“Well, is anyone going to introduce me?”
Naturally, I glanced at Father since the dinner had been his idea. He quickly cleared his throat and shot an apologetic glance at the guests. The gentleman who stood near his wife appeared to stifle his amusement as if he understood my maneuver. Instantly I sensed camaraderie and smirked at him in return. On the other hand, his wife clung to his arm wide-eyed and looking offended. Glancing at Father to get on with the introductions, he finally spoke.
“Mr. Reginald Spencer and his wife, Catrina.” Father paused. “May I introduce you to my daughter, Isabella Jane?”
Slightly stunned he spoke the name Jane, I had no idea why he included my middle name in the introduction. Confident and unembarrassed over my choice of clothing, I nodded and smiled warmly.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“It is ours as well,” Mr. Spencer replied still sporting that sly knowing smile. The gentleman towered over his wife, and I estimated his height to be at least six foot if not more. His wife appeared timid and quite short, no more than five feet tall. Her head barely reached his shoulder. I thought them an odd match for one another, but who I was to make any judgments above love and marriage? After all, I was the ignorant and scandalous daughter standing before them without an ounce of common sense.
“I see everyone is enjoying a drink before dinner, but alas I am still underage, and Father refuses to let me have a taste of champagne.” Father flashed me a disgruntled look.
The awkward scene quickly ended when the butler announced dinner. My parents led the way, followed by the Spencers, and I trailed behind them as if I were the family pet.
After we had sat at the table, the aroma of the first course wafted toward my nose. I thanked the good Lord above, who I hoped hadn’t written me off as a hell-bound sinner, that my stomach had settled and I could eat. Being famished, I wondered if I would eventually crave odd food like ice cream and pickles.
Father and Mother entered into an idle chitchat with our guests, and I sat quietly observing between sips of my bisque. My mother’s eyes wandered over to me and gave me that look to sit up straight and not slouch. I complied with her request. It had been some time since I had been invited to the dining table with guests. Children weren’t allowed at formal dinner parties in our household. Since I was the only child, I often got shooed away and watched over by my nanny while they entertained. Tired of being left out of the conversation, I finally spoke.
“Mr. Spencer, could you please describe for me where I will be housed before I start finishing school?” I glanced over at the staff, hoping he got the drift not to mention the obvious. Not appearing surprised at my abrupt inquiry, he dabbed his lips with his napkin and gave me his undivided attention.
“My pleasure, Lady Isabella,” he replied. “They have a modest chateau on the outskirts of Lyon. It’s quite pleasant there, and I’m sure you will enjoy your visit.”
“Are your parents French?”
“No, they are English but retired there some years ago.”
“Oh, I see,” I said, thinking that I would be housed with a dull elderly couple. They probably have nothing to do, and I would be their entertainment. Frankly, the entire arrangement appeared suspiciously odd. I hadn’t asked Father how he came to this plan. Perhaps he sought legal counsel, and Mr. Spencer offered his parents up for the task. Unfortunately, I had been told by my mother not to ask questions and accept everything at face value.
“Do you speak French?” Catrina interrupted my thoughts, and I looked at her with surprise.
“Yes, of course, so language shall not be an issue, but if Mr. Spencer’s parents are English, I probably will have no need to use it very often.” They had probably received orders to keep me under lock and key until I gave birth but didn’t articulate it aloud.
“I’m sure you will have a pleasant holiday,” Mr. Spencer added.
Pleasant holiday? I nearly laughed but controlled myself.
“I will be traveling with Isabella to make sure she arrives safely,” Mother declared. “The hospitality of your parents giving me lodging for a few nights is deeply appreciated.”
“You will discover that they are warm and obliging. I’m sure it will be no trouble at all.” Mr. Spencer glanced at me while Catrina remained quiet as a mouse sipping her soup.
“Well then,” Father announced, “I’m glad that all is settled.”
Perhaps for everyone else, but I doubted that I would feel settled for quite some time.
ON THE DAY THAT WE departed, I gave my father a good-bye kiss on his cheek. He stood rigidly and did not embrace me with any affection. Guilt-ridden about my culpability in his obvious distress, I lowered my eyes.
“I am so very sorry for having brought shame upon our family.” My voice cracked repentantly.
“Come along, Isabella,” my mother ordered, tugging on my sleeve. “We have a train to catch.”
Father remained quiet, standing in the foyer. He watched through the open door as Mother and I climbed into the car with our suitcases stacked on top and tied to the back. With one last glance, I lifted my eyes to our home that I would not see for many years. When I looked back at Father, he had retreated out of sight.
“He will never forgive me,” I said, leaning back in the seat. “I don’t blame him.”
“Perhaps one day,” Mother said, patting my hand in reassurance. “When you come home, all will be forgotten and you can start your life anew.”
Forgotten. I had much to forget! Especially the child growing in my belly. As I continued down the road of pregnancy, I began to bond with the miracle of conception, wrestling with the terrible grief that I would bear when my child would be taken from me. I understood why, and part of me understood the need that this must be the way of things. Nevertheless, it drove a sharp knife into my wounded heart.
Chapter Four
Hidden in France
Occasionally in life, you have revelations about the motives behind your behavior and those of others. The trip from Kentwood to Lyon was long and tiring by boat and train. I experienced an eye-opening moment, during the extended journey alongside my mother. You would think that spending time together would have brought us closer. On the contrary, and I realized that my mother had always been incapable of forming close relationships with anyone. For the majority of the trip, she buried herself in a book and rarely spoke a word to me. When she raised a glance in my direction, I felt as if she were checking to make sure her extra luggage hadn’t gotten lost.
As I reflected on her marriage with my father, I had to admit that they never displayed affection. Their life had been a coexistence of sorts between two people living under the same roof. Perhaps their marriage had been another parental arrangement. Obviously, I had been the only child born from the union, and I doubted there had been any medical reason behind it. Most of my early childhood I spent with a caregiver. To be frank, my mother had never been the mothering type nor would she ever display those qualities. When I pondered the situation, I realized that I had merely been a chore rather than a daughter, and it deeply grieved me. Her intermittent pats to calm my worries had been platitudes.
Finally it all made sense. Because of the lack of attention or affection from either parent, when Roger Gooding gave me the eye, I perked up like a wilted flower starved for devotion. No wonder I shivered with excitement and let him have his way with me while he watered my so-called drought. Someone noticed that I existed even if it had been for his roguish pleasure. Being able to make sense out of my actions had been a turning point. I understood why I had transgressed and discovered the ability to forgive myself in spite of it all.
Along with that insight came a self-made vow that I would never be like my mother. Even though she unsympathetically, along with my father, insisted that I give up this baby, I would never stop loving the new life imparted to me. In fact, my affections grew each day, and when alone, I would whisper words of love, assuring my child it had been
wanted. I may never know him or her, but I would forever be a mother regardless of whether we were together.
When the trip ended, I found myself on the doorsteps of Mr. and Mrs. Spencer with Mother standing by my side. After the door had swung open to reveal my wards, a surprise awaited me. The elderly couple I had expected looked much younger. As soon as my eyes met their welcoming gazes, I experienced a profound sense of peace that everything would be all right. I wanted to turn to my mother and say, “You can go now.”
“Welcome to our home,” Mr. Spencer said. “You must be exhausted from your trip.”
“Quite, I’m afraid,” Mother groaned.
“Gerard, our butler, will see to your bags,” his wife replied. “Here, let me take that from you,” she offered, reaching out and taking my large handbag.
Gladly I gave it up and slipped my arms out of my coat, which Mr. Spencer grabbed.
“Let me help you with your wrap,” he offered my mother.
She remained sullen in her manner, and her pickled face annoyed me. Instantly I assumed she was ashamed to be here alongside her hussy of a daughter.
“Please come into the parlor and relax.” Mr. Spencer pointed in the direction of a large sitting room off to the right. “We have a pot of tea and cakes coming for refreshments.”
“Thank you,” I replied, seeking a comfortable chair. The quaint chateau was modest, boasting perhaps six bedrooms in all. The interior of the sitting room, expensively decorated with art deco modern furniture, was a switch from our nineteenth-century antiques my parents kept in our cold stone manor house.
“So your journey was long but uneventful?” Mr. Spencer inquired, sitting down on the divan next to his wife.
“Yes, nothing of significance,” Mother blandly answered. She brushed a wrinkle from her skirt acting indifferent.
“I enjoyed people watching. There was such a variety of individuals traveling through France,” I responded politely, acting far more pleasant than Mother.
Mrs. Spencer grinned. “Yes, there can be quite a menagerie of human life from different countries, including Germany. I understand the fascination.”
Suddenly my mother spoke up with a rather surprising announcement. “I only need a bed for two nights as I will be leaving early on Thursday morning.”
“Two nights?” I queried, swinging my head in her direction. “But I thought you would be here for a week.”
“I’m afraid not,” she answered sharply.
The glare in her eyes told me not to pressure her for an explanation. The Spencers glanced at each other clearly taken back by the news.
“Well, I’m sorry that you cannot stay longer and take in the country air. It seems a shame that you must travel all that way and only have a two-day rest.”
“It’s my preference. I only agreed to accompany my daughter to make sure she arrived safely,” Mother reiterated.
Her reply confirmed my earlier thoughts—her baggage had arrived in one piece.
“As you wish.” Mr. Spencer glanced at me for a moment. “I assure you that your daughter will be well cared for during your absence.”
The tea and cakes arrived, and my body, craving sweets, ate a mound of food, eagerly devouring the French pastries. My taste buds tingled with flavor after the first bite. An idle conversation ensued for several minutes between the Spencers and my mother while I downed the dainties. After satisfying my tummy, I yawned, feeling unusually fatigued.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” I apologetically announced with my hand over my mouth.
“Would you like to see your room, Isabella, and perhaps rest?” the kind voice of Mrs. Spencer suggested, rising to her feet and extending her hand. The caring gesture of attention increased my respect. I needed a little lift to get my derriere off the chair, which I swore was swelling as much as my belly.
“That would be refreshing,” I acknowledged, taking her hand. Turning to Mother, I invited her along. “Would you like to come, Mama, and see your room?”
She drank the rest of her tea and rose to her feet. “Yes, of course. A short nap would do me good as well.”
Mrs. Spencer released my hand and led us to the staircase, which we climbed to the second floor. Ascending gave me a better glimpse of the chandelier that hung in the foyer. Each crystal sparkled like diamonds, capturing the rays of light from indoors and outside. The bright interior of the chateau lifted my spirits. We reached the landing and took a few steps down a corridor. My hostess opened the door and led me inside.
“This will be your room, Isabella, during your stay with us. I hope it’s to your liking and that you will be comfortable. If there is anything that you need, please do not hesitate to ask.”
My suitcases had been delivered and placed at the foot of my bed. After glancing around the spacious interior, I acted on an overwhelming urge and hugged Mrs. Spencer.
“Thank you so much,” my voice cracked.
“Oh my.” She giggled in bewilderment over my actions. “You are most welcome.”
An anxious glance exchanged between my mother and our host, and Mrs. Spencer quickly ushered her down the hallway to another room.
I closed the door behind them and looked at the inviting bed beckoning me to plop on the soft silken bedspread bursting with a rose pattern. When I did, the fluffy mattress embraced me. A second later, I had kicked off my shoes, curled up on my side, pulling a throw over my shoulders from the foot of the bed. What a beautiful place to have my baby, I thought. A moment later, I drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Five
Good-byes and Hellos
It only took a little while to adapt to the new surroundings, settling into what would be my residence for the next six months. When I thought about how far away I would be from England, not an ounce of homesickness ruined my attitude. For me, this affair would be a new beginning although it would not be without its inherent griefs that would ensue.
The following day, I spent wandering around the house and grounds. Mr. and Mrs. Spencer continued to be the perfect hosts. In their conversations with me, I felt no judgment over my fallen state but rather a sympathetic understanding.
On the eve before the morning of my mother’s departure, she came to my room for a private chat. It had crossed my mind that she might leave and not speak a word to me, deciding instead to slip silently away. Naturally, I was pleased that she had chosen to, at least, say good-bye.
“Though the trip was long, I am satisfied that I will be leaving you in good hands,” she began.
“Yes, I feel quite safe here.” My voice answered in a respectful tone. “Thank Father for making this arrangement. Do you know how it came about?”
“Frankly, that’s none of your concern, young lady. Needless to say, he is kinder than I would have been had it been my choice.”
Her unaffectionate words cut my heart. It had been foolish of me to think she would offer an ounce of mercy.
“Obviously, I have become a great embarrassment to you,” I tersely replied. “I don’t know how many more times I can apologize before you give me your blessing.”
“Blessing?” she cried, cringing at the thought. “I’m ashamed to call you my daughter.”
After hearing her punishing words, something snapped in my soul as I finally accepted the fact she didn’t love me.
“You know what? I’m ashamed that you are my mother!” My festering wounds voiced angrily. “You have been nothing to me but a coldhearted stranger all my life who has shown little affection or regard.” As my chest heaved in anger, her jaw set in defiance against me. “Frankly, I don’t know if I’ll ever come home.”
“And what do you think you will do?” Her eyes cast a withering glare. “Find someone of your rank to marry you? You’ve ruined yourself and any possibility of a happy marriage.” Mother took a step toward the door and placed her hand on the doorknob. “I told your father sending you to finishing school would be a waste of money. You will never be a lady worthy of respect.”
After sh
e had breathed her venomous words, I inhaled a deep breath for courage. I could not allow her to know how expertly she had degraded my self-worth.
“Then go,” I entreated, my voice trembling. As my anger burned, she did as I ordered. The door opened and closed, and my mother left without a backward glance. At that moment, I knew that I hated her with every fiber of my being. While I stood staring at the closed door, I expected my tumult to well into tears, but it did not.
The next morning, Mother left early, taking a cab to the train station. She never returned to impart another good-bye. When I watched from the window of my bedroom the motorcar drive away, her abandonment broke my spirit. Not once did her head turn around to glance at where she had left her only child.
Despondent, I walked over to my bed and sat down on the edge, feeling numb inside. A soft knock came at the door.
“Come in.”
Mrs. Spencer poked her head inside and looked at me sympathetically. “Is there anything that I can do for you?”
The gentle sound of her voice stirred my pent-up emotions, unleashing the floodgates of hurt I had kept locked inside. Sobbing uncontrollably, I blubbered my pain.
“My mother hates me,” I cried. “I have made such a mess of my life.”
No sooner had I expelled my sorrow than Mrs. Spencer gathered me up in her arms.
“Have a good cry, dearest,” she said. “You’ve been through quite a lot, and you’ll need your strength for what lies ahead.”
I clung to her tightly, receiving warmth and understanding from a complete stranger.
“Give your mother time, Isabella. She will come around.”
After a few moments, I pulled my hankie from my pocket and sniffled my tears into the cloth, attempting to control myself.
Ladies of Disgrace Box Set Page 3