly. “I don’t know about that,” she said. “He’s only thirty.”
“Old enough to have a babe in the nursery and another on the way,” Iverson countered.
Isabelle patted the old retainer fondly on the arm and went up to her room to freshen up before supper.
Her room was much the same as it had been when she’d left at eighteen to become Marshall’s marchioness, and then duchess. The bedspread was a dusty rose, as were the curtains and many of the accessories. Accents of light green and ivory completed the color scheme. During Isabelle’s adolescence, she’d thought her room the loveliest she’d ever seen, like a private garden. Now, it struck her as tired and juvenile.
A small tortoiseshell cat emerged from beneath the bed and mewed. “Miss Bigglesworth!” she exclaimed, dropping to her knees to scoop the animal into her arms. The old cat butted her head against Isabelle’s chin and purred contentedly.
When Isabelle was eight, she and Justin had rescued the kitten from a sack in the stream. The poor drenched thing was half-drowned and shivering with cold. Justin teased her for crying over it, but Isabelle brought the kitten home and nursed her back to health with the help of Cook’s generous supply of cream.
At the time, she’d thought Miss Bigglesworth a very dignified name for her pet. Now it seemed childish, just like her room.
She took a turn around the room while she stroked the cat’s graying fur.
“Wouldn’t the bed look nice in something bolder?” she asked Miss Bigglesworth. “Sapphire and silver brocade, perhaps.” She sighed and turned. “And the mantel,” she tsked. It would be improved with the multitude of girlish knickknacks cleared away and replaced by a few beautiful, well-chosen pieces. “A crystal vase would be becoming against the dark wood,” she murmured, touching the left end of the mantel. “A miniature or two in silver frames
here
, and perhaps a potted plant … ”
Isabelle sucked in her breath; her fingers clutched at Miss Bigglesworth’s fur. The cat yowled in protest before Isabelle relaxed her grip.
You ninny
, she chastised herself. She’d been mentally redecorating her room to look like the master bedchamber at Hamhurst, the one she had shared with Marshall.
Seeing him at the inn had done her no good. She’d been fine before he turned up in the dining room at the George. Now she kept remembering the stolen hour they’d spent together.
She’d awoken in the darkest, coldest part of the night, shivering and hungry for his touch. The flame he’d rekindled deep in her belly flared hotly every time she thought about it. It was distracting beyond all reckoning. Just a hint of kissing was dragging up other memories she would do well to forget, like the bed they’d shared as a married couple.
Miss Bigglesworth squirmed in her arms. “You’re right,” Isabelle muttered, bending at the waist to release her onto the carpet. “I am the most pathetic woman ever born.”
Isabelle turned her attention to getting herself ready for supper. She had no lady’s maid, and Alexander obviously hadn’t thought of assigning one of the house maids to act as such, as her trunk still sat untouched at the foot of the bed where the footmen had deposited it.
She retrieved a simple, lavender muslin dress that wasn’t too badly wrinkled. Isabelle put it on and tied her hair back with a ribbon. It still wasn’t time to go down to the parlor, so she spent the remaining time before supper hanging the few other simple dresses she’d brought along. The ice blue dress she’d repaired received special attention. That one, she hung with plenty of room around it so the skirt would not be crushed. Isabelle had no reason to suppose she’d need a fine gown again in the foreseeable future, but she couldn’t bear to allow that dress to be ruined.
Satisfied with her work, she descended to the parlor. The door stood open to the room they’d always called the French Parlor. Their mother had decorated the room with furnishings from her own girlhood home in the Loire Valley so that it resembled the interior of a Provincial cottage more than an English parlor. The walls, Isabelle had always thought, were the exact shade of sunshine, an airy yellow striped with a richer, golden tone. A rustic, round table stood in front of a large window overlooking the back gardens, with an enameled milk jug serving as a centerpiece. A stout wooden chair, painted white with a cornflower blue cushion, stood near the fireplace.
A low sofa in white and blue and two upholstered chairs completed the seating area. On a low table between the chairs was a miniature of Isabelle’s mother. She picked up the small portrait and touched her finger to the face of the woman she could scarcely remember. Her father said this was a good likeness, but Isabelle had almost no memory of her own of her mother’s face.
“Hello, little sister.”
Isabelle turned, hugging the miniature to her chest. Alexander stood at the threshold, his broad shoulders nearly filling the doorframe. At over six feet tall, he had always truly been Isabelle’s big brother. Of everyone in her acquaintance, only Marshall matched him in stature. Looking into Alexander’s face was like looking at an older, masculine version of herself. He had the same golden hair and green eyes. Their father sometimes said their mother must have sprouted them both all by herself, for all the contribution he made to their coloring.
“Hello, big brother,” she said tentatively. His expression was unreadable. She still did not know whether he was welcoming her home or banishing her forever.
He took three strides to cross the room to where she stood.
For a moment, he only stood and looked down at her. Then he plucked the miniature from Isabelle’s hands and turned it over in his own palms, looking down at the woman who had given them both life, and died along with their sibling. Isabelle folded her hands at her waist, waiting.
“You’re the very image of her,” he said quietly.
Unaccountably, a lump formed in Isabelle’s throat. “Really?” she managed. She knew well enough that she had similar coloring, but no one had ever told her she looked like the beautiful woman in the painting.
Her brother nodded. “The portraits don’t show the resemblance as well,” he declared with a wave of his hand. “But your expressions, the way you hold yourself, it’s extraordinarily similar.”
“Thank you,” Isabelle whispered, her throat tight with emotion.
Alexander returned the miniature to its place and guided her to the table.
The meal passed in companionable conversation. Alexander did a remarkable job, she noticed, of keeping their exchanges on polite matters: the weather, the state of the estate’s tenants, how their neighbors fared.
When the meal ended, Isabelle started to rise, intending to allow her brother time to enjoy his after supper drink. Alexander waved her back down.
“Don’t be silly, Isa,” he said, smiling in his lopsided way. “I’m not going to send you off while I have a glass of port all by myself.”
“I’ll call for tea, then,” she ventured.
“No.” Alexander reached for the bottle the footman had placed on the table a short time ago. “Have a drink with me.”
Isabelle blinked. “Oh. Certainly.” She felt a little thrill as he poured a glass for her, as though she were partaking in some forbidden pagan sacrament, something beyond the province of her feminine world.
She took a sip of the beverage. As much as it looked like wine, it tasted very different. Her eyes widened at the unexpected strength of it, and then her tongue curled against the sweetness of the port. After a few sips, however, when the stress of the day’s trials began to melt away, she understood why a man might want to take such a drink after supper.
A glass later, she and Alexander were laughing over stories from their childhoods. He told her about things that happened around the estate, stories of picnics with their parents, of being caught out at some mischief. Something inside Isabelle grasped onto the stories and cried out,
Yes, I was there
, although most of what Alexander related happened before she was born. The stories gave her a sense of connection to her past, yet also emphasized the emptiness she felt about her own family memories. She had none to speak of. By the time she was old enough to actively participate in family events, her mother was dead, her father despondent, and Alexander was away at school. Isabelle envied her brother the experiences he had with their parents.
Alexander refilled each of their glasses. “So,” he said carefully, “what’s this I hear about you cooking at an inn?”
Isabelle’s eyes shot to his face. How had he found out? His mouth was set in a firm line. This was, she realized, the reason he’d brought her home.
Her stomach roiled sourly around the port. “Who told you?” she asked, sounding much like the guilty school girl she felt like.
“I had a letter from Monthwaite.” Alexander leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs out to the side, crossing them at the ankle. “He gave me quite a nicely phrased dressing down.”
Isabelle rotated her glass in circles, unable to meet her brother’s eyes. How dare Marshall interject himself? Alexander probably thought she’d put him up to it.
“He was right, of course,” Alexander said. “I shouldn’t have cut you off. It was impulsive. I was angry.”
Isabelle ventured a glance at him. He was staring at his own glass. “Why?”
He breathed a single, mirthless laugh. “I asked for a lady’s hand and she rejected me.”
She wrapped her arms around her middle, trying to quail the sinking feeling. Somehow, she had something to do with his rejection. She could tell it by his tone. “Why?” she whispered, fearing his answer.
Alexander looked at her and said gently, “On the grounds that no respectable woman wants a divorcée for a sister-in-law.”
Was it possible for a person to feel any more wretched than Isabelle did at that moment? She buried her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry, Alex. If there was any way I could fix it — ”
“There is.”
She lifted her face.
“You have to marry again,” Alexander said. He took a long pull at his drink.
Isabelle’s eyes widened.
He raised a hand. “Not to put too fine a point on it, little sister, but you are frankly ruining my chances at making a good match for myself. The lady I courted was a baron’s daughter, and she was not, I believe, without regard for me.”
“Of course not,” Isabelle said in a mollifying tone. “You’re a wonderful man. Any woman with a bit of sense — ”
“Would marry as best she can,” Alexander interjected, his eyebrows raised. “A landowner of only modest means, with no title, a smallish estate, and a divorced sister does not exactly bowl the ladies over with awe.”