Chapter Eleven
Damien waited patiently for the carriage to come to a complete halt before swinging open the coach door and reaching inside for Isabella. He was smiling brilliantly.
“Do close your mouth, Miss Browning,” Damien whispered softly, as he held out his arm. “Although everyone in the churchyard is making a valiant attempt to ignore my carriage, I feel certain all eyes are trained upon us.”
The earl’s words gave her pause and Isabella hesitated inside the coach, casting an assessing gaze about the busy churchyard. It was true that everyone stood in small groups, seemingly occupied with their own conversations, but when Isabella caught the eye of a well-dressed matron, the woman abruptly dropped her gaze to the hymnal in her hands.
Isabella felt a faint blush cross her cheeks. Determined to remain unaffected, she placed her gloved hand in Damien’s and gracefully alighted from the carriage.
“Whatever are you doing here?” Isabella hissed at the earl, as she forced a tentative smile toward a portly man who was openly staring at her.
“You didn’t think I’d leave you to face the gossips alone, did you?”
Isabella turned her face up sharply in surprise. Surely he was jesting with her. He had made his feelings about attending services more than plain the other day. Yet here he was.
“Catherine and Ian?”
“Are at home where they belong,” Damien replied firmly.
Without further conversation, the earl took Isabella’s gloved hand and placed it on his arm. As they stepped inside the church vestibule, Isabella grew aware of the sudden hushed silence of the congregation. Her knees felt weak, and she was very glad for the strong support of Damien’s arm. She was overwhelmingly conscious of the entire crowd staring at her.
The earl’s arm felt strong and solid beneath her fingers, but a slight trembling drew her attention. Although one would ever know by looking at him, the earl was nervous. Isabella could sense it, could feel it. To the world he might present a totally calm, totally in-command facade, but in truth he was hiding his fear. This newly revealed vulnerability hit her with a blinding force.
Damien was only here because of her, because he felt she needed his protection. He had put his own misgivings aside in order to lend her his support. She had rarely, if ever, experienced any sort of unselfish consideration. Isabella’s tender heart soared.
Still reeling from her turbulent discovery, she did not at first realize that the earl was leading her toward his family pew at the front of the church.
“You know, of course, this is highly improper,” Isabella said pointedly as they slowly began the long walk down the center aisle. Feeling the gawking eyes of the congregation on her back compelled her to add in a quiet whisper, “I should be seated in the same pew as the other household servants from The Grange.”
“And deprive me of the pleasure of your company?” Damien declared with a wounded look. “Besides, we both know you are far more than a servant in my home.”
Isabella was startled by the remark, yet, conscious of the many eyes upon her, she kept her expression plain.
“Some of these people will probably misinterpret your actions and think I am your mistress,” she hissed, wondering if somehow that obvious conclusion escaped the earl.
“I rather hope they do think that,” Damien replied smoothly. “Although bringing one’s mistress to church must surely be considered the height of bad taste. A crime I imagine all my pompous neighbors would think I am quite capable of committing. Still, if they believe I am keeping a mistress, it might be the single piece of gossip that finally squashes the nasty rumors about my impregnating all the housemaids.”
Isabella made a squeaking noise, and Damien flashed her a wicked grin before continuing.
“Of course, there is also your striking physical resemblance to Emmeline.” The earl reached over and squeezed the hand that tightly gripped his arm. “Please, Isabella, at least allow me the pleasure of startling some of these old gossips into speculation. I was hoping some of the more nearsighted members of this holy congregation might actually believe you are Emmeline. Ah, there is Lady Edson now. She has a decidedly pinched look about her aristocratic nostrils, does she not?”
Isabella could not prevent the gasp of astonishment that escaped her lips. She turned her head up sharply, intent on chastising Damien for his outrages words, when she saw the teasing glint in his smoky eyes.
“You are trying to distract me, my lord,” Isabella accused him primly, trying to conceal a smile.
“And I have succeeded, Isabella,” the earl countered triumphantly as he paused in front of the ornately carved wooden pew.
It was an interminably long service. Damien held his tongue. and made no further comments about the assembled worshippers, and Isabella was grateful. Her stomach already felt knotted and she was having difficulty appearing so calmly unaffected sitting next to the earl without a proper chaperone.
Throughout the long service, she felt various eyes straying to the family box they occupied and the persistent edge of self-consciousness remained with her. She suspected Damien shared her feelings, although his steady, regal continence never once suggested any discomfort.
As the final hymn began, the earl leaned toward Isabella. Pitching his voice so low that only she could hear, he whispered, “The service will be ending shortly. I will have Jenkins ride my horse back to The Grange so I can accompany you in the carriage. Shall we bolt for the coach, or stay and make inane conversation with the locals?”
Isabella was pleased he asked her opinion. “While I certainly don’t feel the need to linger, it would be bad form to rush away. A few moments exchanging social pleasantries with the congregation would not be amiss.”
Damien nodded in agreement, his admiration for her courage growing. He had slept restlessly last night, worrying over her reception at the church this morning, yet she proved far more adept than he had imagined.
The earl and Isabella lingered in the churchyard for several minutes, but no one approached them. It was probably idiotic to care so much, but the longer they waited the more Isabella regretted suggesting they stay.
“There doesn’t appear to be one lone brave soul amongst the entire village,” Damien remarked softly, bending close to whisper in Isabella’s ear. “Even the vicar has deserted us.”
“Perhaps we should leave,” Isabella replied with a taut smile.
She cast a bold eye toward a cluster of people and saw their closed, curious expressions. Her heart started hammering. They are all cowards, Isabella concluded angrily. And fools. Nothing more than a bunch of sheep, believing all those horrid, viscious lies, acting with unwarranted sanctimony. They were truly beneath his notice, absolutely unworthy of the earl’s consideration.
“We should leave,” Isabella repeated.
“We cannot leave now,” Damien insisted. “I believe I know how I can change the tide of my social disregard, and I’m curious enough about the outcome to test my theory. As you may already know, I never like to leave my curiosity unsatisfied. Besides, I’ve decided I can no longer tolerate having my neighbors view me as something they must avoid at all costs. Like the plague.” The earl casually adjusted the cuff of his jacket, then offered her his arm. “I’ve learned it is always best to confront unpleasantness directly. Come along, Isabella.”
Arm in arm, they walked with great purpose through the milling throngs of people. The crowd easily parted before them. After several steps, Isabella realized the earl’s destination. They continued walking at a leisurely pace until they were positioned directly in front of Lady Edson. The crowd noticeably hushed in order to overhear the exchange.
“Good morning, Lady Edson.”
Damien’s voice nearly startled Isabella with its loudness and firmness.
The earl’s greeting drew a blank stare from the rigidly stiff Lady Edson. She refused to speak, yet refused to look away. So they stared each other down. Two strong-willed adversaries, each determined to best t
he other. Isabella felt a trickle of perspiration run down her back, but she cautioned herself to remain perfectly still.
Just when Isabella thought the standoff would never end, Lady Edson blinked. The older woman momentarily lost her iron composure and flushed visibly under the earl’s stare. Isabella exhaled.
“It has been rather a long time since you’ve seen fit to attend services, my lord,” Lady Edson commented tartly, struggling unsuccessfully to regain the upper hand.
“Indeed.” Damien’s stare remained rigid. “I have been remiss in my duties. But rest assured, I have every intention of making Sunday service part of my weekly routine.”
That comment brought a loud murmur of comments from the interested crowd of bystanders. Lady Edson tried to regain control over the group, to no avail. Those who had previously been spectators of the little drama now promptly joined the conversation. The earl had successfully accomplished his mission.
Introductions were made, and they all managed a polite, meaningless discussion. Isabella noted, however, that Damien seized the first opportunity to make good their escape.
“It was not as bad as I anticipated, yet I must confess I am glad to be away,” the earl confided to Isabella as his carriage pulled out of the churchyard. They rode alone inside the coach with the rest of the servants on top.
“I think you enjoyed yourself far more than you let on, sir,” Isabella remarked, remembering the earl’s boldness. “You took great delight in confronting Lady Edson.”
Damien’s somber gray eyes lit up with amusement. “It was rather delightful forcing the old witch to acknowledge me. I doubt anyone will dare to snub me openly now. Perhaps the gossip that surrounds my name will finally begin to fade.”
Isabella smiled with relief, infinitely pleased the outing had been so successful. She felt a sense of pure elation at the turn of events. And a closeness to the earl that went beyond simple friendship.
They rode for the next mile in silence. Searching her mind for a neutral topic of conversation, Isabella blurted out the first thought that popped into her head.
“Please, Damien, tell me the story of Lady Anne’s treasure. I’ve heard Maggie and Fran make passing remarks, and Jenkins mentioned it again briefly this morning, but he did not have time to relate the entire tale.”
“Lady Anne’s treasure?” Damien replied with a twisted grin. “To my knowledge it has been several years since the legend was openly discussed at The Grange. I suppose it is time to resurrect the tale.”
Isabella gave him an encouraging smile.
“Lady Anne is one of my more colorful female ancestors. She was the great-granddaughter of Henry VIII, descended through the illegitimate Seymour line, but inanely proud of her Tudor blood nonetheless. She came to The Grange as a young bride of fifteen, and it is said her husband was completely besotted with her.”
“A love match?”
“So the story goes.” Damien’s tone implied he did not agree. “Yet, for all her supposed love for her husband, Lady Anne was also greatly devoted to Prince Charles, possibly improperly.”
“With the prince’s reputation for womanizing, tis no wonder there was speculation.”
“Perhaps,” Damien grudgingly conceded. “There was no disputing Lady Anne’s loyalty to the Stuarts. She was a fierce defender of the crown, a stanch royalist to the end, and while her husband was off fighting with Lord Fairfax—”
“Pardon me,” Isabella interrupted. “Did you say the earl fought with Fairfax?”
Damien nodded.
“But Fairfax was Cromwell’s man. They fought against the king!”
“There were numerous aristocratic families that sided against the Stuarts, Isabella, though not many will boast of it today. Yes, the earl took up arms against the king, but his wife vehemently opposed his views. Lady Anne was a unique woman for her time, an independent thinker who was not ruled by her husband. She aided the royalist cause by collecting, hiding, and routing monies for the crown.”
“Was she a spy?” Isabella leaned forward eagerly.
“I don’t think so,” Damien replied thoughtfully. “But we really can’t be certain. Undoubtedly her actual involvement in the war has been greatly exaggerated over the years.”
“What about the treasure?”
Damien grinned broadly, amused by Isabella’s gathering excitement. “The largest and supposedly most valuable collection of coin, jewels, and gold plate was hidden somewhere at Whatley Grange for safekeeping until the king’s man could collect it to pay for arms for the royalists. Apparently the contact died before the treasure could be retrieved—murdered, the story contends—so Lady Anne was forced to bury the entire treasure somewhere on the estate.”
“Then what happened?” Isabella prompted.
“Lady Anne fell ill and took to her bed. There was no one she trusted to divulge the location of the treasure, and she greatly feared her husband would use the funds against the crown. According to the legend, she died before the treasure was passed on, telling no living soul of its whereabouts.”
“Are you saying the treasure has never been found? After all these years?” Isabella squirmed with unconcealed excitement. “Did Lady Anne leave any clues as to where she buried the treasure?”
“She kept a journal. The final entry is reported to be a poem proclaiming the location of treasure. Solve the riddle of the poem, discover the hidden treasure.”
“Oh.” Isabella sank back in disappointment. “I imagine the journal has long since been lost.”
“Quite the contrary,” Damien replied in an offhand manner. “The last time I saw Lady Anne’s journal, it was in The Grange library.”
Isabella clasped her hands together in undisguised glee. “How wonderful! Can you just imagine how exciting it would be if we solved the riddle and discovered the treasure?” Suddenly she sobered, reality taking hold. “Of course, it must be a very long and complicated poem.”
Calmly, Damien recited, “Oh, Gloriana of titian hair, thy savior I shall be; for through the rose of the noonday sun, thy enemies shall flee.”
“You know it!”
“By heart.” Damien’s deep voice echoed with laughter. “I believe that at one time or another each child of every generation of our family attempts to make the monumental discovery of the treasure.”
“Well, I am not a child.” Isabella straightened up in her seat and eagerly repeated the verses. “Gloriana with titian hair—that must be a reference to Elizabeth the First. I suppose the rose might refer to the Tudor red rose.”
Isabella continued muttering to herself for several minutes and then shot up like a spark. “Good Lord, the treasure is buried in the rose garden on the north side of the castle.”
“Stop right there,” Damien insisted, smothering a laugh. He was impressed by her quick mind. It had taken him hours to reach the same conclusion. Of course he had been ten years old at the time, but Isabella’s rapid conclusions were still impressive.
“Rest assured, Isabella, during the past one hundred and fifty years this story has existed, each and every one of the rose bushes at Whatley Grange has been uprooted and the ground beneath thoroughly searched. I can say, with a fair amount of certainty, there is nothing beneath any of the roses on my estate other than dirt.”
“Every bush?” Isabella’s voice held a trace of skepticism.
“Every one,” Damien insisted emphatically. She wilted visibly at his words, and Damien felt strangely bereaved as he watched the glow disappear from her sparkling violet eyes. “I am sorry,” he finally whispered in a soft voice.
“Pray, forgive my foolishness,” Isabella replied with a nervous laugh. “I’m afraid I tend to get a bit carried away at times.”
“I rather liked your enthusiasm, Isabella,” Damien confessed quietly. He glanced down at her tightly clutched fingers. “Please, feel free to avail yourself of Lady Anne’s diary. Perhaps you will discover a clue that has eluded us all these years.”
Isabella studied his ha
ndsome face for a few moments, testing his sincerity. Convinced he was being honest, she favored him with a dazzling smile. “Thank you, Damien. I do believe I shall take you up on your kind offer.”
“Come along children,” Isabella prompted. “Your father is expected for tea and we all must get cleaned up before we join him.”
Isabella looked with undisguised dismay at her two dirty charges. She imagined she looked just as unkempt. They had spent the better part of the morning and early afternoon out of doors collecting various flowers and fauna to identify and study in the schoolroom.
Ian, in his exuberance over discovering a water lily, had nearly toppled into the lake. Isabella managed to save him from falling, but his walking shoes, socks, and short pants were covered in mud. Catherine fared no better, tripping over an exposed tree root and ripping out a substantial length of the hem of her light blue gown. Her previously neatly braided blond hair was loose and straggly, and a drying streak of brown mud crossed her forehead. Isabella shuddered to think what horrors would be revealed about her own appearance when she viewed herself in the mirror.
“Let’s cut through the garden, Miss Browning,” Catherine suggested. “It will be faster.”
At Isabella’s affirmative nod, Catherine grabbed tight hold of her brother’s hand and the two raced ahead. Isabella’s heart lurched at their obvious excitement over the impending visit with their father. Despite the earl’s promise, he had not been spending very much time with his children. To Isabella’s knowledge, the children had spoken with their father only at bedtime in the past five days.
At least Catherine and Ian have each other, Isabella mused, watching Catherine deliberately slow her pace to match her younger brother’s. It never ceased to amaze Isabella how devoted these siblings were. They fought often and occasionally violently, especially in the presence of their father, but Isabella knew how much they meant to each other. No one would ever be able to sever the special bond that existed between Catherine and Ian.
Isabella reached the outer edges of the rose garden just as Catherine swung open the heavy French doors on the upper terrace.
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