Still, Saybrooke would not yield. “Whose?”
Isobel sighed heavily and spoke with a bone aching weariness. “Mother’s. I had befriended Laura, so it was easily done.”
“I see,” Saybrooke said as if satisfied. But, there was still one question he must have answered. “And whose idea was it to lure Reginald Aiken, Lord Crewe at that time, to the Cheltenham’s library the night of their daughter’s come out ball in order to catch you in a compromising situation? Who hatched the scheme to trap the poor bastard into marrying you?”
All the languor left Isobel and her eyes once again crackled with fury. She stood to face him and though her head reached only to his chin, she stared up at him, her fiery eyes almost able to set him ablaze. “I did! It was my idea. He would not come up to scratch and I was tired of my mother’s bullying. So, I did it. Are you satisfied? Are you?” Isobel did not raise her voice, but she sounded fearsome nonetheless.
Why Saybrooke could not leave well enough alone, he himself wondered but mere seconds later. But, his mouth continued on heedlessly. They continued to stand mere inches away, her face turned up to his defiantly. His next words were softly spoken, “Was it worth it, Izzy? All the scheming? All the double dealing? Did it make you happy? Are you happy now?”
Isobel’s features froze and she took one step back, her chin jutting out in defiance and her whole body shaking with anger. Just as Isobel was about to ring a peal over Lord Saybrooke, Lady Whitcomb sputtered awake.
“My goodness, I must have fallen asleep. I do apologize,” said Lady Whitcomb looking sleepily from Isobel to Saybrooke. Her eyes widened as she took in the two combatting figures. But then, suddenly, Isobel smiled and turned to her Aunt Maude. Four years as marchioness and two as a duchess had not been for naught. Her words, when they finally came were well measured and even.
“Aunt Maude, I am so glad you had a little rest. Such a trying day. Lord Saybrooke was just about to take his leave.” She turned her charming smile on Saybrooke. “It was so kind of you to come and bring me comfort in my time of need. We would not dream of detaining you any longer. I am sure you must have other calls to make today. I will have Sloane show you out.”
Saybrooke took his cue, bowed toward Lady Whitcomb, then took Isobel’s hand lightly in his own and kissed the air above it.
“Lady Whitcomb, a pleasure. Miss Kennilworth, your servant. I know my way out; no need to ring for Sloane.”
Saybrooke walked to the door, turned back to the ladies and sketched a final bow, just as a Wedgewood tea cup sailed over his head.
CHAPTER 3
The house on Woburn Place was a happy surprise. Though not nearly as impressive, large or elegant as Wren House, it was a gracious stone house with its own garden and mews. Isobel had been happy to learn that a coach and team had come with the house. She hoped she could afford to keep them. The house, all in all, was better than she had imagined. But no matter how pleasing the house may be, it did not make up for what Reginald had done to her. She entered the house, ready to do battle.
Mrs. Riggs, housekeeper of number 65 Woburn Place was all that was gracious. She quickly offered to give Isobel and Lady Whitcomb the grand tour before their trunks arrived with the disgruntled Manning and Lady Whitcomb’s abigail, Philpot. Manning had not wanted to leave Wren House, but since the new Dowager Duchess already had a lady’s maid and Manning did not relish being unemployed, she had accompanied Isobel to Bloomsbury, acting as if she were moving to Moscow.
Isobel readily agreed to the tour. Lady Whitcomb, ever the egalitarian despite her birth, got on well with Mrs. Riggs from the start. She and the housekeeper babbled noisily as they walked, while Isobel took in her new home in virtual silence.
The tour began, of course in the entrance hall, with its marble floor and rosewood paneled walls. Adjacent to the ample, if not spacious entry, was a large, well-appointed parlor painted a shade of butter yellow and filled with a mixture of lovely rosewood and mahogany pieces and a variety of sofas and chairs. Though eclectic in style, it had a pleasing effect. In addition to the parlor, the main floor consisted of a good sized dining room with a table that could seat twelve and a well-stocked book room. Tucked away off of the bookroom was a Bramah water closet. Isobel, while glad to see the modern convenience, seethed. She had begged Warwick to install this amenity in Wren House to no avail. Isobel schooled her features and they moved on to the second floor. What did Wren House matter to him? Isobel thought. He was never there!
With pride, Mrs. Riggs presented the second floor suite that held two connecting bedchambers. One was very masculine, the other exquisitely feminine. Each bedchamber had its own dressing room and sitting room. The suite even boasted another Bramah water closet. The final room on the second floor was called the salon and had been used as the Aiken’s family sitting room, explained Mrs. Riggs. Isobel looked at the cozy room and her buried anger once again stirred to the surface as she pictured the happy little family at ease there. She quickly left the room and allowed Mrs. Riggs and Aunt Maude to prattle on about wall coverings and morning sun before they once again continued the tour.
The third floor consisted of four smaller, but ample bedchambers, two of which had evidently been used as the nursery. Though Mrs. Riggs was quick to name these rooms, Isobel would have known without her explanation because of the diminutive size of the furnishings. No other tell-tale signs remained, however. No abandoned ball hid in a corner, no stray tin soldier lurked in the shadows. The room, as well as the rest of the house was immaculate and stripped of all personal effects. The young duke and his mother, Mrs. Riggs had explained, had travelled to Warwick Park a few days prior, removing all their personal items and leaving the house on Woburn Place ready for its new mistress.
“Master Reggie was that excited to see Warwick Park. It will be so quiet around here without a young one,” Mrs. Riggs sighed.
Lady Whitcomb, full of curiosity, launched into speech now that the subject had been breached. “A lively one, is he? I never had children, none that lived. I always wondered if I could have handled an active young boy. Always moving. And dirty. Of course, Isobel attracted dirt just as much as any boy…”
Isobel turned the full force of her gaze on her aunt, which had the desired effect of stemming her speech. “No matter, Mrs. Riggs, my aunt will manage to fill the silence.” Isobel missed the hurt look on her aunt’s face as she had forged ahead of the other two women.
Next they briefly viewed the fourth floor, where the servants’ quarters were located. They finished their tour by descending once again to the ground floor and heading to the back of house, where the kitchen and servants dining area were located. Isobel, weary both emotionally and physically, thanked Mrs. Riggs for the tour and retired to her room, where she found Manning unpacking. Both the sitting room and bedchamber were painted a golden yellow. The bed boasted a gold and burgundy damask bedcover with matching bed hangings and draperies. Isobel sat heavily onto a burgundy velvet settee in the sitting room and thought of the woman who had occupied this space. It was going to be a long night.
It took Isobel and Lady Whitcomb less than a fortnight to settle in to their new home. With her severely depleted income, Isobel was unable to do much renovating, but she was determined to add her touch to the salon or at least wipe away any lingering remnants of the Duke of Warwick and his legitimate family. If she did not change it, she doubted she would ever use it. She finally settled on a soft gray green color, which she found more to her liking. She also changed the color of her new bedroom and sitting room from a goldenrod to a dusky pink and the window and bedcoverings to a more cheerful chintz. But no amount of paint would cover over Isobel’s mortification.
At least she was allowed to redecorate, Isobel thought, for the terms of the will required that she keep the existing staff. They were competent enough from what she could tell so far, if a little coarser than she was used to, but everything was different from what she was used to. At Wren House, she had more than two dozen servants. Here at
Woburn Place there were seven. Of course the sparseness of the staff made it much easier to learn their names. There was Mrs. Riggs, of course, who was a tiny woman, full of energy and spirit. The cook, oddly enough named Mrs. Kitchen rivaled Aunt Maude for plumpness and appeared to be only slightly younger. Helen and Anna were the maids, both barely out of adolescence. Helen was dark and shy, Anna fair and talkative. Renfrew, young and tall, with fiery red hair and a pleasingly ugly, freckled face, was the footman, cum butler, cum man of all work. William held the post of coachman and groom and by the look of him must have held it for quite some time. That left nine year old Jem, the pot boy and pet of the household.
Decreased staff was but one of the indignities Isobel was forced to endure. In the days since her humiliation word had spread throughout the ton. She had received no visitors, no invitations. She had known that this would happen once the ton, the titled and wealthy arbiters of English society, had heard of her change in circumstances, of course, but the reality was quite dreadful. The life she had known was truly gone.
It had always been Isobel’s habit and pleasure to peruse two or three newspapers during breakfast. This habit ceased, however, after seeing a caricature in the Tattler depicting her with a horrified expression on her face as she stared at a will, a veiled widow in the background. The caption read: “Her Grace in disgrace.” Another she had seen in the society column in the Post. It read: “Polite Society will miss the spurned Miss K, as she has lately removed to the wilds of Bloomsbury.” Isobel knew she was still fodder for the rumor mills and so studiously avoided the newspapers at breakfast or any other time of day. Lady Whitcomb on the other hand religiously read the society column at breakfast and informed Isobel of the latest on dits and engagements.
“Lady Amanda Chisholm is to marry Mr. William Neville. That will be a disaster,” pronounced Lady Whitcomb decisively. “He is the wrong man for her.”
“Because he is not titled?” queried Isobel, unable to ignore the gossip as she had intended to do.
“Good heavens, no. What on earth has that to do with it?” answered Lady Whitcomb with a touch of asperity. “He is the wrong man for her, is all. She is a willful little thing and needs a firm hand, though not too firm mind. Neville is weak. She’ll lead him on a merry dance and it will end badly.”
“Indeed,” said Isobel, amused.
“Ah, now here is a match!” crowed Lady Whitcomb, reading further. “Miss Louisa Wilmot is engaged to Captain Josiah Trent. They will do quite nicely.”
“Because she is an heiress and he is the second son of an impoverished Viscount?” proposed Isobel with a wry grin.
“No, no, no! Isobel, you do not comprehend. It has nothing to do with money or position!” Lady Whitcomb exclaimed. “It has to do with temperament.”
Isobel looked at her aunt with more than a little skepticism.
“You do not believe me. Think. When have I ever been wrong?” Lady Whitcomb said confidently.
Isobel thought back to the score of predictions of marital discord or bliss that her aunt had made over the years. Various couples came to mind and she raised her eyebrows.
“Once,” declared Isobel.
Sure of her own infallibility, Lady Whitcomb was taken aback. “Which marriage did I wrongly predict?”
“Yours,” Isobel offered, immediately wishing she had not said it.
Lady Whitcomb’s round, pleasant face clouded over briefly, but she soon had her ready smile in place.
“No, my dear, I was perfectly correct in my estimation of the outcome of my own marriage. I knew we would not suit and we did not. I simply had no choice.”
Isobel had the grace to blush. “I am sorry, Aunt Maude. That was unkind of me.”
“Pish posh. That is all water under the bridge, my dear. He is gone and I am quite content with my life.” Isobel grew quiet and concentrated on her toast. Lady Whitcomb patted Isobel’s hand and went back to reading the newspaper, sharing a particularly interesting tidbit now and again.
Isobel knew precisely the moment that her aunt read something about her beloved niece. Lady Whitcomb, subtlety not her strongest suit, would sneak surreptitious glances at Isobel and whisper, “Oh, my,” and cluck her tongue.
“Is there something you would like to share with me, Aunt?” Isobel asked, eyebrows raised.
Lady Whitcomb looked flustered. “No. Oh, no dear. There is nothing here, but scurrilous rumors and innuendo. I care nothing for the opinion of the ton.” And with this she made a great show of tossing the newspaper aside, only to sneak it up to her room for a more in-depth perusal at a later time.
Not only did Isobel not want to hear the rumors about “Her Grace in disgrace”, she wanted to know nothing of the doings of the house’s former master and mistress. But, it could not be avoided. It seemed to Isobel that every encounter with the servants brought a story to mind. The loyal retainers consistently referred to the previous tenants of 65 Woburn Place with reverence and affection.
“Will you be bringing over a hack from Wren House, Miss?” William put the question to Isobel while she toured the stable in the Mews the day after her arrival.
“No, William. I do not own my own horse and doubt I can afford to purchase one.”
“Ah, that be a pity. Her grace has a fine mare, Sheba. Arabian, she is. And what a seat the Duchess has, too. Why I never seen a better lady rider in all my days.”
“Would you like to try my paella, Miss. Right delicious it is.” Mrs. Kitchen asked Isobel when consulting about menus.
“I am not sure I know what paella is, Mrs. Kitchen.”
“It be a Spanish dish that Mrs. Aiken, that is, Her Grace learned me to cook. It’s got prawns and mussels and rice. And a lovely spice called Saffron. The mistress loved her spices. Now don’t get me wrong. She enjoyed my English dishes well enough. Not a fussy one was Lady Warwick. I don’t usually hold with furriners, but my mistress was as good as any Englishwoman.”
“You got a boy, Miss?” came a voice from a few inches below Isobel as she walked from the staircase to the dining room. The voice emanated from the rather grubby little boy, Jem, who looked up at her with hope in his eyes.
“I am afraid not, Jem.”
“I was afeared of that. The master and mistress let me play with Reggie when I didn’t have to work. We had heaps of fun. They were good uns were the master and mistress, Reggie too for being just a mite.” Jem sighed, sadly shaking his head, impressing upon Isobel that she had really let him down.
She was a sad disappointment to everyone it seemed, especially to herself. She was confused and lonely, despite her good-natured aunt and wondered if she had any hope for happiness.
But Isobel did try to make the best of it. After all, the house on Woburn Place was not a thatched roof cottage in the hinterlands. But it was also not Wren House. She daily battled with herself to be content with her lot. The closest she could come was resignation. Lady Whitcomb, on the other hand rhapsodized about their new living arrangement.
“It is so comfortable, my dear. And well appointed. I find myself wandering into the water closet just to toy with the mechanism. And the servants, Isobel, why it is heavenly not bumping into a footman or maid every time I turn around. Yes, yes. It is quite to my liking here.”
Isobel smiled fondly at her aunt. If only she could have half the cheery disposition of the older woman. Dear Aunt Maude always looked for the silver lining. Her late husband, Lord Whitcomb, had been a sore trial to the woman. But she never complained, though she had endured twenty three years of the man’s infidelity and neglect. Not to mention the heartbreak of three miscarriages.
A sennight after their removal to Woburn Place, Isobel and her aunt were sitting at the dining room table, breaking their fast, when Renfrew entered with the post on a silver tray. The post! Renfrew placed the tray on the table with a flourish, a pleased smile lighting his interesting face. He knew the ladies had been disappointed at the dearth of correspondence and was pleased to present the firs
t letter in two days. Isobel’s excitement, however, was brief. It is probably just another note from Drew, she thought and smiled wryly remembering the note he had sent, along with flowers, the day after their less than cordial reunion.
My Dear Izzy,
What can I say? I am mortified at my abhorrent behavior toward you yesterday. In the past six years I have done so much praying and soul searching on the matter that I thought, I truly thought, that I had forgiven you. It seems I have not. After all you had been through that day and I chose to reenact the Inquisition with you. It is unforgivable. Nonetheless, I am hoping that you will forgive me.
The vicar in me cannot help but quote scripture to stress my fervent hope that you will indeed take pity on me and accept the olive branch I extend toward you.
“Take heed to yourselves: If thy brother trespass against thee, rebuke him; and if he repent, forgive him.” Taken from the Gospel according to Luke, the 17th chapter and 3rd verse.
“So that contrariwise ye ought rather to forgive him, and comfort him, lest perhaps such a one should be swallowed up with overmuch sorrow.” Taken from the Second Book of Corinthians, the 2nd chapter and 7th verse.
And indeed I would be swallowed up with sorrow if I thought you could not forgive me. My dear friend, when I should have comforted you, I lashed out. When I should have let you pour out your sorrows to me, I questioned you as if you were a common criminal.
Again, I am so sorry for my actions and most of my words of yesterday. My only hope is that you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I leave you with a final scripture to encourage you to do so.
“But if ye do not forgive, neither will your Father which is in heaven forgive your trespasses.” Mark 11:26.
Your humble servant and friend,
Drew
Ps: It was wonderful to see a glimpse of the real Isobel yesterday. It reminded me of our constant brangling as children.
Pps: Did you finish off the Wedgewood after I left?
Her Grace in Disgrace (The Widows of Woburn Place) Page 3
