Her Grace in Disgrace (The Widows of Woburn Place)

by Claudia Harbaugh

  “You cannot stay here,” Isobel decreed mercilessly.

  Lord Charles, already pale, turned ashen. Without consulting Isobel, Lady Whitcomb rang for Renfrew.

  “Isobel, Lord Charles is looking seriously fatigued. While I understand your objections, I think it best that we let him rest while you and I discuss this further,” said Lady Whitcomb with authority.

  “There is nothing to discuss, Aunt” retorted Isobel mulishly.

  “I beg to differ, Niece.” Lady Whitcomb said with finality. Before Isobel could reply, tartly by her expression, Renfrew and Griffin entered. Lady Whitcomb gave them their instructions and Griffin gently lowered his master’s leg from the ottoman.

  Lord Charles turned to Isobel. “I am sorry, Isobel. Truly.”

  “Get some rest, Charles. We will talk later,” was her only answer. Renfrew wheeled the ailing young Lord from the room.

  Isobel eyed her aunt with disfavor as the door yet again closed behind Renfrew. “Have you taken over my household, Aunt Maude?” asked Isobel acidly.

  “Someone needed to take the reins while you languished in your bedchamber.” Lady Whitcomb’s words were harsh, her tone less so.

  “I am so sorry, Aunt Maude” began Isobel, her sarcastic tone belying her words, “that my suffering is such a burden to you. My life is in shambles!”

  “And that is not all Charles’ fault,” said her aunt without pity.

  Isobel paused and her acerbity died away leaving only sadness. “He proposed, you know.”

  “I do know. But Charles is not for you.”

  “Not Charles, Saybrooke.” The life had gone out of Isobel and she sat on the couch, her legs unable to hold her.

  “Oh,” murmured Lady Whitmore, nonplussed. She walked to Isobel and sat next to her, taking her hand. “When?”

  “Just seconds before the footman from Wren House came to retrieve me. I had not time to answer.”

  “What would have been your answer?”

  Isobel sat silently for a long time. Lady Whitcomb sighed, assuming Isobel had retreated as was her wont.

  “Yes,” she said finally. “I would have said yes. But now there is no chance of his offering for me again.” The hopelessness in her voice was palpable.

  “I am sorry, my dear.”

  “Do not be. I shall get over it. I have before.” Isobel tossed the words out as if it did not matter in the least.

  “Have you? I wonder.” Lady Whitcomb eyed her niece speculatively. Isobel was as rigid as a statue and just as expressive. Lady Whitcomb’s face grew grave as she took in her niece’s icy calm and tears formed in her eyes.

  “Isobel, I love you as if you were my own daughter. You have always been my delight. I cannot imagine what my life would have been without you.” A tear slid down Lady Whitcomb’s cheek. With difficulty Lady Whitcomb went on, “I know these past years have been so difficult, so fraught with pain. I had hoped that you would open up to me, to trust me with your feelings. But you have remained so very remote and sometimes even unfeeling.”

  Isobel winced at her aunt’s last remark. Was she really unfeeling? Had she sunk so low? But her aunt was not finished.

  “I know it sounds odd with you and I living in each other’s pockets, but I feel as if I have lost you. The Isobel I remember was kind, generous, passionate, impetuous and always full of fun and mischief. I see glimpses of that remarkable girl from time to time. I live for those brief encounters.” Lady Whitcomb was crying now, hating confrontation, but convinced this is what Isobel needed to hear.

  Isobel’s heart and mind were in a whirl of conflicting emotions. She loved her aunt and knew that kind lady returned her affection, but frustration, anger and despair all warred within her and she could not keep the bitterness from her voices. “That girl is lost to us both,” Isobel said, her voice aching with loss. “The past six years has slowly killed her.”

  Lady Whitcomb, her tears having subsided, sat quietly contemplating her beloved niece. Her heart ached for her, but pity would not help her heal. “Isobel, do you remember the excursions you and I would take from time to time when you were young, before Whitcomb passed? I would come to you when I could no longer tolerate the man and would whisk you away to one destination or another.”

  Isobel’s eyes softened and she allowed a weak smile. “They are some of my happiest memories.”

  “Mine, too, my dear. Mine, too.” Lady Whitcomb patted Isobel’s hand. “I remember so clearly your unquenchable excitement at the prospect of what lay ahead, whatever our destination. However, from time to time you would stick your head out of the window and watch the road as it disappeared and you instantly became ill. Do you remember what I said to you?”

  “Never look back Isobel. You will always feel better if you keep your eyes on what is ahead,” parroted Isobel. Isobel was not simple-minded. She took her aunt’s meaning, but could not quite envision what to do with the knowledge.

  “Isobel, you have blamed Saybrooke for abandoning you, your parents for pressuring you. You have censured Reginald for lying to you and Charles for ruining your chance with Saybrooke. And you are not wrong, for a great deal of guilt is placed firmly in their corner, though you must claim some of the blame for yourself. But, my dear, pointing the finger is a useless occupation. You are sick with anguish and guilt from staring too long at the road you have already traveled. You must look ahead.”

  “I beg your pardon if the future seems a bleak prospect to me.”

  “That is because you are focused on the past. You must think where it is you want to go, who it is you want to become. The world is a very large place, Isobel, extending far beyond the strictures of the ton and the limits of society. Find a passion for some cause, some purpose.” Isobel’s eyes fell to her lap, staring at her fidgeting fingers. Lady Whitcomb gently raised Isobel’s chin with her chubby forefinger so that their eyes met. “Stop wallowing in self-pity and self-absorption, Isobel. It does not become you.” Lady Whitcomb released her tender hold on Isobel’s chin.

  Despite her aunt’s gentle tone, the words stung. Isobel sat unmoving, knowing that her aunt was waiting for a response, but she was too distressed to speak. Even if she could form the words, what should she say? Perhaps she should thank her aunt for offering such sage advice? But she did not feel thankful. Or she could beg her aunt’s forgiveness and vow to mend her ways. But she was not sure that it was a promise she could keep. Isobel knew her aunt was right, yet she could not suppress a surge of resentment bubbling up within her. In the end, reverting to her most frigid voice, she said “I will consider what you have said Aunt Maude.” She then rose and quietly walked to the door. Before she could leave, Lady Whitcomb’s voice stopped her.

  “What of Charles?”

  Isobel turned a passive face to her aunt and after a longish pause pronounced, “He can stay,” and left the room. Lady Whitcomb watched Isobel go, her heart aching. Had she done the right thing; used the right words? Only time would tell.

  The next morning the entire household was in the doldrums. Renfrew had been able to overhear most of what had transpired between Isobel and Lady Whitcomb and had fairly accurately relayed their conversation to the rest of the staff. They were of the opinion that Lady Whitcomb’s advice had been excellent and was sure to pull the mistress out of the dismals. However, the mistress of 65 Woburn place had not been seen since she had left the parlor at midday the previous day, except by Manning, who had brought her dinner tray, which had returned virtually untouched, and readied Isobel for bed. When, the clock chimed eleven o’clock and Miss Kennilworth had still not rung for Manning, uneasiness settled over the kitchen where they had all gathered to confer.

  Mrs. Kitchen said out loud what they all were thinking. “You should go check on her, Miss Manning. I have a bad feeling about this.”

  “She told me that I wasn’t to come to her unless she rang for me,” retorted Manning defensively.

  “You don’t fink she done herself in, do yer?” said young Jem, agai
n voicing the thoughts of the entire group.

  Manning gasped at hearing her own thoughts expressed aloud in such a blunt, and ungrammatical, manner. She jumped to her feet and rushed upstairs. The mistress was not in her bedchamber, but her nightgown lay in a heap on the floor. She had evidently dressed herself, and in a hurry, it appeared. Manning felt a panic rise in her. She hurried to inform the others of Isobel’s disappearance. A quick search of the house proved the mistress to be nowhere about. They reconvened in the entry and discussed what to do. It was just decided that Mrs. Riggs should inform Lady Whitcomb that Isobel had vanished, when the very lady flung open the front door, nattily dressed in her military style riding habit with roses in her cheeks and a smile on her face. She was a bit taken aback by finding all her servants, save the groom, standing about in the entry way.

  “Good morning!” she chirped.

  “Good morning, Miss,” they chorused together, surprise and hope visible in their expressions.

  “Is my aunt closeted away with her scribblings?” asked Isobel a smile playing at her lips.

  “Yes, Miss,” answered a few of the servants.

  “And Lord Charles?”

  Renfrew alone chose to answer. “He seems to be much better, Miss. He has breakfasted and is playing Whist with Mr. Griffin.”

  “Whist? Charles? A bit tame for him, I think.” Isobel laughed at the thought.

  “I believe it is the only card game that Mr. Griffin knows, Miss,” added Mrs. Riggs.

  “Ah, that would explain it. Well, since you are all inexplicably, but conveniently, here, would one of you tell my aunt that I would like her to join me in the salon in one hour? Mrs. Kitchen, if it is not too much trouble, I have not yet broken my fast and would love some coddled eggs and toast. Add some extra food for Lord Charles. He can always eat. Anna, please bring the tray up to Lord Charles’ room. Renfrew, perhaps you could warn him that I will be joining him in a quarter of an hour. Manning, follow me and help me change. I had the devil of a time getting into my habit on my own this morning.”

  The servants exchanged brief glances and grins. Hope surged in their hearts and they went off to carry out the mistress’ wishes.

  As Manning brushed out Isobel’s gold-brown hair, Isobel felt optimistic for the first time since the early days at Adelphi. She hoped that the results of the plan that she had hatched while galloping Bella through Regent’s Park, would be less disastrous.

  *****

  “Are yer here to play cricket, sir?” asked the small, misshapen boy with eagerness? “We ain’t seen yer in ever so long.” The boy looked to be about seven years old, but was in truth almost twelve. Many years of climbing up a chimney had stunted his growth and caused his back to curve at an odd angle. It had also affected his eyes sight. Despite his infirmity, he was a lively child and could usually be seen with a smile.

  The gentleman, whom Robbie had addressed, stood in a classroom, obviously having interrupted a lesson. Within seconds, following Robbie’s lead, the other former climbing boys enthusiastically gathered around the visitor, full of anticipation.

  “Cricket, Robbie? Who has time for such idleness? I shall preach you a sermon,” said the gentleman in lofty tones. The boys gave a collective groan as they eyed the gentleman with disappointment. The gentleman laughed.

  “You ninnyhammers fall for it every time! Of course, I am here to play cricket,” declared the gentleman. This brought cheers from the boys and they encircled their hero, each trying to grab onto his onto his once pristine frock coat.

  “Boys, boys, give Lord Saybrooke some space.” Reluctantly, the boys dispersed, but only steps away. “We are so glad you have come,” said Mr. Billings, headmaster of the Peterborough Home for Climbing Boys, greeted the Viscount warmly. “We have not seen you in a while.”

  It was not meant to be an admonition, but Saybrooke felt it just the same. He wanted to make a hundred excuses to say why he had not come in months, but he knew they would all ring hollow. Instead he turned to the boys. “Will I be forgiven for my absence if we play cricket and I bring treats from Gunters? Sadly, it is too warm a day to have ices brought, but I assure you their other confections are equally delicious.”

  This time a collective cheer went up and the boys danced around the Viscount once again. “Take your seats, boys. There will be no cricket or treats if you do not behave with a semblance of decorum.” The boys reluctantly resumed their seats.

  Saybrooke looked at Billings guiltily. “I hope I have not disturbed their lessons.”

  Billings, an amiable man, but a stern disciplinarian nonetheless, smiled at the only slightly repentant Lord. “You have indeed, My Lord, but the disturbance is welcome. We shall make up our history lesson during playtime tomorrow. And they will groan and complain, forgetting that today’s treat is the reason. But that is what boys do.”

  Two rousing games of Cricket were duly played, with only a few minor scrapes and bruises, and only one of those scrapes was suffered by Saybrooke. The treats delivered from Gunters were completely consumed, not a crumb was left. When it was time to leave, Lord Saybrooke mounted his horse with chants of gratitude from the boys and a promise from him that he would return the next week.

  Lord Saybrooke had enjoyed himself immensely at the Peterborough Home for Climbing Boys, just as he did the next day at the Winterdale Orphanage where he read story after story to the littlest of the abandoned children with their sticky fingers and their sunny smiles. The following day at St. Matthews Hospital was not enjoyable in the true sense of the word, but it gave him a deep satisfaction and he hoped he brought at least some cheer to the sick and dying that he visited.

  The next day Wilkes was tying his cravat and grumbling. “Sit still, please, My Lord, I am almost done. Though why I bother, I don’t know since every day but Sunday in the last week you have come home looking a sight.”

  “I am sorry Wilkes; I know that I am a sad disappointment to you, but you had best get accustomed to it, for I am enjoying myself and will most likely come home today looking like something the proverbial cat dragged in. I am going to the soup kitchen and I never seem to be able to stay clean while there.”

  The valet groaned and Saybrooke smiled, admitting to himself that he did indeed derive a great deal of fulfillment and pleasure from extending a helping hand to those in need, and he had the devil of a time doing it without ending up a rumpled mess. His smile faded as he admitted something else to himself, though grudgingly. Despite the satisfaction he enjoyed, it did not drown out the thoughts of Isobel, the ache for Isobel. And so he resolved to try harder.

  *****

  Lord Charles looked up as Isobel sauntered into the room, stunning in a simple, but elegant plum colored morning gown. His eyes, while appreciating the sight of her, were wary. She gifted him with a dazzling smile.

  “I hope you are hungry,” she told him as Anna arrived with a food laden tray.

  “I can always eat,” Lord Charles grinned back.

  “So I told Mrs. Kitchen.”

  Isobel sat in the straight back chair by Charles’ bedside. The tray rested on a smallish table that had been pulled close, making the light meal accessible to both Isobel and Lord Charles. Isobel tucked in with relish. Charles watched her, amused, but ate little, despite his earlier assertions. Finally, he voiced the question that had haunted him throughout his restless night. “Am I forgiven, then? I truly had decided against the scheme. Any scheme.”

  Isobel purposely hesitated, letting him squirm. Forgiveness was all well and good, but he should be made to feel a little uncomfortable!

  “I have decided to be magnanimous and forgive you,” she decreed. “However, if you ever do anything so hare-brained again I shall shoot you, hang you and then stab you to death!”

  “If I should ever attempt a similar folly I will deserve such a fate.” Lord Charles’ appetite surfaced, and between Isobel and himself, not a morsel was left on the tray.

  In between bites he aired his other pressing ques
tion. “Does my undeserved pardon mean that I am allowed to stay?”

  “Yes, Charles, you are my guest until you are well. But mind this is not your new home. You have a home; Hidenwood. You must get yourself squared away. It may even necessitate marrying that heiress, whey faced or not.”

  Lord Charles groaned. Isobel laughed and they talked of pleasanter things.

  Lady Whitcomb was already in the salon, wearing a path on the Turkish carpet, when Isobel entered a short time later. She turned toward her niece, her face a study in misery. At first she was unsure of her reception, but once she saw Isobel’s welcoming expression, she opened her arms wide and Isobel ran into her embrace. Both women burst into tears and murmured heartfelt apologies.

  “Isobel, I should not have…”

  “No, no, Aunt you were right to chide me…”

  Isobel’s change of heart had not occurred immediately. She had paced about her room the previous evening torn between fury and remorse. She had toyed with her dinner, abandoning it in favor of a gothic novel. Even the handsome, fearless and rather overbearing hero could not maintain her attention. Isobel had Manning ready her for bed long before her usual bedtime and she tossed and turned for most of the night. She had prayed, too, just as she had done when she was young, still full of faith and hope. During her many periods of wakefulness her mind and heart sought answers. Her prayers for guidance remained unanswered.

  Though she had slept fitfully, she rose early and her first thought was for a bruising ride on Bella. She managed with some difficulty to dress herself in her forest green riding habit and exited the house with no one the wiser. She was blissfully alone in Regent’s Park which was located just blocks from Woburn Place. Isobel let Bella have her head and they galloped along without impediment.

  Isobel’s mind cleared as she and Bella flew through the park. She silently cried out as the chilly morning air nipped at her cheeks. What am I to do? Aunt Maude’s words returned to her. “Find a passion for some cause, some purpose. Stop wallowing in self-pity and self-absorption, Isobel. It does not become you.” As she galloped through in the morning mist, she admitted to herself that she did not like the person she had become. She was selfish and spoiled, deceitful and self-serving. And lonely. Oh, was she lonely.