by Lucy Leroux
Even as the words left her mouth, she realized she didn't believe them. Young ladies from the village, even those of the lower classes, avoided the woods during this season. They were cold and damp, with few discernible tracks or paths running through. It would be easy to become lost amongst those tall trees. She'd made it a point to learn the few paths well during her half-day off.
And the best hiding places, she thought, recalling her insurance policy deep in the woods. It won't come to that, she assured herself. But Isobel felt better knowing she was prepared.
John gave her a disbelieving glance before shrugging. “Until they turn up, it wouldn't do to walk alone. If they turn up.”
“I will keep that in mind,” she said in an even tone before calling out to the children.
Their leisure time was over.
Chapter 3
“They want me to dine with the family?” Isobel asked in disbelief.
She had been preparing for dinner in the kitchen. Though she didn't dine with the staff, she did take her meal in their serving hall, just after they had eaten, but before the family's meal was served in the dining room. Some governesses chose to have a tray sent to their room, but Isobel didn't want the servants to think she was putting on airs. Consequently, they were friendlier to her than they had been to tutors past. They still complained about how high in the instep her predecessor had been.
That regard was evident now as the chambermaid, her face red from a dash up to the third floor, nodded eagerly.
“Yes, Miss,” Mary said, her round form almost quivering with excitement. “Sir Clarence bade me to tell ye that yer presence is required at dinner tonight. 'E didn't seem terribly happy about it, truth be told,” she finished honestly as she reflexively straightened the bedclothes.
Isobel frowned. “If he's not pleased with the idea, why would he ask me to dine with the family?”
Mary literally hopped up and down. “It was the Nobile who asked for ye. Did ye know that's what a count's son is called in Italy miss?” she said, walking over to the wardrobe and rifling through it.
“Nobile means nobleman in Italian,” Isobel said absently. “The count's son is the Nobile dei Conti di Santa Fiora. The family seat is southeast of Florence.”
Her stomach was tight and her head was swimming. Why would their guest ask for her?
“And I thought Marchioness was a mouthful,” Mary said, wrinkling her nose as she struggled to process the intricacies of addressing the upper classes. “We don't have much time, Miss. Ye best put this on,” she said, holding up what passed for Isobel's best dress. “So, when did ye meet his lordship?” she asked eagerly.
“Mm, I believe you can call him Lord Santa Fiora, or simply my lord, as the Montgomerys do. I don't believe the use of courtesy titles is common in Italy as it is here. But I haven't met him. Not yet,” she frowned, standing still as Mary fluttered over her, undoing the laces of her plain grey gown.
All of Isobel's dresses were plain, in shades of grey, brown, or blue. The dress Mary had chosen and laid on the bed was in the grey family, but it was a lighter shade with a tinge of blue to it with a slightly more flattering cut than any of the others. It was still a far cry from what was currently being worn in the ballrooms of London.
“'Ow romantic! 'E must 'ave seen ye with the children and asked for ye te join them,” Mary said, her round face alight with excitement.
Isobel suppressed a scowl. She did not share Mary's anticipation. She was unprepared for a meal with the family. Although she was the daughter of a gentleman, by the time she was of an age to socialize, her father and mother had been long gone. Isobel was certain her manners were above reproach, but the thought of casually conversing with Italian nobility was beyond her. She already knew Sir Clarence was not pleased to include her. What if she embarrassed herself?
Or worse, somehow exposed herself?
A cold weight settled in the pit of her stomach as Mary helped her out of her dress. Isobel allowed herself to be jerked back and forth as the servant did up the laces of her stays.
“Not too tight,” she said.
If she was laced too tight when she was already feeling lightheaded, there was a real possibility she would disgrace herself by passing out.
Mary nodded and laced her loosely. “Good thing for ye, yer waist is already tiny,” she said, moving to pick up the grey dress before casting an envious glance at Isobel's midsection. “There's no time to redo yer, hair I'm afraid.” She pursed her lips at the simple knot of auburn hair on Isobel's head before she slipped the light grey dress over her and fastened it.
“It will have to do. Thank you,” Isobel said, running her damp hands over her waist and smoothing her skirts.
She nodded at the maid and headed down the stairs, trying to calm her racing heart the whole way.
****
Isobel was late. When she entered the drawing room, it was already full. Sir Clarence and Lady Montgomery were conversing with their guests. In addition to the Conte and his son, the minister and his wife were present.
Sir Clarence looked up at her. “Miss Sterling, finally,” he said shortly, gesturing for her to join the group.
Isobel stepped closer and curtsied as gracefully as she could. “Forgive my tardiness. I wasn't expecting an invitation to join you for dinner,” she said with studied politeness.
If her employer was going to grouse about her lateness, he might have given her more than five minutes warning.
The younger Garibaldi cleared his throat.
An ill-disguised flicker of irritation passed over Clarence Montgomery's face. “Hmm, yes. Allow me to formally introduce Aldo Garibaldi, Conte Santa Fiora, and his son Matteo, Lord Santa Fiora. You already know Mr. and Mrs. Sanderson.”
Isobel murmured a polite greeting and executed another curtsy for their noble guests. When she raised her eyes, she found the young lord staring at her intently.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Sterling,” he said in softly accented English.
His voice was deep and rich, and more melodious than those of her adopted countrymen. It rippled down her spine in a little wave that she did her best to ignore.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said self-consciously, before turning to the other guests.
“Please, call me Matteo.”
At her right, Mrs. Sanderson, the minister's wife, briefly widened her eyes at her. Isobel was shocked too, although she nodded noncommittally. Clearly, Italians were clearly far more informal than the English. She surreptitiously checked the Conte’s reaction, but he was busy looking down his nose at her drab gown.
Well, there's no helping that now, Isobel told herself sternly. “I trust you have recovered from your long voyage, your lordship.”
“Sufficiently,” the Conte answered shortly. He said nothing more, and her discomfort doubled.
“Well, that's enough idle chatter,” Sir Clarence said with a fake jovial grin. “Shall we make our way to the dining room?”
The others agreed with a soft burble of conversation, but it ceased abruptly when Matteo stepped closer to her and offered his arm.
“Allow me to escort you, Miss Sterling.”
Isobel paused and threw the others a searching glance. The young lord was breaking the rules of precedence with his offer.
The minister looked disapproving, as did the Conte and Sir Clarence. Lady Montgomery wore her perpetually vague expression. Only Mrs. Sanderson looked pleased, a hint of an amused smile on her face.
Uncertainty flooded Isobel. She couldn't very well refuse, could she? How would that look? With a stiff smile, she gave Matteo her arm and they followed the others into dinner.
The situation didn't improve over the meal. Lady Montgomery had seated the party according to rank, so Isobel was at the other end of the table from Matteo, too far for conversation. But that didn't stop him from staring at her throughout the meal. And because he did, everyone else did too.
She
could feel the weight of the Conte and Sir Clarence's displeasure, but there was little she could do about it. She focused on Mrs. Sanderson, who was seated next to her, asking her about her local charity work while concentrating on swallowing her meal without dropping her fork or spilling her drink.
Almost a decade younger than her dour husband, Beatrice Sanderson occupied herself with good works in the neighborhood, which also gave her a great opportunity to indulge in her favorite pastime, gossip.
At one point in the meal, Sir Clarence succeeded in claiming Matteo's attention with a discussion on the local hunting.
Mrs. Sanderson took advantage of the opportunity to lean in and whisper under the guise of drinking wine with her, “You've been busy, I see.”
Flushing at the unspoken assumption that she had done something to attract the young lord's attention, Isobel gave her a surreptitious shake of her head while sipping her own glass. She had always liked Mrs. Sanderson and lying to a minister's wife didn't sit right with her.
She pasted a fake smile on her face and spoke from between her teeth. “I haven't actually. I'm not sure what's going on. You just witnessed my first meeting with our illustrious guests.”
Mrs. Sanderson's smile became fixed as well. “Oh, that is interesting,” she said in a low voice.
She looked over at Matteo, who had resumed his study of Isobel until his father spoke to him again. Once his eyes were averted Mrs. Sanderson leaned in. “I would not wish to discourage you should this be a beneficial...er, interest, but I would advise caution.”
Isobel nodded and smiled in response, uncomfortably aware of the Montgomerys disapproving glances before she changed the subject to the weather.
After what seemed like an interminable amount of time, dinner finally ended. She and the other ladies withdrew to the parlor while the men stayed behind to enjoy their port. Isobel gave silent thanks to the observation of this particular ritual as it gave her the chance to escape from the Garibaldis' collective scrutiny. After a few minutes of conversation with the ladies she excused herself, pleading a headache.
Though she did have the beginnings of a headache, Isobel was most concerned with getting away before the men rejoined the women. It was obvious neither the Conte nor her employer approved of the young lord's interest in her.
She reached the second-floor landing with a sigh of relief. Inching carefully down the dimly lit hallway in her long skirts, she felt a hand on her arm and nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Forgive me, signorina,” Matteo Garibaldi said in his dark velvety accent. “I did not mean to frighten you.”
Isobel stared at him with wide eyes. “My lord! How did you come up behind me without me hearing you?”
She didn't understand. With his tall muscular frame, she should have heard something: the sound of his footsteps on the stairs or a creak of the floorboards. But there had been nothing, she was sure of it.
Matteo shrugged and smiled. “I walk quietly. Again, my apologies for surprising you. I had hoped to be able to speak with you more. Perhaps you would join me in a stroll in the garden tomorrow?”
For a moment, Isobel was truly flattered. There had never been any young men in her life, none that admired her near her own station. And Matteo was well-built and handsome with elegant manners.
But there was something in his voice, an unnatural intensity, that didn't match his simple request. His eyes rested on her like dark pools in the dim light, and Isobel 's heart picked up speed.
“Er, I'm sorry, my lord,” she said eventually. Her throat was tight, but she made herself say the words anyway. “I'm afraid that would not be appropriate.”
For a long moment he did not respond. The air filled with a tension that, to her overheated imagination, felt menacing. And it was affecting her vision. It was as if his eyes were gathering the shadows in the hall, pooling and growing blacker before her eyes.
Instinctively she stepped away but he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “I understand,” he said. “Perhaps you'll change your mind later,” he added in a low tone before bowing and walking away.
Feet fixed to the floor, Isobel watched him leave. Once he was out of sight, she took a deep breath and hurried to her room. She readied herself for bed, climbing in and pulling the blanket up to her chin...but sleep was long in coming that night.
****
Fighting with all her strength, Isobel pushed Matteo away from her. The resulting cold was startling. Her eyes flew open.
She was in her bed alone. It had been a dream. A nightmare, to be precise.
Taking a shaky breath, Isobel sat up. It was still dark. In her addled dream-state, she'd pushed the blankets and pillow to the floor. Leaning over, she picked them up, hoping that she hadn't cried out in her sleep. Though they weren't next door, there were other servants asleep on this floor. If one of them had heard her, she would be mortified.
Drawing the blanket over her head, she shut her eyes determinedly, but after that nightmare there was no chance sleep would return. Instead, she lay quietly thinking. What if her dream was trying to tell her something?
She had never had a prophetic one before, but her maternal grandmother, Helen, used to have them sometimes. And that dream had been so intense, it didn't feel normal.
Her grandmother used to say that her dreams of the future were of little use as they were confusing, their meaning often murky and unclear until the things they depicted had come to pass.
Pulling the cover tighter, Isobel shuddered. Her dream had started just as tonight had ended, with Matteo coming after her in the hallway. But it hadn't been him at all. What she'd seen in her dream had not been a man. Instead it was a mask, a shell covering something dark—a creature of shade and shadow. Not human.
The realization settled into her heart as her long suppressed instincts flared to life. Something was wrong with the count’s son. The gathering shadows she'd seen in his eyes earlier were not some trick of the light.
It was black magic. And of all people, she would know.
How could this have happened? The Montgomery household, indeed all of England, was supposed to be her haven. She had left all memories of magic and spellcraft behind in Highlands. What was left of that life, of her legacy, was buried with her grandmother. And then there was her vow.
She had promised her mother on her deathbed that she would never again do magic, and wouldn't consort with others who did. She had sworn to go to her grave a normal woman.
For a time, when she was quite small, Isobel had embraced everything magical. Her grandmother had been adamant that she be trained in her craft, as had her own mother and grandmother before her. One of her daughter's, Isobel's aunt Moira, had also been trained.
But Isobel's mother had not wanted that life for herself. She always said one witch in the family was enough, and two was already too many. But she hadn't objected when grandmother Helen had decided to teach Isobel magic. Not until Moira had died.
Every other day from the time Isobel was six until she was twelve years old, she would spend afternoons with her grandmother. While her father took care of her classical education, grandmother Helen would teach her about herb lore and basics of spellcraft. They would tramp through the woods near their home, collecting herbs, rocks, and occasional insects or small animals.
Isobel had never learned what actually happened to those small animals. At the time, she had been dying of curiosity, eager to learn the upper-level spells that required such a sacrifice. Growing up around farm animals had taught her not to be sentimental about such creatures. But her grandmother had told her she would learn what was needed at the right time.
But that time hadn't come. Her aunt had died and all lessons had ceased. Her grandmother had been so upset, but even Isobel's father had agreed that it was for the best in light of what had happened.
From that day, Isobel had been taught to fear her gift and what might happen to her if others learned of it. And judging
from the way the local villagers had turned on her grandmother, she was right to do so. Even Isobel, a mere child, hadn't been immune to their nasty looks and the whispers that followed her whenever she went into the village.
She clutched the pillow tighter as pain filled her chest. She fought to push the hurtful memories away, but last night's meal had brought all those long buried feelings back to the surface.
What was she going to do about Matteo?
In reality there was little she could do, save avoid him. She hoped he let her.
Chapter 4
It was another unseasonably fine day, and Isobel couldn't stop herself from taking the children out of doors. But she quickly came to regret that decision when she felt the weight of his stare on the back of her neck.
Isobel resolutely kept her eyes on the children, but Amelia, more attuned to the moods of the adults around her, seemed to sense her tension, She would sneak glances behind Isobel and fidget with her skirts. Isobel tried to reassure the child by smiling at her as their reading lesson continued.
The little girl wasn't fooled. Amelia didn't smile back and her eyes kept wandering behind Isobel to the tree line at the start of the forest. Isobel didn't need to look behind her to know that Matteo was there. She didn't know what he was doing, but she could feel him. She could feel him everywhere these days.
It had been a mistake to bring the children outside again. She should have stayed in the schoolroom for today's lesson, but she'd felt trapped inside the house. If Matteo was nearby—and it didn't matter where—then she knew exactly where he was. It was only out of doors that she could catch her breath lately.
Eventually, Amelia relaxed and Isobel followed suit. Matteo had finally wandered to the stables. Unfortunately, it wasn't the only time they saw him that day. He was strolling the kitchen gardens when the children sat down to lunch and was loitering near the stairs when they went up to the schoolroom to continue afternoon lessons. The pattern was repeated in the following days until Isobel started to feel haunted.
