Time After Time

by Elizabeth Boyce

  Isabelle returned her embrace and laughed. “You make a compelling argument.”

  Setting aside the neglected biscuit, Naomi rose. She wrapped her hands in the silk rope of her reticule. “I hate to impose, Isabelle, but I wonder if you could come early on Friday and help me see about all the arrangements. Aunt Janine is a dear soul, but she’s an absolute bluestocking. She doesn’t care a snap for social pursuits, and hasn’t the foggiest how to go on as hostess. If Mama were there, I would leave it all to her.”

  “Of course,” Isabelle said. She felt flattered that her former sister would not only seek out her company, but her assistance as well.

  Naomi took her leave, and Isabelle went looking for Lily. Being needed by Naomi gave Isabelle a small feeling of pride she had not felt in a long time. It was a tiny step back toward acceptance — by herself, at least, and maybe, by society, too.

  Chapter Seven

  Friday morning dawned clear, promising a fine day for the party. Naomi took her chocolate in her bedchamber at Bensbury and was finishing her toilette when there was a knock at her door.

  “It’s Lord Grant,” her maid announced.

  Naomi checked her hair in the mirror. “He may enter.”

  Her brother strode into the room. He wore taupe breeches, tall black boots, a red striped waistcoat, and a ruffed shirt with no coat over his sleeves. A thundercloud obstructed his features.

  A feeling of foreboding washed over her. “Good morning, Grant.” She rose from her vanity. “I was on my way to breakfast. Will you join me?”

  “I ate an hour ago,” he snapped. “Tell me, Naomi, why did the butler just announce the arrival of Mrs. Lockwood and Miss Bachman?”

  Naomi’s stomach flipped. Although Aunt Janine thought inviting Isabelle was a grand idea, Naomi knew Grant wouldn’t share her opinion, and so had kept the scheme from him. Rather than answer the question directly, she chose to prevaricate. “I didn’t expect them quite so early, but it’s good they’ve arrived. Aunt Janine suggested a Moroccan theme, which would be fine if we had weeks to gather the ingredients needed for such a supper, but with only a few hours’ notice, I’m afraid it’s not at all practical.”

  Grant’s fist slammed into the wall. “Naomi!” he bellowed. “I will not have that woman in this house.” A vein throbbed at his temple “I am disgusted by your disloyalty. How dare you bring her into Marshall’s home?”

  “They’re all Marshall’s homes, aren’t they?” she retorted. “Which of his six estates is my home?” She crossed her arms under her bosom and thrust her chin obstinately. Because he was head of the family, as well as her guardian, Naomi had an obligation to obey Marshall. She owed no such deference to Grant. “In which house may I live as the grown woman I am and make decisions for myself?”

  “You’ve been spending too much time in Aunt Janine’s company,” he said. “To answer your question, since you insist on being obtuse, none of Marshall’s houses are your home. You get your own home when you marry, just like every other female in England.”

  “Oh, no!” Naomi raised a hand. “Then I’ll live in my husband’s home, and be subject to his whims.”

  “That’s the way the world works.” Grant impatiently tapped a foot. “Before long, there will be a new duchess here, and she won’t appreciate the old one lurking about.”

  A vision of Lady Lucy as Bensbury’s icy mistress made Naomi quail. It was too dreadful to contemplate, so she ignored the remark. “I suppose widows are the lucky ones.” Naomi narrowed her eyes. “Or the ones who are cast aside, like Isabelle. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, sweeping past him, “I will see to my guests.”

  Grant snatched her arm. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. Because I’m a gentleman and because the person in question is ostensibly female, I shall refrain from forcibly ejecting that pox-ridden drab from this house.”

  Naomi’s eyes widened and she gasped, appalled at his hateful epithet. Moments like this made her miss Papa. He never would have tolerated such hateful talk from one of his children. “How could you say such a vile thing?”

  “However,” Grant continued, bowling over her increasing agitation, “I expect you to do the proper thing.”

  “Oh, I will.” Naomi’s voice quivered with the force of her outrage.

  Had Grant been a little less virulent in his protestations, she might have been cajoled into his way of thinking. As it was, his verbal assassination of Isabelle’s character amounted to throwing a gauntlet at Naomi’s feet.

  “I will do exactly as I’ve been taught,” she declared. Her hands knotted spasmodically into fists at her side. She closed the distance between them until she could feel the angry heat radiating from him. From this angle, his hard features took on a comical appearance. She had a clear view of his nostrils, which loomed large from her vantage point. She refused to cower before a man who needed to employ a handkerchief.

  Grant pulled his head back to look down at her. “I sincerely hope so,” he said.

  “Oh, yes,” she answered in a low voice. “I shall do right by my guests and ensure they are made comfortable.” She hopped aside as he made to grab at her again.

  “Do not defy me,” Grant warned. “You will rue the day.”

  “You need either a new razor or a new valet,” she said breezily. “Your shave is completely botched.”

  Grant slapped at his face and glowered when he found the missed patch of stubble.

  She saucily waggled her fingers at him and strolled down the hall, head high and shoulders back. A thrill coursed up her spine at her own bravado. Not since taking her hair out of pigtails had Naomi ever spoken out against one of her brothers. She’d always behaved with comportment, in a manner befitting a member of the Duke of Monthwaite’s household. Her rebellion against her family’s abuse of her former sister-in-law was a rousing diversion.

  She took deep breaths as she wended her way down the stairs, erasing from her face the evidence of her quarrel with Grant. A maid directed her to the front hallway, where Isabelle and Miss Bachman stood waiting. Isabelle wore a diaphanous muslin dress and looked as spooked as a deer cornered by hounds ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. In counterpoint, the taller Lily Bachman wore a smart pelisse in the military fashion. She hovered protectively at her friend’s side, a resolute soldier ready to take on any foe, one perfect brow arched over a rich brown eye.

  Naomi tsked at the bad grace shown by both the servants and her brother. No matter how the rest of the house might regard Isabelle, she and Miss Bachman should have at least been shown to a parlor to await eviction.

  “Isabelle, I’m so delighted you’re here. Miss Bachman,” she said, turning to Lily, “thank you so much for coming. Please,” she gestured, “come with me.”

  • • •

  Isabelle followed Naomi through the house without paying much attention to the beautiful décor. She’d never been to Bensbury while she was married to Marshall. She had the surreal thought that she should have been mistress here, but instead walked the halls a barely tolerated stranger. She kept her eyes on Naomi’s back and let the house fade into the background.

  They found the late duke’s sister in the library, reading a thick tome beside the window. She looked up at their entrance. Isabelle had never met the woman before. Finally encountering her former aunt-in-law felt as unreal as having been mistress of this house she’d never set foot in. It was all like a dream, and if it weren’t for the scandal of the divorce constantly hanging over her — and the memories of a man she could never quite put out of mind — Isabelle could convince herself her marriage never happened at all.

  Lady Janine’s face was comprised of intelligent, kind eyes, a strong jaw, and an overall air of alert watchfulness. Though she must have been well into her fifties, her eyes were a fresh, vivid blue, and her skin still retained a healthy glow, despite the creases tou
ching the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her hair gave the impression of having been hurriedly shoved under the cap on her head. Isabelle could relate to the impatience — she had often done the same thing with her hair when she worked at the George. For all the harassed appearance, however, the lady looked every inch the noblewoman, and Isabelle felt a bolt of unease. What had ever possessed her to agree to this madness?

  Lady Janine set her book aside, revealing a cotton dress, dark gray in color and absolutely devoid of adornment, which had never been fashionable, excepting perhaps in a convent somewhere in the French Alps.

  “Good morning, Auntie,” Naomi said, dropping a kiss onto the older woman’s cheek. “I’d like to introduce you to — ”

  “John Dee,” Lady Janine said in a clear voice.

  Naomi gave Isabelle a nervous smile. “Pardon, Auntie? There is no Mr. Dee here. This is — ”

  “John Dee,” Lady Janine repeated. She turned her piercing eyes on Isabelle. “What do you know of Doctor Dee, missy?”

  Isabelle’s mind hastily whirred through all the books she’d read from her father’s library when nobody had bothered steering her toward appropriate material for a young lady. “He was employed by Queen Elizabeth,” she finally recalled. “He was a natural scientist. A philosopher. He advised Her Majesty.”

  “Ha!” Lady Janine crowed. “Pretty good, my girl, pretty good.” She nodded slowly, then quirked a graying brow at Naomi. “Better than you, with all your schooling from the best tutors money could buy.” She snorted. “He was a conjurer. Did you know that?” She pointed a finger at Isabelle.

  Isabelle sensed she’d walked onto a stage and she didn’t know the script. “No, ma’am,” she said carefully, “I did not.”

  “He was a magician. Said he could summon angels. Did you know that?” She jabbed her finger in the air again.

  Isabelle cut a glance to Naomi, whose eyes rolled to the ceiling, as though praying for deliverance from her aunt’s outlandish train of conversation.

  Lily wore an openly baffled expression. She turned her widened eyes to Isabelle, silently asking what they’d gotten themselves into.

  “No, ma’am,” Isabelle repeated, stifling a grin, “I did not.”

  “Good Queen Bess relied on the advice of a man who said the angels gave him a new language. Now I ask you,” Lady Janine’s chin dropped to her chest, and she studied Isabelle and Lily as though over spectacles, although her glasses hung around her neck, apparently forgotten. “Was the man a complete charlatan, duping the most powerful monarch on earth, or did he have mystical powers?”

  Isabelle blinked. In the silence that followed, Naomi covered her eyes with a hand. “Oh, Aunt Janine,” she muttered.

  “An interesting question,” Isabelle mused. “I shall have to think it over before answering.”

  “Queen Elizabeth defeated the Spanish Armada,” Lily ventured.

  “Indeed she did,” Aunt Janine said with an approving nod.

  “She was the mother of the British Empire,” Isabelle added. “She saved England from financial disaster and protected her throne from interlopers and would-be claimants.”

  “With a magician whispering in her ear all the while.” Lady Janine wiggled her fingers in the air next to her left ear. She folded her hands in her lap and cocked her head to one side. “What do you make of that?”

  Naomi’s face burned red. Isabelle felt for the girl. Such a discussion, overheard by the wrong ears, could label a young lady a bluestocking. No respectable man wanted a bookish wife.

  “I don’t rightly know, my lady,” Isabelle said. “I suppose it could be conjectured that Doctor Dee gave Her Majesty sound advice gleaned from his scientific inquiries or his probing into spiritualism. However,” she ventured, “it could also be supposed that Queen Elizabeth kept the good doctor at her side precisely because she found his claims ridiculous.”

  “A court jester, you mean,” Aunt Janine said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Isabelle answered. “Humor relieves tensions, which is good for clarity of mind.”

  Aunt Janine threw her head back and let out great whoops of laughter. “Mercy, you’re a saucy one,” she finally said, dabbing at her eyes. “And Marshall got rid of you?”

  Naomi’s eyes went wide. Lily inhaled sharply. Isabelle merely raised an eyebrow. “Yes, my lady, he did.”

  Aunt Janine waved a hand. “That one always had more intelligence than sense.”

  “He is quite renowned for his good sense,” Isabelle defended quickly. “Everyone says so.”

  “Do they?” Aunt Janine’s eyes narrowed on Isabelle’s face. “I’m not so sure.”

  Naomi gestured for Isabelle and Lily to sit. “We must get started on the menu,” she said, “if that’s all right with you, Auntie. Cook can whip up most anything, but we have to tell her what to make.” She trailed off, her hands fluttering about her lap like butterflies.

  Over the next hour, Isabelle suggested dishes, which Naomi wrote down in her neat hand. Lily had the idea to set up tables on the balcony and dine under the stars. Since it was such a fine, warm day, the evening would support such a supper.

  Naomi squealed with delight at the notion. “May we, Auntie?” she asked, her face aglow. “My supper shall be all the talk next week if we do something so delightful.”

  Aunt Janine nodded her assent. Isabelle found her former sister-in-law’s excitement contagious. Soon, she was looking forward to the evening’s entertainment as much as Naomi. As noon approached, Naomi padded away to deliver the menu to the kitchen. Isabelle and Lily gazed out the picture window overlooking the front drive and chatted softly while Aunt Janine returned to her reading.

  “You cannot imagine what he’s done!” Naomi’s voice wailed.

  Isabelle and Lily turned at the same time Aunt Janine’s book thumped closed. Naomi stopped in front of them, her carefully scribed menu crumpled in one fist and her bloodless face streaked with tears.

  Isabelle rushed to the girl’s side. “What’s happened?”

  “Grant,” Naomi said, panic creeping into her voice, “has sent the entire kitchen staff away! I found only one maid in the scullery, washing the breakfast dishes.” Her breaths started coming in rapid, shallow gasps. Isabelle guided her to a chair, afraid she would faint.

  “Slow down,” she instructed. Lady Janine crossed to the sideboard and poured a small measure of sherry into a glass.

  Naomi took the drink and choked a little down. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. “Oh, Isabelle, I’m so sorry.” She covered her mouth with her hand. Two identical tears leaked from her eyes and slid down her cheeks. She lowered her hand, revealing pink, swollen lips. “She said Grant told the kitchen staff they’d not cook for the likes of you. They could either take a free day today or leave for good. They’re all gone.”

  Janine hissed and cursed. Her features twisted into a mask of dismay and anger.

  This news washed over Isabelle like acid. Grant’s hatred had no bounds, and now Naomi was being punished for the crime of being kind to her. Lily turned to her with sympathetic eyes.

  Isabelle didn’t want her sympathy. She was tired of being pitied. But the old self-hatred started to tug at her, threatening to pull her under. She knew she didn’t belong here. A divorcée was wanted nowhere.

  Just then, the butler stepped into the library to announce: “A party of your guests has arrived, Lady Naomi. Seven ladies and gentlemen await you in the garden.”

  A rock settled into Isabelle’s middle as Naomi grabbed her hands and wailed, “Whatever will I do? It’s all ruined! I shall have to send everyone home. I’ll be a laughingstock.”

  Naomi’s desperation was the lifeline Isabelle needed. She grabbed onto it, just as she grasped Naomi’s hands in her own firm fingers.

  An idea sprang to life — one that wo
uld save Naomi’s name and show Grant how little his poor opinion of Isabelle mattered. Naomi would have her party. And if Grant didn’t like it, he could jolly well take himself to the devil.

  “No, you won’t,” she said, calm and determined. Lily regarded her with a questioning look. Isabelle met her expression with a conspiratorial smile. She turned back to Naomi. “Your party shall be a rousing success,” she assured the younger woman. “You’ll see.”

  Chapter Eight

  Isabelle left an overwrought Naomi in Lily’s capable care, while Lady Janine greeted the party guests beginning to trickle in. She made her way to the abandoned kitchen to survey her new domain. Grant could rail against her all he wanted, but Isabelle would be damned if she’d let his prejudice against her ruin his sister’s Season. Isabelle knew only too well how one foible could set all the tongues a-wagging. The beau monde loved nothing more than news of a public mishap to devour alongside the canapés.

  Down the cramped servant stairs to the basement level she went, passing the china pantry, the laundry, and the door to the wine cellar along her way. In the scullery, she found the same maid who had delivered the news of the kitchen staff’s absence. She pulled the girl from dishwashing duty and brought her along to the spacious kitchen.

  The kitchen contained all that she would expect to find: a large cast-iron oven and range, butcher block, pots, pans, and ample cutlery. In the pantry, she found a veritable catalog’s worth of tinned spices. The meat larder contained a few hams, poultry, and cuts of beef, but nothing like what would be required for a proper supper for thirty.

  Isabelle found an apron to tie around her waist then set about making a list for the scullery maid to take back to town.

  By all that was holy, she could cook. And if her cooking could save Naomi from humiliation, then Isabelle would cook like her life depended on it.

  While she waited for the maid to return with a dogcart full of meats and cheeses, she set about creating some desserts. Pastries had never been her strong suit, but Isabelle could do justice by a tart. For the under-the-stars evening Naomi envisioned, tarts filled with sweet summer fruits would be just the thing.