by P. J. Fox
All efforts to talk with Rowena had also been met with failure. Rowena had been inconsolable since the topic of her betrothal was broached. Isla was glad, now, that she hadn’t shared her plan; the fact of the marriage going forward would have been even harder to bear. Uncharacteristically, Rowena had refused all meals and even the tidbits that were sent up to her. She’d lain on her bed in a funk, breaking her silence only to bemoan the unfairness of her existence.
Isla had dressed alone.
That she and Rowena slept in separate rooms and in separate beds wasn’t a function of their status but, rather, their lack thereof. What the peasantry pictured, when it came to the supposedly glamorous lives of the nobility, was mostly rooted in fantasy rather than reality. The manor was extremely depopulated, due to their financial circumstances. Had there been a full compliment of residents, Rowena probably would have shared a bed with Isla; high-born women got cold at night, just like everyone else. But since fully half the rooms were unoccupied, why not spread out?
Isla would have liked a maid if, for no other reason, than to have someone to talk to. She could hardly ask Hart for his opinion on Rowena’s woes. What would a man know or care of such things?
Clad in a simple brown linen shift with a corset belt lacking in ornamentation of any kind, she’d come downstairs shortly after dawn and been discouraged to see that the household was still recovering from the night before. The same benches on which most of them sat at dinner did double-duty as beds; shoved close to the fireplace for warmth, they each held one or two occupants. Bedding was a rarity; most wrapped themselves in their cloaks. Isla had heard that things were different in the city; urban apprentices slept in their own rooms sometimes, or dormitories that they shared with other apprentices, and some had blankets and pillows and things of their own that they’d either made or had been allowed to purchase on credit. But the West was still rural, and here no one had anything like that.
A few unfortunates had rolled off their benches to land face-first in the straw for the dogs to lick. They snored open-mouthed, surrounded by flies. The earl had ordered new rushes strewn for the duke’s arrival, of course, but after three days even the sweetest smelling rushes were like an old fish: they stank. Pennyroyal killed fleas, while fennel and hops smelled sweet. In the capital, the queen used violet and rose and meadowsweet. A faint breath of fragrance was released with each step, as the rushes crushed underfoot, along with the ripe odors of urine and dog. Few, man or beast, went outside to relieve themselves. Even in the capital, there were rules about how and when a gentleman could pee into the fireplace. Unlacing the breeches was appropriate; removing one’s manhood was not. At least, not in the sight of ladies.
Now, several hours later, the hall was empty; wine-soaked as they were, everyone had finally roused themselves for the day and gone about their work. But the cavernous hall still stank. Odors were a fact of life, in Enzie and everywhere else, but Isla would’ve liked a little less of them all the same. She’d been known to bathe frequently, as often as every other day, an affectation both friends and family found strange. The earl bathed at least once a fortnight, or so he bragged, and considered himself fastidious. Isla doubted if Hart bathed at all. He seemed to consider the smell of his own sweat to be quite alluring, almost the same aphrodisiac as ill-tanned leather and horse dung.
Her father led her into his study and, motioning her toward the armchair facing his desk, sat down behind it in the room’s only other chair. She sat, feeling anxious; what was this about? He steepled his fingers, studying her. He was, if anything, more anxious than she.
Finally, he drew a deep breath. “Daughter,” he began, the formal endearment sounding strange on his tongue, “I have something to tell you.”
“Oh?” she asked.
“I’m sure,” he said disingenuously, “that you’ll be pleased.”
She waited. Pleased, she wondered? With what?
“You,” the earl told her, pasting a smile on his face that looked vaguely neurotic, “are to be married! What wonderful news,” he rushed on, purposefully not giving her the chance to speak. “And I’m sure you’ll want to rush off and tell your sister—”
“What?” Isla managed to choke.
Her father’s smile grew more fixed, and more alarming. “His Grace, it seems, has taken quite a fancy to you. When I met with him this morning, he expressly indicated his wish that you, rather than your sister”—and here, he tried and failed to cover his own shock—“be party to the contract. So this is good,” he continued inanely, “because now we’ve found you a husband and I’m sure you’ve been of a mind to get married. Which—”
“I see,” Isla said bitterly. She certainly hadn’t forgotten that she’d all but thrown herself at the duke and knew perfectly well that she had no one to blame for her current predicament but herself. Still, the ease with which her father had thrown her to the wolves rankled her more than she would have believed. “As no one else would ever want me, is that it? You seem to have arranged this, first one marriage and then the other without consulting either Rowena or myself!” Isla was practically shouting at her father, overcome by the jumble of unexpected and unwanted emotions fighting for dominance inside her. She’d thought that, if this moment ever came—with the duke or anyone—she’d be calm. She was not. Calm wasn’t even in her vocabulary. She wanted to lash out. At something; anything; at her father. At herself. She wanted to claw his eyes out and then her own and then hurl herself from the tallest battlement she could find.
“Daughter, the duke is a fine man—and very wealthy. I’m sure you’ll be happy,” he hastened to add.
“How much were you paid?” Isla asked.
Her father swallowed. “One thousand guineas,” he said quietly.
“Now or later?”
“Both.”
“Your debts must total at least half that.” Isla’s tone was caustic, but she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to hurt him, as he’d hurt her by throwing her away—by putting them all in this position, the wretched excuse for a pair of breeches. “Everyone knows that Apple spent four guineas on shoes last year alone.” Four guineas, when a decent pair of shoes cost four pence and a pair of the finest silk slippers twice that.
“There is…nothing we can do about that now.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “He seems…fond of you.”
Isla snorted, an unladylike noise that caused her father’s eyebrow to arch slightly. But really, she thought bitterly, what was he going to say? He’d just signed her into the custody of a murderer; was he really going to correct her manners? Deflating a little, she stared down at her hands. She’d wanted this, hadn’t she? She’d asked for it forcibly enough. Apparently the duke had taken her at her word that she wanted to spare Rowena; after all, he was equally indifferent to both women. What did it matter if he took home one versus the other?
“I….” She trailed off.
“What?” her father asked.
Surprisingly, she found herself answering him. “Rowena is so much prettier,” she said.
“Do you truly think so?” His tone was surprisingly gentle. “You’re a lovely girl, as lovely as a lily. Rowena looks a little more like the queen, is all.”
This was, Isla considered, their first conversation as equals. Usually Isla was cast in the unlovely role of berating her father for his reckless spending or he, in turn, was venting his spleen on her by pretending the role of pater familias. A role that suited him not at all, and never had. But this…was almost like friendship. Too little, and too late, but there all the same. The realization made Isla sad.
He’d mistaken her meaning, naturally. He imagined her to be expressing concern that the duke found Rowena more attractive. Isla was certain that the duke did—that all men did. Rowena was more attractive, with her curling blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes. In truth, Isla was surprised that the duke’s standards had proved to be so flexible. Surprised, and worried. Because she didn’t understand what benefit there was to him.
Such an action seemed…uncharacteristically selfless, for lack of a better term. Isla imagined that, were she in Mountbatten’s position, she’d choose the lovelier of the two girls to sport with for however long he took to tire. She realized now, faced with the reality of her situation, that she’d never actually expected him to accept her proposal. Was astonished that he had—astonished, and unprepared.
“I’ll expect you to be pleasant, of course,” said her father, attempting to reassert a bit of parental authority. “And to show the duke how pleased you are that he’s to be your husband,” he added with unintentional irony. How pleased, indeed, Isla thought dourly. She was sure that her father would love for her to show just how pleased she was. The ink wouldn’t have even had time to fully dry before the marriage contract was torn up.
“Rowena can marry Rudolph?” she asked.
The earl sighed, and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “I suppose she can, if the boy can bring himself to propose such an arrangement.” His eyes met hers and, in a moment of rare clarity and honesty, he spoke to her for the first and last time not as he might to his daughter—or any woman—but as he would to a fellow man. “Rudolph,” he said, “is what my own father would have referred to as weak at the knees. Oh,” he added, holding up a hand to forestall comment, “he’s good enough in his own way. I’m sure he writes a lovely poem.
“But of the two of you, Isla, if you can manage to find your place in the duke’s household, you’ll be the happier. You—I, our retainers, the kingdom, everyone—needs a strong man. One who’s good at making decisions, not flowery epithets. New king or no new king, things aren’t about to get better. Rudolph is thrilling enough now, but what about during the next border raid? When the blue-painted barbarians are literally banging on the gates?” He shook his head slightly. “Mountbatten is a hard enough man, but he’ll never break a promise—for good or for ill. Stay on his good side, and you might just end up doing alright for yourself. But Rudolph…”
Isla knew what he meant. Rudolph was a man of peace. Lettered and literate and judging by what Rowena had shown her a fair enough poet indeed. Isla liked to think that her father was wrong, that his opinions were the relics of a bygone age rather than the product of any specific logic. He wasn’t, after all, known for logic—either in terms of its employment or its results. And she liked to think that Rudolph had hidden depths. In any case, he was who Rowena wanted.
A small smile played at the corners of her lips, one she barely realized was there. She’d done it. She’d really done it. She’d saved her sister. She’d won.
NINE
Her thrill was short-lived. Leaving her father’s study, she came face to face with Mountbatten himself. Her father, standing behind her in the door, smiled broadly at his financial savior and invited him inside for a drink. “Come in and celebrate!” he said, a little more jovially than was strictly called for. He looked, to Isla, as though the last thing he wanted was to share yet another drink with his future son in law.
He looked, in fact, like what he really wanted was to run screaming.
“Alas, no,” the duke said, as though this were all a perfectly normal occasion and the participants old friends. Or at least old acquaintances, Isla modified. While his tone was cool, it held no animosity. “I have business that I must attend to elsewhere.” The smile he flashed at the duke was benign, but his eyes held dark promise. Isla wondered uneasily what that business was.
He’d obviously been outdoors; he was wearing a cloak again, but the hood was thrown back this time to reveal his dark hair and, almost to his ears, the high collar of his overtunic. His clothes were simple, almost severely so, but very fine. He had a pair of well-made gloves in his hands and a riding crop at his waist, a cruel-looking thing with a handle shaped like a bent foreleg. Even the hoof was perfectly modeled. Looking at the thing made Isla feel vaguely sick.
“Which reminds me to inform you”—as though he’d forgotten!—“that I and my retinue will be intruding on your hospitality for the next week or so, perhaps through the next fortnight, until said business is concluded and I can return to my own estates.” He turned his dark gaze on Isla. “And there to await my bride,” he added, sounding amused.
“I, ah…that is….” The earl seemed distinctly nonplussed.
“Houseguests are indeed a burden,” the duke agreed mildly, shifting his attention back to the earl, “mayhap one that has been eased somewhat in recent hours.” Tristan’s reference to contract, and the bribe it entailed, made the earl color. Isla felt a small stab of satisfaction at her father’s expense, followed by a much larger stab of guilt. Finally, someone had called him out on his foolishness—but why did that person have to be the duke? Peregrine Cavendish complained constantly about the drain on his income posed by everyone else, when he was the greatest offender of them all.
“Indeed,” the earl managed.
Isla, so far, hadn’t spoken. Silence was easiest and, besides, she highly doubted that anyone—least of all the duke—wished themselves privy to her thoughts. Especially not if they knew the bile those thoughts contained. Now she found her gaze once again pinned by the duke. She’d just been about to absent herself, curtseying and slipping out as unobtrusively as possible, but she found herself rooted to the spot instead. The mixed smells of the outdoors clung to him and, beneath that, the faint scent of whatever scent he wore. Isla didn’t know any men who wore scent; she knew none who could afford such luxuries. His boots were made of extremely fine leather and came up to his knees. Anxious not to be thought studying him, she looked away.
“I shall return before dinner,” he informed her seriously, again as if this were the most normal thing in the world, “and see you then.” Her father stood smiling in the door like the idiot he was and, indeed, there was no trace of the previous night’s rancor in the duke’s demeanor. Even so she knew that the man she’d spoken with then, and the man she’d seen studying his tablemates in the dim light of the fire, was the real man and not this pleasant and courtly gentleman. This…was an act. She knew it in her heart, and she saw it in his eyes.
The duke was an exceptionally good actor, but for that residual coldness. He was good enough, certainly, to fool her father—but then again her father wanted to be fooled. He’d be happy so long as he was able to convince himself that he’d helped to arrange some sort of love match. Happy, and far less burdened by guilt. He’d also be far easier to control if whatever feeble sense of justice he still possessed wasn’t activated. Isla hated herself for the negativity of her thoughts, even as she knew them to be entirely accurate. Her father was a selfish, self-serving man; he’d see what he wanted to see, so long as he was given the opportunity to do so. And, clearly, Mountbatten intended to give him the opportunity—from now until, Isla was sure, that blessed moment when he finally quit the place.
She wondered how she’d survive in the meantime. As for what lay ahead beyond the next few weeks…she didn’t allow herself to think about it. That way lay insanity.
The duke smiled slightly, as if sensing her thoughts and relishing them; a faint twitch of the lip that promised nothing pleasant. He knew that, unlike her father, Isla understood him perfectly and labored under no illusions about the nature of his intentions. Their shared knowledge gave his smile an odd intimacy, making Isla acutely uncomfortable and, at the same time, aware that he was a man and she a woman. And that eventually, whether she willed it or no, he’d see her naked.
He turned and, with a final nod, departed.
Isla turned in the opposite direction, making herself scarce before her father had a chance to call her back for a further interview. He, no doubt, wanted to assuage himself on the score of his having played cupid. And indeed, anyone who didn’t know them and who saw them together would think that Isla and the duke were, if not fond of each other, then at least on good enough terms. They might mistake the glint in his eye for desire, or her shrinking back against the wall as the maidenly confusion occasioned—according to the ba
llads—by those first unnamable stirrings that would eventually blossom into same. In the right hands, at least.
When in reality the emotions were simple fear on her part and naked avarice on his. He looked at her the way she’d seen her father’s hound, Alex, look at a particularly thrilling piece of meat. Only Alex was oblivious to his surroundings at such moments, too absorbed in his own bliss to care who noticed, whereas the duke had wanted her to see.
She stifled a sob. If nothing else, she’d do her mourning in private where no one would ever know her true feelings—especially not the servants, and especially not Rowena. All she had, all she’d ever had, was her pride. She’d go into this with her head held high, convincing everyone that marriage to the duke was exactly what she wanted. Or at least that she wasn’t fearful of the rumors.
Rowena was in Isla’s room, curled up inside a moth-bitten wolf pelt in front of the fireplace.
She didn’t bother to acknowledge Isla who, to be honest, was growing a little sick of her sister’s dramatics. Rowena wasn’t the only one who had problems around this place. None of them exactly sat around eating sweetmeats all day and she was acting like this was her first brush with responsibility—which, Isla reflected, maybe it was. Rowena had never had anything expected of her, except to look pretty and attract a man.
And how much of this childishness, Isla remonstrated with herself, was Rowena’s fault? She’d done what she’d been trained to do—and now here they were, both of them, stuck. Isla concealed her true feelings better, that was all. She sat down on the padded hearth bench and faced her sister.
“You can marry Rudolph,” she said without preamble.