by Joyce Alec
Charles’ eyebrows rose. “You think she might come after you again?”
“I do not know,” Isabella replied truthfully. “But I will confess to being a little afraid. I have never been as scared as I was that day.”
His eyes searched her face as he leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk in front of him. “She did not hurt you, I hope?”
Looking away from him, Isabella did not know what to say. This was his aunt that she was accusing after all, his blood relative.
“Isabella!” His tone was harsh, his voice commanding.
Isabella had no choice but to look at him, hating that her lips trembled with the recollection of how she had been thrashed. “I was beaten,” she said, her head dropping to her chest. “I am well now, however.”
A long, pronounced silence followed, and Isabella found that she could not lift her head; such were her emotions. It was not like her to cry or give in to any kind of outburst, so she battled with her feelings, refusing to let another drop of moisture fall. She did not know whether Charles believed her story, nor whether he would take the news of her beating seriously. After all, she was just his friend from long ago, whereas the lady who had destroyed her entire life was his relative, his own father’s sister. Usually, such misdeeds were simply swept under the rug, never to be mentioned again.
“Then I think it best you stay here,” he said quietly. “I shall write to my father today and ask him to talk with his sister. We need to know if this truly was her or if someone else was involved.”
Isabella wanted to say that there could be no one else who knew of her connection to his uncle, but kept her mouth closed. Rising to her feet, she thanked him quietly and made her way to the door.
“Oh, and you are to move to one of the guest bedchambers,” he said, almost as an afterthought. “The housekeeper will provide you with gowns and the like. Make sure to join us for dinner.”
“Dinner?” she repeated, staring at him as though he had lost his mind. “You told me that I should help below stairs, and I assure you that I am more than competent—”
“Nevertheless, it is my wish that you join us for dinner and remain here as one of my guests,” he said firmly, his gaze fixed on hers. “And please, no arguments this time, Miss Docherty.”
Seeing that she was not to be allowed any rebuttal, Isabella chose to nod, closing the door behind her. She leaned against it for a moment, her breath coming quickly as she tried to deal with everything she thought and felt.
What a relief it was to see that he was, at the very least, willing to listen to her, willing to hear what she had to say. He had not turned his back on her or thrown some coins at her and sent her away once more. It was more than she had hoped for, although she was not sure she looked forward to joining his guests for dinner—not after what she had overheard the previous evening.
Chapter Eight
Charles sat back in his chair, his brow furrowing as he thought about what Isabella had said. Even though he now made sure to refer to her as ‘Miss Docherty’, she was always going to be Isabella to him. He could hardly take in what she had told him, but something in him knew that he had to believe her.
She had been so bedraggled when she had first arrived on his doorstep, arriving without a single thing to her name, which meant that she was completely dependent on his mercy. He wondered whether she had gone to town in search of his father, remembering that she had said that the solicitor would not help her. So, she must have been in town, he thought to himself, angry that the solicitor could be so uncaring.
Father is away, however. Is that why she came here?
His stomach churned as he thought of what she must have endured, growing hot and cold with anger and revulsion over what Lady Johnston, his aunt, had done. He had very little doubt that it was his aunt, for, as Isabella had said, what other person knew that she was a bastard, borne to a mother who had been assaulted by his uncle?
Even the thought brought him a feeling of shame, his features twisting as he thought of how much Isabella’s mother had borne, even though her love for Isabella had been evident from the first moment she had been placed in her arms. He was relieved, at least, that his governess had apparently lived a happy and content life for many years after she had left his family, although he found that there was a niggle of guilt in his soul as he thought about how he had chosen to stop correspondence with Isabella.
It had not been intentional at first, for they had been very good friends. In fact, they had corresponded for a few years, but soon the lure of town and all it had to offer a young man had taken up much of his time. It seemed writing to his friend was of very little consequence.
He had become caught up in balls and soirees, in cards and liquor, in ladies and their fine kisses, until Isabella had become nothing more than a memory. He had never felt guilty about such a thing, however, not until the moment he had seen the sadness on her face. Not until this very day.
She had sat in front of him, not lifting her eyes as he had mentioned how often they had used to write, but he had still seen the sharp pain in her expression. She had sent him letters for many weeks, without a single reply, until her letters had stopped coming altogether. Had he been wrong to ignore her? Had he made a mistake in pushing her from his life and from his mind?
Getting up from his desk, Charles wandered to the window and looked out across the estate. His plans for two weeks of jovialities and the like now seemed less likely, although he was still determined to enjoy himself. Not too much was needed of him in order to help Isabella.
The first thing would be to send his steward to find a few small cottages that he might consider purchasing for Isabella—furnished of course—but this time of year, that might prove a little more difficult. Snow had fallen, and with the icy conditions, sending letters and receiving replies could take longer than normal.
Frowning, Charles leaned his head against the cool glass, closing his eyes for a moment. He would have to write to his father, but whether or not he had returned from his estate business in Scotland yet, he was not sure. The duke was not scheduled to arrive home until it was closer to Christmas Eve.
“I could write to Worthington,” he muttered to himself, his mind suddenly coming alive with the thought.
Lord Worthington had been one of his closest friends, although something of a rake and a wastrel; that had to be said. However, in the last few months, Worthington had moved away from London, back to his country estate, declaring himself in love.
Charles had snorted at the thought, but Worthington had turned into a very different man in the weeks before his departure to the country, and, since then, Charles had not seen him more than once or twice in town, when Worthington needed to visit his solicitor. Apparently what Worthington had claimed had been true—he was in love with his wife.
Shaking his head to himself, Charles walked back to his desk and pulled out a fresh piece of parchment, determined to write to his friend immediately. Worthington’s estate was not far from where Miss Docherty had lived, if he recalled correctly, and it would be worth finding out whether the state of the cottage was as Isabella had said.
It was not that he did not believe Isabella’s story, but rather that he wanted to find out the exact extent of the damage. If there was any hope of restoring it, then he might choose to do that, rather than purchase a new property for Isabella, for she had mentioned that she had been happy living there and had friends within the small village nearby.
However, that would all depend on whether he could get his aunt to leave Isabella alone for good. His jaw clenched as he began to write, anger stirring in the pit of his stomach as he thought about the beating Isabella had been forced to endure. How anyone could lay a finger on her, he could not understand. It was not as though it was Isabella’s fault that she had been borne out of wedlock—nor was it her mother’s fault.
The responsibility lay with his uncle and his uncle alone. Charles remembered how he had overheard his father say, on m
ore than one occasion, that if the man had been his own flesh and blood, he would have beaten him severely for what he had done to the governess. However, given that he was only in their family by marriage, there was very little that the duke could do, apart from speaking clearly and concisely to the man.
His aunt and uncle never visited the duke’s home, not in the entire time Isabella and her mother had lived there, and Charles had never had occasion to wonder how that had affected his aunt. He had simply assumed that she had accepted it without question—although now he wondered if the isolation from her brother and his family had driven her to such desperate measures.
Writing quickly, he wrote first to Worthington and then to his father, before sealing up both notes and ringing for the butler who arrived in a trice.
“These are to be sent straight away,” he said, handing the butler the letters. “And Miss Docherty is to be set up in the purple bedchamber. Do ask the housekeeper to find some gowns for her, even if it means going to the village and buying some from the seamstress there. She is not to be in old worn-out things, do you understand?”
“Of course, my lord,” the butler replied, his face expressionless. “Is there anything else?”
“Miss Docherty is to dine with us also,” Charles remembered. “She is to be treated as one of my guests from this point onwards.”
There was only a fraction of a second before the butler replied, his surprise carefully hidden. “But of course, my lord,” he murmured.
Charles dismissed him and poured himself a brandy, suddenly weary from all that he had heard.
Sitting before the fire, Charles contemplated what Isabella had told him, slightly pleased that he was to be able to prove to her that he was not as changed as she thought him to be. She would soon see that he was not the harsh, unfeeling gentleman she considered.
However, that did not tell him why he found himself in need of her good opinion. Swirling his brandy in his glass, Charles sighed heavily to himself before draining the glass. Whatever it was, he had to admit that Miss Docherty had a firm hold of him and certainly was not letting him go.
***
“We are to be joined by a friend of mine,” Charles explained as his guests sat down at the dining table. “That is why there is an extra chair.” He did not allow himself to frown, although he did wonder why Miss Docherty had not yet arrived. The dinner gong had sounded, and she was yet to make an appearance.
“A friend?” Lord Walton asked, looking a little surprised. “Which one of the fellows have you asked then?” He chuckled, looking around the group. “I do hope it is not Lord Witherton, for he is the most boorish man I have ever met.”
The ladies tittered, but Charles did not join in with the laughter. “No, indeed, it is not Lord Witherton, but Miss Docherty.”
The laughter faded at once.
“Miss Docherty?” Walton repeated, looking a little confused. “Wait, is that not the girl who—”
“She is a friend of mine,” Charles said loudly, interrupting Walton. He did not want his friend to reveal Miss Docherty’s humble beginnings, for then surely the ladies would look down their noses at her. “She is to stay with us until we depart on the twenty-second of December, as planned, and I would be grateful to you all for making her welcome.” Pasting a smile on his face, he gave the ladies a slight bow, hoping to encourage their sympathies. “She is, in fact, recovering from a somewhat tragic situation and may be a little quiet, but I am sure she will be delighted with any friendship you might care to offer her.”
Murmurs of agreement came from the assembled ladies, although Lady Swift continued to gaze at him with fire in her eyes. Ignoring this, Charles turned his attention towards Walton once more, seeing his frown deepen. Hoping that his friend was not about to launch into a flurry of questions over whether Miss Docherty was, as he suspected, the daughter of Charles’ old governess, Charles gave him the tiniest shake of his head, which, to his very great relief, Walton acknowledged.
More than that, he tapped his nose with one finger, making Charles want to sink into the floor in embarrassment. There was no need for Walton to be so obvious but, then again, his friend had never been particularly restrained.
“I just wonder where she is,” Charles muttered to himself, thinking that they would soon have to start on the first course. He sat for another minute or two, before nodding to the footmen to serve.
Just as they did so, the door opened and Charles, getting to his feet, turned to see Miss Docherty enter the room, her cheeks red and eyes glancing around the room.
She was absolutely breathtaking, and Charles felt as though he had been backhanded across the room. Trying not to stare at her, he cleared his throat and put on a wide smile, opening his arm to her.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, as she drew near him. “Allow me to introduce Miss Docherty, my very dear friend.”
Chapter Nine
Isabella had not wanted to dine with the rest of the group, finding it difficult to leave the servants’ quarters, even though she had only spent two days or so in their company. The cook had not been as friendly, once she discovered that Isabella was to move to the bedchambers upstairs, although Isabella did manage to make her smile by promising to come back downstairs to make bread in the morning.
It had felt very strange to walk from the servants’ quarters to one of the most beautifully furnished rooms she had ever seen. Her breath had caught as she had been shown inside, her eyes roving around the large four-poster bed, the ornate furnishings, and beautifully carved dressing table. The windows were big and let in vast amounts of light, giving the room a delightfully bright appearance.
“New gowns have been purchased for you,” the housekeeper had said, as she followed Isabella into the room. “You will find all you need in the wardrobe, although I did have to guess your sizing, so if anything is not right, do let me know, and I shall send a maid to help you alter it.”
Isabella had stared at the lady, stunned. “You mean Charles bought me clothing?”
The housekeeper’s mouth had twitched, as though she was hiding a smile, but she had simply nodded, excused herself, and left, reminding Isabella that the dinner gong would be sounding in less than an hour.
Isabella had hardly had time to accustom herself with the place before a maid had arrived at the door, ready to help her dress and prepare for dinner. Of course, Isabella was not used to such things, so she had almost refused, but had seen the frightened look in the girl’s eyes as she began to decline and had stopped herself at once.
The maid would be the one who got into difficulty if Isabella appeared at the dining table without her hair done just so or her dress slightly askew. She had allowed the girl to assist her, and once she had dismissed her, had spent a good five minutes staring at herself in the mirror.
Her reflection was someone she did not know, and for a moment, she struggled to gather her wits. The thought of having to enter the dining room and greet Charles and his guests was terrifying, for Isabella knew she did not truly belong next to those of such a high class. Indeed, if they found out that she was a child born on the wrong side of the blanket, then their disdain for her would be immediate and obvious.
So late had she sat waiting that she missed the dinner gong entirely, and ended up rushing down the stairs, aware that she was already late. Walking into the dining room, she had felt every eye on her, but had taken her seat without a word, although she had managed to smile at them all.
Now Charles was looking at her as though he had never truly seen her before, his gaze intense and focused. Isabella managed to glance at him once or twice, but chose to turn away from his regard, greeting each of the guests in turn as Lord Walton took it upon himself to introduce each of them.
Isabella tried not to blush as she greeted Lady Swift, more than aware of what she had overheard passing between the lady and Charles. Lady Swift studied her for a moment before turning back to Lord Walton and starting a merry discussion on what Christmas trad
itions Walton had planned.
Christmas had always been a happy time for Isabella, even though she had only shared it with her mother. It was a day free from chores, free from the harshness of daily living. A day to spend together, to be thankful for all they had. She had loved it. They had brought in pinecones and put them on almost every surface they had, allowing the scent to fill their home.
Isabella smiled to herself, remembering how her mother used to spend hours in search of any kind of greenery to add a special touch to their house. It was usually ivy or holly with their red berries. The townsfolk had all come together to eat, bringing whatever they could to share with one another. It had always been simple fare, but the company was what had warmed her heart. How different this Christmas would be. A sadness crept over her, making her smile fade.
“Is everything all right, Miss Docherty?”
Her gaze shot to Charles’ face at once, suddenly aware that she had been lost in thought. “Everything is quite well, I thank you.”
“May I say how lovely you look this evening?” he murmured, his gaze running over her. “The color suits you.”
Isabella flushed, feeling more irritated than complimented. She was not about to be his Lady Swift if that was what he hoped. However, she could not forget that he had been kind to her in giving her such items in the first place. “I thank you for your generosity,” she managed to say before turning her head away to join in the discussion at the other end of the table.
She knew that she was giving him something of a set down by not continuing the discussion, but the last thing she wanted him to think was that she was suddenly open to his attentions. Isabella was not about to engage in flirtations or even stolen kisses. The whole idea turned her stomach and did not change her opinion about Charles and his behavior one bit.
Was that what his intentions were, in forcing her to join him and his guests? Did he want her to think that he was behaving just as other gentlemen would? Hardly listening to the conversation at all, Isabella concentrated on eating her food with as much decorum as she could manage, knowing that there was a standard on how a lady should dine.
