Her Grace in Disgrace (The Widows of Woburn Place)

by Claudia Harbaugh

  Her chin high and eyes blazing, Isobel left her bedchamber and descended the grand staircase, noticed only by the footman, James. She entered the Blue Parlor with purpose. Lifting the glass lid of the display case containing her husband’s priceless snuffboxes with her dainty hands, she swept the bulk of them onto the Turkish carpet. The butler, Sloane, hearing the commotion, peaked into the room and watched with alarm as, one by one, his mistress stomped her tiny slippered foot on each of his master’s beloved collectibles, crushing the fragile pieces. And the words coming out of her mouth! Sloane, of course had heard the words before, but never from the refined Lady Warwick. Miss Kennilworth, he amended in his mind, as if the change in her status explained the outburst. I really must do something, thought Sloane in panic and indecision.

  “Good Lord, Sloane, what goes on in there?” an aging, but authoritative female voice rasped in his ear. With that he was shoved aside and Lady Whitcomb, quickly surveying the damage, entered the room.

  “Now, now, Isobel! We know you are upset, but those pieces are worth a pretty penny.” Lady Whitcomb shouted, her words briefly stopping Isobel from her destructive rant. Isobel looked at her aunt, who had also changed out of mourning into a chartreuse and jonquil striped horror of a gown that made Isobel’s eyes ache.

  “Not to me, they are not!” Isobel replied, applying herself to her stomping with renewed fervor.

  “Isobel, my dear. Vengeance is never the thing.” Lady Whitcomb said.

  Isobel stopped again and looked at her aunt, her eyes flashing with a mixture of rage and confusion. “Aunt Maude, I have played by the rules. And look where it has gotten me. Well, no more.” And with a flourish she grabbed the fireplace poker and smashed the twin Sevres vases sitting on the table just inches from Lady Whitcomb. Lady Whitcomb had all she could do to move her rotund body out of the path of flying glass shards.

  “Well, well. There is the Izzy I remember. Back to being a little hoyden are you?” drawled a voice from the doorway.

  The voice managed to stop Isobel mid swing, unintentionally saving a Dresden shepherdess. Isobel turned toward the door, the poker still in midair.

  “Drew,” she said simply and calmly, lowering the poker. “What are you doing here?”

  CHAPTER 2

  Lord Saybrooke was momentarily at a loss to answer Isobel’s question. Why had he come? Because Isobel was in trouble and he could not stay away. But of course, he would never say that to Isobel.

  “There were some nasty rumors flying around Whites concerning you and the late Duke. I wanted to make sure Lord Charles was not spouting nonsense. So, I came to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  Isobel took a long look at the tall, lean gentleman who filled her doorway. He was immaculately dressed in a blue superfine frock coat, most likely from Weston, buff pantaloons and highly polished Hessians, which of course was all wrong. True, his sand-colored hair was askew, but it had been expertly cut. The Drew she remembered was careless about his appearance, but that had never hampered his appeal. Of course, he had not been Lord Saybrooke in those days, but a second son whose passion had been faith and learning. And Isobel. She suddenly noticed his honey brown eyes assessing her. She pulled herself from the past and spoke, her voice composed.

  “So, Charles has lost no time in trumpeting our scandal to the world?” Isobel asked, knowing the answer.

  “Well, to all of Whites, at any rate.”

  “Only White’s? Well, then we have at least a quarter of an hour for it to reach the rest of the members of London society. What a relief to know I have a few precious moments of reprieve until the ton learns of my demise.” Isobel’s sarcasm raised a wry smile from Andrew. “Where are my manners? Sloane!” The butler appeared within an instant, as Isobel knew he would. Sloane had a penchant for listening at doors. With all that went on today who could blame him!

  “Yes, Your Grace…” Sloane began.

  “Miss Kennilworth, Sloane.” Isobel said in a deceptively calm, even voice. “Try to remember for the few remaining days I am in residence. It is a bit of a strain to keep reminding you.”

  “Yes… Miss,” Sloane answered obediently.

  “I would like tea. And make sure Mrs. Bromfield includes her seed cake. It is something I will heartily miss.”

  The butler looked around at the destruction in the room. Isobel caught his look and quickly spoke.

  “Serve it in the Persian Room, Sloane. It is much nicer there in the late afternoon.”

  “Yes, Your…Miss Kennilworth,” stuttered Sloane and left the room.

  Isobel returned the poker to its rightful place and turned to face Saybrooke. “Shall we?” she asked as she took Lord Saybrooke’s arm and led him from the room. “You will join us; will you not, Aunt Maude? You remember my aunt, Lady Whitcomb, of course, Drew?”

  “Of course. Your servant, Lady Whitcomb,” Saybrooke said as he bowed to the stout matron clad in the most gaudy gown he had ever seen. “I remember that you used to give me a guinea every time you visited the Kennilworth’s at The Glen.”

  “You have grown a bit since then, I daresay,” replied Lady Whitcomb with a smile. Saybrooke smiled in return and taking in her girth thought to himself that she had grown as well. “As to tea, Isobel, I was hoping to work on my article for the Women’s Voice,” Lady Whitcomb said wistfully.

  Lady Maude Whitcomb, gently bred and a lady in every way, had lately become a disciple of Mary Wollstonecraft. Quite by accident she had come into possession of the now deceased authoress’ book, A Vindication of the Rights of Women and read it from cover to cover. She had recently contributed an article to a publication begun by an old school chum of hers, Theodora Throgmorton, called “The Women’s Voice”. The success had quite gone to Lady Whitcomb’s head and she was hard at work on her second piece.

  “Come now, Aunt, you know I need you as a chaperone.”

  “Now, Isobel, widows do not need chaperones…” began Lady Whitcomb, then closed her mouth with a snap, but too late.

  “Ah, but it turns out I am not a widow, after all, Aunt Maude, but a maiden lady. I do not think being the advanced age of twenty four will excuse the necessity of a chaperone.”

  Lady Whitcomb looked at her niece, tears filling her eyes. Knowing Isobel hated emotional displays, she said, “Cook’s seedcake is well worth postponing my work.”

  The three sat in the Persian Room, as Lady Whitcomb discoursed on the various objects of interest in the room that also boasted nine Persian carpets, all of them exquisite and very old. Her voice rattled on until Sloane entered and placed the tea tray by his mistress. He stayed in the room, straightening knick knacks while Lady Whitcomb continued to chat like a magpie. She gleefully related the juicy on dits of the day, avoiding their very own, of course, as Isobel poured the tea, unconsciously making Saybrooke’s just as he liked it. Once they all had tea in their hands and their choice of confection on a plate on their laps, Isobel looked up and fixed her gaze on the butler.

  “That will be all, Sloane.”

  “Of course, Your… Miss.” He then bowed and exited, taking up his self-imposed post, just outside the door.

  Lord Saybrooke waited until the door closed before he spoke.

  “Tell me all, Izzy.”

  Isobel delicately sipped her tea without looking at Lord Saybrooke. Her face was a lovely mask of serenity, but Saybrooke noticed the hand holding her tea cup trembled. “There is very little to tell, Drew. Reginald was a bigamist. For years it seems. I know little more than that.”

  “Who is this new duchess, then? Lord Charles kept going on about Spain.” Saybrooke probed.

  “She is Spanish. They married in 1809 in Spain. In September, I think Pickens said. Reginald was wounded at Talavera. I imagine she nursed him back to health.”

  “Are you sure this is all legal? Not some elaborate scheme to cheat you and Lord Charles?”

  Before Isobel could speak a large snort erupted from Lady Whitcomb. Isobel and Saybrooke looked
at the lady and realized that she was sleeping, her teacup tilted at a dangerous angle. Saybrooke jumped up and gently removed it from her hand and the empty plate from her lap as well. Lady Whitcomb stirred slightly, then rested her primary chin on her two others and settled in for a nice long nap.

  “Very sure. He married her again in England, after his return, for good measure. And anyway, Pickens assured us that it was indeed legal. And Pickens is a stickler, Drew. A straight arrow. I believe he is a Methodist, like you,” Isobel could not help but add.

  “I am not a Methodist and you well know it, though I do admire John Wesley’s thinking. But do not try and divert me from the main topic. What are you to do?” Saybrooke seemed truly concerned.

  “Do not tell me you are worried about me, Drew. I thought you gave up on me a long time ago.” Isobel made an attempt at nonchalance but failed.

  “Whatever our past, we were friends once. More than friends, as you well know. I am concerned about you, Izzy.”

  “So, now I am to become one of your lost causes, am I?” Isobel’s voice had a teasing tone, but her eyes were flashing.

  Saybrooke merely looked at her, unable to keep the concern from his eyes. Seeing this, any pretense at a teasing manner left Isobel, and she stood, the small china plate in her lap made a muffled clatter as it fell to the Persian carpet, uneaten cake and all. Her gray eyes were stormy with rage.

  “Do not pity me!” Her words came out in a raspy snarl, her whole body shaking with emotion.

  Lady Whitcomb stirred in her sleep, but did not wake. Saybrooke looked at Isobel appraisingly, the shadow of a smile lurking on his face.

  “You didn’t stamp your foot.”

  Isobel just stared at him as if he had lost his mind.

  “When we were children, you always stamped your foot when you said that. Other than that small detail it’s a perfect reenactment,” Saybrooke said by way of explanation, unable to suppress a grin any longer.

  “Now you mock me? Well, what is it then? Decide. Am I an object of pity or ridicule?” Isobel stood, glaring at her former playmate.

  “Both. I cannot choose,” declared Saybrooke.

  “Both?” queried Isobel, truly puzzled. “How can I be both?”

  “The first, because you are truly in a pitiable situation, Izzy. The second, because it is of your own making.” Lord Saybrooke spoke without a trace mirth, but despite the harsh words, they were spoken with compassion.

  “My own making? How dare you, sir!” This time Isobel’s outburst did wake Lady Whitcomb, who sputtered and blinked her eyes, gradually taking in the scene before her. She promptly feigned sleep.

  “How am I possibly to blame?” continued Isobel in a fury. “Did I marry Warwick knowing he was already wed?”

  “No, and that is why you are to be pitied. No one could have foreseen such an outcome, not even you, despite your cunning plan.”

  “Plan? What plan?” Isobel gave him a haughty look and sat down.

  “Come now, do you deny it? You relentlessly pursued Reginald Aiken, he was the Marquess of Crewe at the time, I believe, though you clearly did not love him, or respect him or even like him. But he was to save your family from penury and to elevate you in society. To that end you mowed down anyone in your path.”

  Isobel glared at him, so angry she could not speak. Saybrooke continued relentlessly.

  “Laura Downing was his first choice and you plotted her demise with the pockets-to-let Lord Tyndale, luring her into a compromising situation where she was forced to wed the scoundrel. And you were free to pursue Aiken.” Saybrooke fixed Isobel with a scowl.

  “In light of recent events, it would seem that Laura was fortunate to have escaped Reginald,” countered Isobel in a defensive tone.

  “Someone was fortunate, but it was not Miss Downing. Tyndale was more than able to pay off his creditors with her dowry and then promptly lost every farthing that was left over the gaming tables. He died two years ago, leaving her penniless.”

  “I hardly planned that! I am not God,” Isobel sputtered.

  “No, you are not. But you played God in this situation and now you must live with the consequences.”

  His words were aimed straight at her heart, or perhaps, at her conscience, but they were not said with anger or censure. Isobel stared at Saybrooke, aghast. He looked back at her with a strange mixture of severity and tenderness. Anger and guilt fought for supremacy in Isobel’s breast. Anger won.

  “If God had been in evidence after my father lost every farthing of our money on his ridiculous schemes, I would not have had to take matters into my own hands.”

  “I don’t recall you ever asking for guidance from God or anyone else for that matter.” Lord Saybrooke’s hold on his temper was weakening.

  “I was an unmarried woman, sir! I had guidance from everyone including the cook. I need never have asked for it! I could not stroll in the garden without someone commenting upon it, suggesting it might be too cold and should I not wear a shawl. An unmarried lady, Lord Saybrooke, has a surfeit of constraints and controls imposed upon her which masquerade as guidance. My parents gave me guidance, my governess gave me guidance, and the vicar’s wife gave me guidance. And all of them impressed upon me that my duty was to marry. The worth of my very existence depended on marrying well.”

  “And so, you would have me believe that you merely succumbed to your parents’ mercenary machinations, your governess’ self-serving maneuvers and the vicar’s wife’s meddlesome interference? You were just a pawn in their plot to have you married off, is that it?” Saybrooke looked at Isobel, disgust written all over his face.

  Isobel said nothing, but looked over at Lady Whitcomb, who had managed to fall back into a true slumber from her feigned one. Isobel thought about his words. Of course, any advice from the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Woodley, would be dismissed out of hand. The woman was a pious, toad-eating fool. And her governess, Miss Littleton? Her guidance was also suspect. She dallied with the head groom, who had to be over fifty, while she preached of chastity and propriety. Isobel loathed her. Her parents, however, that was the difficulty. She had been a lonely little girl, raised by nurses and nannies and governesses. She had longed for her parents’ approval. No, that was not quite true. By the time she was twelve, she had dismissed her father as an officious bore. And she had long since given up on ever getting her mother’s approval. Now that had passed on, she gave the matter little thought.

  “You know that is not true. I have never been anyone’s pawn,” Isobel confessed then took a breath. “You went away. You left me to their machinations. I saw no reason not to give in to their ceaseless harangues.”

  Saybrooke looked at her with surprise. “I asked you to marry me and you turned me down.”

  “You asked me to run away with you. I did not want that kind of life.”

  “Life with a poor second son, a country vicar,” Saybrooke said with sadness.

  “You were never poor, Drew. Your great aunt left you a tidy competence,” Isobel said with a little laugh.

  “But, nothing as grand as a duke; and I was a vicar.”

  “Not yet, you were not, but you know that did not matter to me. I had hoped that you would fight for me, so we could marry properly.”

  Saybrooke stood, placing his plate on the tea tray and walked to the window overlooking the back garden. The room was quiet, except for the gentle snuffling of Lady Whitcomb. Even the noises of the bustling streets of London could not be heard. Nonetheless, the large room was filled with the echoes of unsaid words and the ghosts of lost dreams. Isobel felt tears sting her eyes, but she fought them, forbidding them to fall.

  “Oh, but I did. Your father rebuffed me more than once. He was determined you would marry well and pull him out of the River Tick. But, I refused to give up. Until the day after you turned me down. However, even then I did not admit defeat gracefully. I went to your father and told him what I thought of his using a mere slip of a girl to recoup his losses. How disgusted I was tha
t he could sell his only daughter to the highest bidder.”

  “I never knew.” Isobel voice was barely above a whisper. “Why did you not tell me?”

  Saybrooke turned to her, his eyes full of sadness. He walked a few steps toward her, and then stopped abruptly, pushing his hand through his thick brown hair.

  “I was twenty two years old, full of pride and anger and pain. I did not know what to do.”

  Isobel sat, her back rigid, her hands clutching each other. “So, you left without a word.”

  “Just a few days after I railed at your father, I got the offer of a living in Surrey. A living offered by your father’s cousin, it so happened. I took it.”

  “And I had the offer of a season in London and I took that. And here we are.” Isobel’s eyes were once again shuttered, the passion of the old Isobel put away. Saybrooke knew that this was her unspoken hint that they were done with this topic.

  “Why Warwick? Who chose Warwick?” Saybrooke ignored the hint.

  Isobel ‘s full mouth was drawn into a thin line, a sign of her disapproval. “How on earth could that matter now?”

  “I confess to being curious. He was titled and rich, but certainly there were other titled and rich men who at least had a shred of intelligence and would have suited you better.”

  “Indeed, there were. I did not want one that suited. I wanted one that would leave me be once we were married. Warwick, though he was not as yet Warwick, was my choice.” Isobel‘s troubled eyes belied her light tone.

  Saybrooke knew he should let that information be enough. But, it was not. He knew he should say no more, pry no further, but he could not help himself. “And whose idea was it to ruin Miss Downing, so that you could have your unsuitable husband?”

  Saybrooke expected an angry reply, but was surprised by Isobel’s weary tone. “What is the point of all of this, Drew? I am tired. It has been a frightful day.”