Isobel spent the nearly ten weeks it took to cross the Atlantic in a state of constant turmoil. Though she often longed to go back to Boston, and sometimes wished she had refused to go with Mr. St. James, she had to admit that if she were to go back, there would be nothing there for her. She felt lost, as adrift as the ship she was on. When she thought about England she found it impossible to put aside her loyalty to the country she had grown up in. Just the sound of the word “England” brought up a feeling of dread and a vague sense that she was sailing toward the enemy. Yet England was to be her home. The irony was that even if she had refused to go, her music would likely have taken her there sooner or later.
She listened carefully when Mr. St. James talked about his brother, hoping she might hear some clue about herself in his words, and she alternated between dreading their arrival in England and being impatient to have the waiting over.
Though she was fully prepared to dislike London on principle, Isobel fell in love with it as soon as her carriage entered the city gates. It was utterly and completely different from New York, and as the carriage rolled along the crowded streets she pulled down the glass to peer out the window. The air was filled with the shouts of street merchants hawking their wares, and their cries assaulted her ears. For his part, Edward kept up a constant stream of conversation, pointing out sights of interest and taking care to inform her of their connection with men of importance. The carriage bounced over the cobbles past a man standing on a box, head and shoulders above the small group gathered around him, one arm raised skyward extolling the properties of his miracle potion, guaranteed to cure anything and everything from boils to the gout, the pox, and fevers of the brain. “Will it cure me of me wife?” shouted one skeptic.
“How do you stand the jouncing?” she complained after she was nearly thrown off the seat when they abruptly turned a corner.
Edward did not seem to be the least affected by the joint-destroying ride and he assured her it was a skill she could learn. “This coach isn’t really suited to the city streets,” he told her, “but I’m afraid it will have to do until we get to Redruth.”
She had to wonder if they would arrive at all. The streets were clogged with carriages of all sizes, all being driven as if each one were the only vehicle on the road. Drivers cursed one another with an inventiveness that, when she could decipher the accent, made Isobel blush and Edward look sheepish. Still, she could see it was better to be in a carriage than to be on foot. Crossing the street was obviously a perilous undertaking. It wasn’t until they reached some better-appointed streets that she saw barricades set up for the protection of any poor souls unlucky enough not to make it all the way on the first attempt. Edward jokingly told her the more timid had been known to wait for weeks before deciding it was safe to cross.
The carriage turned one last corner onto Albemarle Street. “Albemarle Street is named after Christopher Monck,” he began, “the second duke of Albemarle, who bought Clarendon House for twenty-five thousands of pounds, then leveled it to the ground and built Albemarle Street on the site of the old mansion. The Duke of Albemarle Publick House is hard by on Dover Street.” He nodded his head in that direction.
“Do you go there often?” The carriage pulled to a stop and Edward escaped having to answer when the door was pulled open by a servant wearing the earl of Chessingham’s blue-and-gold livery. “This is where your brother lives?” She blinked in disbelief when the footman handed her down. Edward bobbed his head in assent as he stepped down beside her. Redruth was a forbidding blackish-gray building three stories high, with two curving staircases that met at the second story before carved wooden doors. Another liveried servant pulled the doors open just as they arrived, and when they stepped over the threshold they were met by a doleful-looking butler who took Edward’s overcoat and hat and waited patiently for Isobel to give him her cloak. At Edward’s prodding, she handed it to him and felt very shabby indeed when she saw the butler’s clothes were of far better quality than her own. As soon as she handed over the threadbare garment, the butler passed their things to another servant, who disappeared with them to Lord only knew where.
Edward looked at her self-conscious stance and wished he’d had the sense to buy her some decent clothes before they left New York. He ought to have known—he had berated himself several times—that she had so few dresses and such a woefully inadequate cloak. Ten weeks on the open sea did not seem to have bothered her in the least. He’d often seen her standing on the deck, that pitiful excuse for a cloak pulled closely about her, staring out over the water as if the seas were calm and it was not bitterly cold.
She had not complained even once during the long post-chaise trip to London. It was impossible for her not to have been uncomfortable; in spite of its being late in May, the weather was unseasonably cool. After spending the night at Bristol, where Edward sent word to his brother that they expected to arrive in three or four days, they began the overland trip to London. The roads had not been in good condition; they were muddy and the going had been unpleasant, to say the least. Still, she had not uttered one word of complaint until they hit the cobbles of London.
“His lordship is expecting you.” The butler sounded as though the phrase was one he was used to repeating. He motioned for them to follow him. Isobel kept her eyes on the floor and listened to the soft tapping of her boots on the black-and-green squares of marble until they turned a corner and stopped in front of a door halfway down another hall. She glanced up at the gilt molding arching up into the ceiling, while the butler pulled open the paneled doors and took two short steps into the room. “Miss St. James and Mr. St. James, milord,” he announced. She followed Edward inside.
The room was large and rectangular, with a marble-topped desk that took up nearly all of one end. The walls were covered with dark wainscoting, and had it not been for a large window overlooking the gardens, the room would have been quite dim. Nearly all the available space on the walls above the wainscoting was taken up by portraits, all the way up to the ceiling, and it gave the room a cramped feeling to have so many faces staring down from the walls. An intricately patterned blue-and-white rug covered nearly the whole of the wood floor she had seen at the edge of the carpet. Her feet sank into the wool and she wished fervently that it could hide her scuffed boots. She looked up from her feet and was surprised to see no one. She was about to turn to Edward and ask him where her father was when she was startled to hear a deep voice say, “Do come in.” Someone stood up from a sofa that was turned to face the fireplace. “So, I have finally found you.”
The earl, only slightly taller than average, was a solidly built man whose eyes were exactly the same dark blue as Isobel’s. It was at the eyes that the resemblance between them began and ended. He looked about forty, but she later found out he was nearer fifty. His nose was aquiline, and his eyes were nearly overshadowed by heavy eyebrows. His forehead was high and his chin long. His lips were plump but they stretched tightly over his teeth when his mouth was closed. His skin was lightly marked from the effects of the smallpox that had taken his wife and son. He had the beginnings of a paunch, yet he stood so straight he seemed slender. His graying black hair was curled at the sides and tied at the back of his neck with a black ribbon. His neck was covered around with a snow-white cravat tied into an elegant knot at the front. The ends of the cravat were tucked into a soberly decorated waistcoat sporting a heavy gold watch chain across the stomach. One foot was very neatly bandaged and it rested lightly on the floor. His shoe was black, and recently polished, with a gleaming gold buckle; his stockings, too, were black, and they were tucked nicely into the bottoms of his breeches. He wore a large gold ring on the little finger of his right hand, and on his left hand two large yellow diamonds.
Robert St. James, third earl of Chessingham, leaned on an ivory-handled cane of a highly polished black wood as he walked toward the girl who stood quietly at his brother’s side. Except for the unmistakable color of her eyes, he would never have guessed
she was his daughter. She was far too thin, poorly dressed, plain, and worst of all, she looked like some bloody serving girl, though he doubted it was her fault, seeing as how she had been brought up in the wilds of America. He stopped in front of her and reached out to move her chin to get a look at her profile. He hoped it would not be an impossible task to make her into a proper Englishwoman. She did not seem to be ill at ease in his presence, and he took her poise to be a sign that she might be made into something. With any luck, Catherine would have given her some breeding. “You may call me ‘Father,’” he said when he let go of her chin. “Where did Edward find you?” He turned to his brother.
“She was in New York. Both Catherine and her husband are dead. She was living with the man’s cousin,” Edward answered.
“Was he unable to clothe her properly? She looks like a deuced chambermaid!” The earl swept a disdainful eye in Isobel’s direction and addressed his brother, who only looked uncomfortable and did not answer.
“How old are you now, child?” He jabbed the silver-tipped end of his cane at her.
“She is just seventeen,” Edward answered again.
“Does she not speak English?” he asked coldly, raising one heavy eyebrow to underscore his sarcasm.
“Of course I do, Father.” Isobel’s voice was soft. “I’m afraid Mr. St. James”—she looked at Edward—“found me in reduced circumstances.”
He turned to his brother. “I trust there was no trouble with the cousin?”
“Indeed, he did not seem loath to see her go.”
The earl shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Come, child, sit with me. My foot begins to bother me.” Isobel sat on the chair he indicated when he sat down again on the sofa. She picked up a cushion and put it underneath his outstretched leg. “Thank you, my girl.” He looked down to where his foot pressed into the silk of the pillow.
“Does it hurt much?” she asked.
“Damnably.” He winced as he settled his foot on the pillow.
“What happened?” She tucked her booted feet out of sight under the chair when she saw the pained glance he gave them.
“Gout.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
Edward had to smile when he saw her using the same forthright glance his brother had used so effectively on him.
“You get right to the point, don’t you?” Lord Chessingham gave her a sharp look. “I think perhaps you need to learn some English manners.” He thought such American boldness was entirely unfeminine and that to be plain on top of it would be nothing short of disaster.
“I am sorry, Father, if I have offended you,” she said contritely, shrugging her shoulders in a curiously elegant movement that made the earl raise his eyebrows. “But, less than a month ago I thought myself an orphan, and now I find I am really the daughter of an English aristocrat.” She was impatient from wondering what her future was to be, but still she was surprised to hear how bluntly she spoke.
“Your mother was a beautiful woman,” he said, “and I should have married her had her station been only a little higher. The second earl did not think the difference could be overcome. He had already arranged a marriage. But I did not bring you here to discuss my past.” He rapped his cane on the floor. “May I see the locket?”
“The locket?” It took a moment for her to understand what he meant. “Of course.” She reached to unfasten it and hand it to him.
“This was the only thing I gave Catherine that she did not return.” While he held the locket in his palm, there was an instant when Isobel could believe he had once been a young man. The moment ended when he looked up and handed the necklace back to her. “You look a great deal like her.”
“You could have married her anyway!” she blurted out.
“It was my duty to obey my father’s wishes, and my father did not wish for me to marry your mother.”
“Then you must not have loved her very much.” The words were accusing and bitter.
“I loved her enough to bring you here!” His face was stony and there was a tense moment of silence. “My wife and children are dead,” he said at last, staring intently at the carved handle of his stick. Their eyes met when he finally lifted his head. “I intend for you to marry and provide me with a grandson.”
“Won’t you have a difficult time marrying off your bastard daughter?” She rankled at his imperious tone. How could her mother have loved such a cold-hearted man?
“Since I intend to acknowledge you as my daughter there will be no shortage of young bucks clamoring for your hand. Damme, there won’t, I own! You might be plain, but wealth has a way of blinding men to such shortcomings. Edward, ring for me!” Only after his brother had complied did he turn back to Isobel. When a servant appeared not three minutes later, he gave terse instructions. “See that Miss St. James’s things are taken to her room. And send for a dressmaker immediately. My daughter is in urgent need of a new wardrobe.” He looked at Isobel. “I am engaged tonight, but we shall speak further at a later time. Mrs. Godwaite”—he nodded at the woman who was standing deferentially at the door—“shall see to it you obtain clothes appropriate to your new station. You are to follow her advice exactly.”
“Of course, Father.”
“Tonight, you will do me the goodness of having a tray sent up to your room, as I shan’t be dining with you.” He looked steadily at her. “You have suddenly become a woman with prospects. I hope you are up to the challenge.” He nodded his head in dismissal.
Isobel followed Mrs. Godwaite down the hall and into a sitting room, where the woman told her in a tight little voice to please wait and left her to her own devices. She amused herself by walking slowly around the room but quickly pounced on a newspaper she found lying on a small end table. She was more than halfway through an account of the bills before the House of Commons when she began to wonder if perhaps she might have been forgotten. She had just stood up to find someone who might tell her what was expected of her when the door opened. Mrs. Godwaite came in, followed by another woman who turned out to be the sempstress, and one of the housemaids.
“Miss St. James will be needing a complete wardrobe,” Mrs. Godwaite said sternly to the woman, who nodded and put down her basket. “See to it at least three or four gowns are delivered immediately.” Isobel watched Mrs. Godwaite while the sempstress pulled out a dress of a horrid brown color and waited patiently while the maid helped her into it. “Have undergarments sent as soon as possible,” Mrs. Godwaite added when Isobel stood clad only in her shift. Mrs. Godwaite was a dark-haired woman who looked as though she thought Isobel might sprout the devil’s horns at any moment. Her tiny brown eyes were nearly buried in her puffy face, and Isobel was afraid if she were to smile they would disappear completely. Mrs. Godwaite stood impassively while Isobel was prodded and poked and generally made to feel put out. Not one word more was spoken during the entire ordeal, and she was grateful when at last the sempstress packed away her things and Mrs. Godwaite silently showed her to her room.
Her room really consisted of three rooms, a bedchamber and a smaller anteroom, and there was also a small lavatory. The walls of both rooms were hung with a golden-yellow silk, and the hangings of the huge four-poster bed were of a matching silk taffeta. The chairs were all of the same style of Chippendale. In the anteroom there was a pair of large oval mirrors in carved gilt-wood, more of the dark chairs, and a dressing table of a pretty, light-colored wood. There were gilt chandeliers in both rooms, and there were lamps and candlesticks scattered throughout. From the windows in the bedchamber she had a view of the interior gardens, and from the opposite side of her quarters she could see part of Albemarle Street, a portion of the gates, and a bit of the drive.
She was glad to be left alone, for, in addition to Mrs. Godwaite’s being the last person she might choose to spend her time with, she was exhausted from the days of travel. Her joints, not yet recovered from being bounced from one end of London to the other, were aching, and she longed to lie down and sleep, so
mething she would have done were it not that her mind was so full of her new surroundings she was convinced sleep would be impossible.
She stood looking out the window and wondered if it was her father’s arranged marriage that had made him such a bitter man. She turned away from the window. Or, had wealth made it easy to abandon her mother?
Chapter 6
I
Isobel stayed only one week at Albemarle Street. The London season was over on June 4, the King’s birthday, and, like most persons of quality, the earl spent the summer in the country. They left London together, but when they reached a small estate of his near the village of Mawbury, he stayed only the night before continuing on to Bath, where he hoped to obtain relief from his gout. He left Isobel there with only the servants, her new abigail, Bridget, and a governess, Miss Agatha Steadly, for company. Her father had also engaged a tutor for her, but after Miss Steadly informed the earl via the post to Bath that his daughter knew quite enough for a young lady, the lessons were stopped. Dresses continued to arrive from London, and her days generally consisted of tedious mornings of additional fittings and dull afternoons of listening to Miss Steadly tell her everything it was essential for a young lady of position to know. Miss Steadly started every day with the pronouncement that, as the acknowledged daughter of a peer, she was exceedingly marriageable and could be expected to make an excellent match. However, she would add in her sternest tones, the slightest defect in her deportment would surely prevent her from making a truly exceptional marriage.
Isobel spent a good deal of rime, after Miss Steadly was finished with her, reading newspapers and pamphlets, and soon found herself becoming interested in the English system of government. How was it, she often asked herself, that it had failed so miserably in America? She never got the opportunity to discuss what she read, or much else of interest, for that matter, since Miss Steadly refused to entertain the notion of a young lady’s knowing anything about Parliament until after she was married. Her riding lessons provided some diversion, but it was so terribly hot that the only comfortable time for riding was early morning or late evening, and she reserved her evenings for the forte-piano. It seemed a luxury to be able to play for as many hours as she wished, and it was several weeks before she stopped feeling guilty for the hours she spent at the instrument.
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