Isabel: A Regency Romance (Families of Dorset Book 2)

by Martha Keyes

  "That is a tall order, Ju. I don't know that it is achievable. We didn't even see one another daily before coming to London."

  "Oh, but Charles, anything is possible if you but have the will." She looked up at him expectantly. "Do you have the will?"

  His lips parted, and he stared back down at her, a thousand memories flooding his mind as he looked into her lash-framed blue eyes.

  "I think,” she said matter-of-factly, “it might be accomplished quite easily, you know. A simple visit to my father would do wonders in setting us upon that path." She pursed her lips to suppress a smile, but her brows wagged up and down once.

  Charles's own brows lifted. Julia had always been driven, never shy to state what she wanted. His heart quickened slightly as he considered what it meant to have her suggest such an action. Was this it, then? What he had been hoping for?

  He thought of what a visit to Mr. Darling would entail. The Season wasn't over, after all, and that had been a main stipulation of the Darlings when he had been forbidden from paying his addresses to Julia. Mr. Darling had also been clear that he thought Julia could do better. With Farrow’s old family name and the estates they owned, he was just the type of person Mr. Darling would likely welcome as a suitor for his daughter.

  "Ju," Charles said, stopping and turning to face her, "I need to tell you something. Something important."

  Julia tilted her head as she looked at him, her arch smile appearing again. "I already know," she said.

  Charles blinked. "Know what?"

  "That you love me," she said, lifting her shoulders. "Everybody knows."

  He was momentarily diverted from his purpose. His jaw shifted from side to side. "What do you mean by that?"

  "Oh, come, Charles! It is quite obvious that you wished to teach me a lesson. I can't say that I admire your decision to choose Miss Cosgrove as the instrument of your plan—there are plenty of other lovely and eligible ladies who would have served the purpose better— but—" she put up her palms in a gesture of surrender, accompanied by a little laugh "—you win."

  Charles's brows were drawn, his face in stark contrast with the humor written on Julia's. Anger made his veins pulsate, but he didn't know whether it was because she was so near to being correct or because she was also so terribly wrong.

  It was true that he and Isabel had hoped to remind Julia of her regard for him. It was not something he felt particularly proud of. But he and Isabel had also been keeping up appearances for her father's benefit. Isabel had simply recognized the additional opportunity it might provide for Charles—killing two birds with one stone, in a way.

  Julia's conceited treatment of Isabel, her assumption that she had been nothing but a puppet to Charles—it sickened him and made him feel sudden unease. Did Isabel feel that she had been a pawn to him?

  He looked at Julia, frustrated by how out of charity he felt with her. It was so opposite what he had hoped to feel. Julia thought that it had all been a game.

  "Julia," he said, shaking his head and rubbing his fingers across his mouth as he stared at the ground. "I must ask you to be plain with me. What is the nature of your relationship with Robert Farrow?"

  She lifted her chin. "What right have you to ask me such a thing?"

  "None," he said. "And yet I do ask you."

  "And I," she said with brows raised, "refuse to answer you."

  Charles jaw tightened. "So be it. But perhaps it will interest you to know more about Mr. Farrow. He is a depraved man, Ju; one who will stoop to any level to achieve his selfish ends."

  Julia's eyes glittered. "You are unjust in your jealousy, Charles."

  Charles shook his head, noting her crossed arms and overbright eyes. "It is true that I never liked to see you with him, Ju. But it wasn't just jealousy. And time has proven my suspicions correct."

  "If you are still harping on Farrow's indiscretions, please have done, Charles. You are so very stiff." She raised a brow as she noted his rigid posture. "Perhaps it would do you good to follow in Farrow's footsteps a little. You take everything—including yourself—far too seriously."

  He grimaced, remembering what she had said to him before his fateful card playing at the Cosgroves. "Surely you can’t blame me for preferring the company of Mr. Farrow or Lord Nolan. You've become so preachy and dull of late that it is little wonder, I’m sure."

  Would he always be made to feel inferior now that Julia had experienced more of the world? He had little desire to seek the type of female company she referenced, and it was not a good omen that she encouraged it. What woman whose heart was engaged would suggest such a thing to the man she loved?

  "It is not Farrow's indiscretions that I speak of, Ju,” he said. “It's the young woman whose naivety he took advantage of and then abandoned, refusing to acknowledge his responsibility or her claims upon him." He put up a hand as he saw a retort on her lips. "But we have spoken of that before and must simply part ways on that matter. What I want you to know is that that incident is far from the extent of Farrow's misdeeds. He has made and broken other promises—to his father, most importantly. And again, instead of facing the consequences or striving to rectify his wrongs, he chooses the coward's way out. Julia, he has even resorted to violence against innocents as an attempt to save his inheritance from the consequences of his broken promises and reckless lifestyle."

  Julia's nostrils flared, her cheeks pink with emotion. "It is wrong to deprive a man of his rightful inheritance, Charles. Surely you would fight for your own fortune if the caprices of your dying father threatened to dispossess you of it? If a will truly exists which affects Farrow so nearly and terribly, he has every right to see it. You are entirely unjust."

  Charles reared back. "You knew?"

  Julia smiled, but the smile was devoid of either humor or affection. "Of course I know, Charles. Farrow is not the deceitful blackguard you seem to think him, and I do not condemn him for doing what he must to claim that which is rightfully his. You would do the same in his position, as would any man."

  Charles took a step back from her, disbelief on his face. "If you truly think that, you don't know me at all."

  "Perhaps not," she said, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin. "Perhaps I don't wish to."

  Charles's jaw tightened. "I will relieve you of my presence." He executed a stiff bow and turned back toward his horse still grazing a few feet away. Miss Burton and Julia's maid looked away awkwardly as his gaze met theirs. He bowed and bid them farewell, too angry to care that they had likely heard his exchange with Julia.

  He hopped deftly onto his horse, giving the gelding full rein to canter across the fields of the Park, ignoring the prescribed walkways and the round eyes which followed his progress.

  24

  Isabel stood with a hand on each knob of her opened armoire, staring at the clothes within. She glanced back at the portmanteau laying on her bed. It was nearly full, despite the fact that she had only been able to choose a precious few garments to take with her.

  She sighed, grabbing one of the sturdier, dowdier muslins she owned and closing the armoire. It was not a particularly fashionable dress, but it would be much more practical than her other dresses for the life she would be leading. She folded the muslin, placing it in the portmanteau and feeling grateful that she would at least be able to take the clothes on her back as well as what was in the leather case.

  Next to the portmanteau on her bed sat a book, open to a listing of Mail Coach routes and timetables. Three sealed letters lay on the nightstand—one addressed to her father, one to the rector, and one to Charles. She eyed them and bit her lip. Once those were opened by their recipients, there was no turning back. There was nowhere to go but forward anyway.

  The last item on her list of things to accomplish was a visit to Mary. When she had sat with the quill to a fourth piece of parchment, she hadn't been able to bring herself to write more than the salutation. A letter was simply inadequate to express what she wished to say to her friend. She kn
ew she could rely on Mary's discretion, and she found comfort in the prospect of being able to unburden herself to someone.

  She tied the white ribbons of her straw bonnet, stowed the portmanteau and Mail Coach routes under her bed, and went down the stairs to the front door. A servant opened it for her, and she thanked him, looking him in the eye and handing him a shilling. He took it with obvious gratitude in his eyes.

  She felt a sudden and new connection with the servants, knowing that she could well be in a similar position soon. Any generosity she could show felt like an act of hope for her own future.

  She stepped out into the bustling London air and looked around, feeling strangely free. It was only a temporary feeling. She was in a state of flux, feeling unbound by society's strictures and as yet unbound by weight of the new life she was about to embark on. It was liberating to decide upon a visit to the Holledge's without being obliged to request the company of a servant.

  Isabel considered employing the service of a nearby hackney but decided instead to make full use of her freedom by walking to Berkeley Square.

  As she walked the streets, she considered the many things she would have occasion to miss when she left the metropolis. The cacophony of sound which permeated life in London would surely be strange to leave behind—perhaps for the better, once she accustomed herself to falling asleep in relative silence. In truth, she preferred life in the country to town life—but life at a country estate was nothing like the life she would be leading as a working woman.

  She jumped to the side as something splashed near her feet and looked up to see a woman disappearing from the window above. Isabel wrinkled her nose and picked up her pace. There would also be much she did not miss about London.

  At the Holledge residence in Berkeley Square, Isabel was known enough that she instructed the footman not to bother announcing her. Mary was found to be at her needlework in the parlor, and she put it aside with no hesitation on seeing Isabel.

  "How is this?" she said, looking down at the dirtied hem of Isabel's dress. "Did you walk here?"

  Isabel nodded with a satisfied smile. "And what's more, I did it alone."

  Mary's brows shot up, and she turned her head slightly as she looked at Isabel with squinted eyes. "You wouldn't dare."

  Isabel shrugged and untied the strings on her bonnet, setting it on a chair. She took a seat on the sofa, still feeling invigorated from her walk.

  Mary looked at her with something nearing concern. "What has come over you, Izzy? I never knew you to disregard such things." She came over and sat down, curling her legs up on the sofa as she kept her eyes on Isabel.

  Isabel's smile faded slightly, and she sighed. "I'm leaving, Mary."

  She spent the next ten minutes explaining everything to Mary, leaving out nothing, even the feelings for Charles which she hadn't expressed aloud to anyone but Mr. Safford. Even then, one spoke differently to one's rector than to one's dearest friend.

  "Well," Mary said slowly, "first, I am not so stupid as to have been ignorant of the state of your heart, Izzy. It has been quite plain to me that you are in love with Mr. Galbraith. Second," she said, overriding Isabel's response with increased volume, "I think you are being excessively silly. Leave to go stay with your Aunt Eliza? A woman who is living the life of a poor villager’s wife? Good heavens, Izzy! Where is your sense?"

  Isabel shook her head impatiently. "I have no other option, Mary. Aunt Eliza is evidence of how little store my father sets by his family connections. You know that he finds his daughters a great burden and injustice. And I have enough pride to wish to take action on my own before he can throw me out with all the violence of emotion you know he will display."

  "Then go to Holledge Place and live! I have always wanted a sister near in age."

  Isabel grasped Mary's hand with a look of gratitude. "You are a true friend, Mary. And I promise that I have considered such a path. You were the first person I thought to go to. But it is not possible. Please don't try to dissuade me. I am very much resigned to my course, and I shan't be persuaded, much as it pains me to leave you. I only hope you will still correspond with me?"

  Mary said nothing, her lips working and moving in the way that Isabel recognized as evidence of the fast work of Mary's brain.

  "Mary," Isabel said suspiciously. "I am in earnest when I say you must not try to dissuade me."

  Mary only smiled. "Oh, I shan't. I see that you must do as you say, if only because you are abominably proud. But naturally I will correspond with you as much as you can manage. When do you leave?"

  "This evening by the Mail. It will take me as far as Colchester."

  "Good heavens, so soon?"

  Isabel nodded, and she watched as the same contemplative gleam came into Mary's eyes again. "I think," Isabel said slowly as she watched Mary's cogitations in suspicion, "that I must extract a promise from you before I leave."

  Mary looked reluctant. "What kind of promise?"

  Isabel regarded her with suspicion. "I know you well enough to recognize the signs of your strategizing, Mary. I don't know what you can possibly have in mind, but you must promise me that you will not try to interfere with my plans."

  Mary pursed her lips and folded her arms. "Fine."

  "Thank you," Isabel said, standing and brushing her skirts down. "I suppose this must be goodbye, then."

  Mary laughed. "Nonsense. I am going to accompany you home. If I can only have but a half hour more of your company, I plan to take full advantage. I will have Budd send the carriage and my maid to convey me home. That way I will be back in time to dress for the Enfield's ball this evening."

  Isabel had no objections to such a plan, and they set out for Belport Street, Mary chatting happily, and Isabel struggling against the feeling of loneliness and homesickness that began to creep into her heart as the prospect of leaving her best friend hung over her.

  When they were let inside, the sun was lowering on the horizon. Isabel felt a burst of nerves as she realized that she had less than two hours before she would need to set out for Fetter Lane where the Mail Coach would depart. The two of them went up to Isabel's room with Mary prattling on about one of the on-dits she had heard from her mother over dinner the prior evening. Isabel only lent half an ear, running through a mental list of all the things she had already packed and the ones she might yet need to pack.

  A knock sounded on her door, and she opened it to find Paxton holding a letter.

  "This just came for you, Miss. I was told it is to be read urgently."

  She thanked him and shut the door, inspecting the parchment with a furrowed brow before opening the seal. The handwriting was sloppy, clearly written in a rush.

  Miss Cosgrove,

  I plead with you to come without any delay.

  Reverend A.R. Safford

  Isabel's heart thumped in her chest, and she grabbed the bonnet she had just taken off, fingers fumbling to tie the ribbons.

  "What is it?" Mary said as she observed Isabel's strange behavior.

  "I must go to the rectory immediately. I am so sorry to leave you so abruptly." She took Mary's hands in hers and looked at her.

  "Let me come with you," Mary said.

  Isabel shook her head. "Thank you, my dear friend," she said gratefully, "but I must go alone. Besides, I think I must plan to go to Fetter Lane immediately from the church so that I don't risk missing the Mail."

  She took the portmanteau and book from underneath her bed, ripping the relevant page out and putting it in her reticule. She glanced at the three letters sitting on the bedside table and took the one addressed to Mr. Safford, hesitating as she eyed the other two. Her father would naturally receive his letter when it was discovered that she was gone.

  The letter for Charles, though, was a different matter. She took the letter firmly in her hand and looked at Mary.

  "Can I rely on you to make sure this is delivered to Charles, Mary? Tomorrow will do. I need him to understand."

  Mary nodded, taking t
he letter and saying, "I will ensure that he receives it."

  Isabel looked at Mary with a large sigh then wrapped her arms around her friend, closing her eyes and brushing away two tears. She pulled away and smiled through her watering eyes. "I will write to you as soon as I arrive at Aunt Eliza's, and then you shall wish you had never been my friend with the constant letters from me for which you are required to pay the post."

  Mary laughed. "I shall save all my pin money, then."

  Isabel grabbed Mary's hand, squeezed it, and then picked up her things and left.

  25

  Charles slipped on his coat, his brows drawn together. He felt conflicted at the prospect of attending the Enfield's ball. He could hardly stand Mrs. Enfield or the giggling daughter she tried her hardest to thrust upon him. But Julia had begged him to come, saying with a teasing smile that it was the least he could do to atone for neglecting her shamefully all Season long.

  That had been before their row yesterday, and he had nearly managed to convince himself that the altercation as good as released him from the promise. But in the end, he felt obligated to go, if not to fulfill the promise to Julia, at least to be as good as his word to Mrs. Enfield. If he didn't attend after assuring her that he would, he would be rebuked and guilted for weeks to come with tales of the many girls wishing for a partner to dance with.

  Besides, he had hope that he might see Isabel there—a desire he had been preoccupied with since her departure the day before. It was just the type of gathering Miss Cecilia was likely to attend, so there was a chance that Isabel would accompany her.

  When he arrived at the Enfield's, he sighed at the number of coaches and carriages lined up in the street, letting down their passengers and then struggling to turn around to make way for other equipages in the limited space available whilst the regular evening traffic carried on in the dirty streets. Mrs. Enfield was never known for hosting intimate gatherings when she could make grand displays to half the town.

  He walked in just behind an elderly couple and eyeballed the crowds of people congregated in the surrounding area as he trailed behind the slow-moving pair. Provided Julia saw him in attendance, he felt no need to approach her in person. It would be much better not to, in fact.