“Isobel?” Laura was speaking to her.
“I am sorry, Laura. I was woolgathering. What was it you said?”
Laura was about to repeat it when Renfrew knocked lightly and entered, carrying a note from Adriana inviting her to tea that very day. The invitation did not include Laura or Aunt Maude. How strange, she thought. And then she had a moment of panic. Perhaps Adriana has changed her mind.
Isobel explained to Laura that she had been asked to call on Adriana alone. Laura, too, seemed worried. “Do you think she has changed her mind?” asked Laura, echoing Isobel’s thoughts.
“I do not know, but I believe that I should go. If you will excuse me, I will go and change.” Isobel rose.
“Of course, I am feeling a little weary, so I will just go and rest for a short time.”
Glancing at the note, Isobel once again sat down at the table and wrote a brief reply. She went upstairs to find Manning, her thoughts full of foreboding.
*****
Saybrooke had just bowled a Yorker to the batsman, the little blighter Robbie, who cut with an attacking shot, when Daniel, one of his footmen arrived with a note. The delay in the game caused the young cricketers to grumble. After Saybrooke had read the note and told the boys he must leave, they booed their disappointment.
“Next week, boys, I will try and make it up and stay longer,” he placated. To Daniel he said, “Run ‘round to Wren House and relay a message to Her Grace that I will be pleased to accept her invitation and will be there by three o’clock.”
He mounted Ezekiel and trotted, (that being the fastest pace he was able to maintain in the congested streets of London) back to Stafford House to change into appropriate attire for tea at Wren House. Lady Warwick had pressed him to come. He could not say why her politely worded and abbreviated missive conveyed a sense of urgency. It merely said:
Lord Saybrooke,
I apologize for any inconvenience this might cause, but I would be most grateful if you would call at Wren House at three o’clock this afternoon.
Sincerely,
Adriana Aiken, Dowager Duchess of Warwick
Nonetheless, he felt somehow that it was pressing. So, at three minutes past three o’clock Saybrooke’s phaeton drew up to Wren House and he alit, his appearance flawless; even his hair was tidy.
Saybrooke was received by Sloane, the elderly butler, who motioned him to the door of the Blue Parlor. Saybrooke smiled, thinking of the last time he had entered this room. Izzy had been doing away with every breakable object in the room. Sloane announced him and he entered to find Lady Warwick, Lady Joanna, Miss Parrish, and Isobel. The first three ladies greeted him as if he were expected, which indeed he was. Isobel, however, registered only shock and looked as if she would cast up her accounts. Saybrooke’s expression was not dissimilar.
Lady Joanna stood. “Lord Saybrooke, while it is undeniably lovely to see you, Mary and I must be off. She has a fitting at the modiste for her wedding clothes. She is to be married to Captain Danvers next week.”
“Congratulations, Miss Parrish,” Saybrooke managed, gathering up his wits. Miss Parrish smiled shyly in reply.
Goodbyes were made by one and all and Lady Warwick offered Saybrooke a seat and some tea. He took both. Saybrooke and Isobel nervously eyed each other in the silent room. Just as Saybrooke opened his mouth to say some trifling thing to fill the void, Sloane entered the room.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but it seems that the young Duke is crying for you. Something about a stomach ache and nurse is having trouble coping with him.” If either Saybrooke or Isobel had known Reggie’s nurse, they would have taken this for a faradiddle, which, of course, it was. For nurse was never unable to cope. And though they did not know nurse and her extreme competence, they did, however, realize that Reggie’s illness was a ruse.
“Hello, Izzy,” he said after Adriana had left the room as if he had just entered.
“Drew,” she said simply and inclined her head a quarter of an inch.
“You are looking well,” Saybrooke commented uneasily.
“And you also. How is your mother?” In her confusion Isobel continued this banal conversation for want of anything else to say.
But Saybrooke was suddenly unwilling to prolong the vapid exchange. The woman he loved was seated before him. They were blissfully alone, and he would not waste this moment. He counted it a gift from God.
“Hang my mother!” he said startling Isobel with his vehemence. “Izzy, do you remember that little speech I gave over a sennight ago?”
“You have given so many speeches; I cannot be sure to which one you refer.”
“I will refresh your memory, shall I? I told you that I had been a fool and that I had been chastising you about a splinter you had in your eye, when I had this massive plank in my own. At the end, I asked you to marry me.”
“Ah, that speech.” Isobel was suppressing her overwhelming desire to shout out, “yes”!
“The rest of that night, as I am sure you recall, went badly. You behaved badly. I behaved badly. But, I want you to know the offer still stands as does the sentiment that prompted it.”
Isobel wanted to make it clear that she had not been sitting at home pining for him. “A lot has happened since that night, Saybrooke. I have plans. Laura and I are starting a widow’s home.”
“I know. I have heard. I think it a marvelous idea, Izzy. And I am so glad to see that you have repaired your relationship with Lady Tyndale.”
A thought suddenly came unbidden into Isobel’s mind and she understood. He had heard that she was reforming and now that she was again behaving herself, he wanted her back. The scoundrel!
“Lord Saybrooke, while I am honored by your proposal, I must decline.” Isobel’s face was as rigid as stone, but inside her heart was crumbling. Saybrooke’s expression reflected his own broken heart.
“Why, Izzy?” Saybrooke asked, his voice almost a whisper.
“You dare ask? You have done nothing but criticize me since Warwick’s death. Though I confess to being somewhat deserving, alright, very deserving, you who preach mercy have shown me none.”
Smarting from her palpable hit, though the fault was one that he had already realized, he took a breath and tried to make his case. “I never wanted to punish you or criticize you. I have been angry.” Saybrooke paused realizing that anger was not quite right. “No, not angry, jealous. If you look back at every argument we have had, it was caused by my own insecurities, my own jealousy. I was jealous of Warwick, jealous of Westcott, even jealous of Lord Charles.”
“That is ridiculous and unfounded.”
“Jealousy is not logical. And neither is fear.”
“Fear?”
“I fear losing you, Izzy and I get a little crazy.”
“How can you lose me if you have never had me.” Isobel realized that she was being cruel. Out of her own pain she struck out.
“Oh, Izzy, but I did. We had each other and I have never gotten over it.” Saybrooke’s voice was soft and caressing. Isobel felt herself succumbing to his gentle words. She steeled herself.
“I do not believe you. Oh, I am sure you believe yourself to be in love with me, but it is not me you are in love with. You are in love with some plaster saint you want me to be.”
“You, a plaster saint! That is not at all what I want. I want you. I want Izzy, impaired but incomparable Izzy. And I shall be damaged but darling Drew. We will be flawed together and go through life accepting each other’s foibles and admiring each other’s strengths.” Saybrooke said all this in a light, joking manner, but he was very serious.
Isobel could not help but smile. She suddenly wanted exactly this from life, to be honest; it is what she had always wanted. To live side by side with this man, loving and being loved, forgiving and being forgiven. She admitted that she deserved most of Saybrooke’s reproofs. Yet, here he was offering her grace and she was compelled to offer him the same. But she had one last argument left in her arsenal.
“I admit that sounds wonderful. But why now, Drew?” Saybrooke allowed himself an internal burst of joy. She had called him Drew, not Saybrooke. “I believe it is because you found out that I am reforming, starting the widow’s home and making amends for my mistakes of the past. Now you have come running back to me. When I am good, you want me. When I am bad, you punish me with words. How could I live like that?”
“Isobel Kennilworth, hear me! My coming back now has nothing to do with the widow’s home or your ‘reformation’. I have not come to see you before, though I desperately wanted to, because I was ordering my life.”
“Ordering your life? Was it disordered?”
“In a way, yes. I had lost my way. But, I have become active again in some of my charities, such as the climbing boys and an orphanage in Southwark. I have been working with Wilberforce again on his anti-slavery bill. I even went to see Charles Simeon. I was doing this, because I, Andrew Stafford, former vicar of Axminster, Surrey, current Viscount Saybrooke want to be worthy of you. I want to practice what I preach.”
“That is exactly what I am afraid of, the preaching.”
“I am no longer a vicar. I will try not to preach.” Saybrooke stood and walked over to Isobel. He took her hands in his and raised her from the couch. He looked down at her, their eyes locking. “I am not perfect. You are not perfect. But I love you Izzy and I always will. Do you love me, too?”
Isobel could hardly bear to see the passion in his eyes. It frightened her, it thrilled her. It made her heart race and her stomach flip. Her whole body responded to his loving look, her hands quivering in his. She had exhausted every objection she could think of, but was afraid to speak what she felt. Instead she said, “I do not know what to say.”
“It is simple, my dear,” said Saybrooke still gripping her hands. “Either you love me or you do not. Either you want a life with me or you do not. I have made my feelings abundantly clear. It is left to you to decide. What do you say?”
Isobel did not speak right away and Saybrooke’s heart sank. Finally, with her chin thrust out, her gray eyes sparkling she said, “I say yes.”
Saybrooke lowered his lips to hers in a tender kiss. The tenderness gave way to yearning and the yearning to passion, till with great difficulty Saybrooke pulled out of the kiss and put Isobel at arm’s length from him. “I do not want to wait for the banns to be called. I do not want to wait at all. Can we marry soon?
“Tomorrow?” proposed Isobel, looking at him with a seductive shyness.
“That might prove to be a bit difficult, but I shall try to obtain a special license as soon as can be.” He pulled her to him again and kissed her, but she broke a way.
“Wait, but what am I to do about the widow’s home? You should know that Lady Warwick has become a patroness and is going to work with Laura, Aunt Maude and me. We have ambitious ideas for expansion. The work has just begun, I cannot just leave them.”
“All I ask is a month long honeymoon. I think we can trust it to those three ladies while we are gone. And when we return we can explore all kinds of ideas for helping widows, for I hope be able to take part in the venture. It is a worthy cause and one close to your own heart.”
“Though I was never truly a widow.”
“And I sincerely hope you will not be for a very long time,” said Saybrooke with feeling. He crushed her to his chest, kissing her fiercely, and she kissed him back.
“Look, Mama, they are kissing,” said Reggie as he dashed in the door just behind Duke, his mother trying to catch them up. Saybrooke and Izzy broke apart, trying not to look embarrassed.
“You naughty boy, Reggie! I said NOT to go into the Blue Parlor,” scolded his doting mama.
“Sorry, Mama. Duke smelled tarts.” The young boy smelled them as well, and his eyes devoured them.
“I am so sorry,” said Adriana to her guests. To her son she said, “You may take two tarts to the school room. One for you and one for Duke. Nurse is waiting for you.”
The mischievous duke left with the equally mischievous canine Duke, and Adriana again turned to Isobel and Lord Saybrooke, a playfully devious smile on her face. “I hope I gave you enough time. And, I hope that you are not angry with me for this little scheme. Lady Joanna said that…”
“Of course,” laughed Saybrooke at the very same moment the Isobel exclaimed, “Lady Joanna!”
Isobel approached Adriana, her hands outstretched, her eyes shining. “How could we be angry? We are both very stubborn; one wonders how long we would have stayed apart if you and Lady Joanna had not seen fit to move things along. I think that scheming is acceptable, when one’s motives are pure.”
Adriana took the proffered hands. “I wish you well, Isobel. I hope that you come to know the love you have so long been denied.”
The two women embraced and Saybrooke thanked the duchess for “speeding things along”. After a few more minutes the newly betrothed couple took their leave, their destination, Woburn Place.
At number sixty five Woburn Place, the news was received with great enthusiasm by one and all. Laura and Serena wept tears of joy, as did Mrs. Riggs and Mrs. Kitchen. Renfrew himself shed a tear or two. Charles, unsure of his reception with Saybrooke merely smiled, and Charis danced around in circles shouting, “Happy, happy, happy!”
Aunt Maude was nowhere in sight, but was drawn downstairs by the commotion.
“What on earth is all this racket? How is a person to get any work done?” Lady Whitcomb glared at the rowdy crowd.
Isobel stepped forward, her hand in Saybrooke’s. “Wish us happy Aunt Maude, we are to be married.”
Lady Whitcomb merely blinked and said, “Is that all? Well, of course you are to be married. You were made for each other.” Aunt Maude looked at her niece and then Saybrooke. “I only wonder what took you so long.”
*****
It took almost two weeks for Saybrooke to obtain the special license and for Isobel to make preparations for the wedding and arrange for matters at Woburn Place. Isobel assured Laura that, despite her wedded state, she still planned to be active in the Warwick Home for Widows, but asked Laura to take oversee the day to day running of the home. Laura accepted.
The wedding was held on a fine June day in the Blue Parlor at Wren House, at the Duchess of Warwick’s insistence. The furniture had been cleared and chairs arranged in rows, with a improvised aisle down the center and arch of flowers mimicking an altar.
There were few in attendance by design. However, those who were near and dear to the couple were all invited, including the residents and staff of 65 Woburn Place. Lady Whitcomb refused to be a bridesmaid due to her advanced age, but she gladly attended, wearing a striking ensemble of yellow silk with black stripes. She sat next to Adriana, sleek and lovely in widow’s black, the contrast making Lady Whitcomb look like a large, well-fed bee. Laura was resplendent as Isobel’s bridesmaid in pale green silk, while Jasper Finch appeared at his finest as Saybrooke’s best man. Charis Endicott scampered down the aisle tossing tiny fistfuls of rose petals in the air, giggling as they fell on her head and pausing numerous times to jabber at the various guests. “I fwow woses!” she squealed over and over again. Young Jem had been charged with keeping the young girl on task. He made a feeble effort to hold her hand as they made their way down the short aisle, but was preoccupied trying to loosen the collar of his fancy new shirt, declaring that it threatened to choke him. He had been thrilled when Isobel had asked him to participate in the wedding and agreed readily. He had not reckoned with a brutal scouring in the bath and a deuced uncomfortable new suit. The only other unsatisfied guest at the wedding was Saybrooke’s very unhappy mother. However, her persistently sour expression did not at all dampen the lively spirits of the rest of the guests, who included Lady Joanna and her mother. The consequence that Lady Doncaster and her daughter lent to the occasion helped Lady Saybrooke to feel slightly less disgruntled.
Renfrew had cherished a secret hope of being asked to give the bride away, but it was Lord
Charles, with only the aid of stout cane, who escorted Isobel down the aisle. She was dressed in an ice blue satin gown, with a white lace overlay, her hair swept up into a glowing cascade of curls. Saybrooke took in his beloved’s appearance with approval, but what held him was her radiant face and her sparkling eyes. Isobel Kennilworth almost floated down the makeshift aisle, despite Lord Charles’ uneven gait, her eyes locked with Saybrooke’s.
The ceremony, presided over by Saybrooke’s mentor, Charles Simeon, seemed a dream to Isobel. However, she pledged her troth willingly, eagerly to Andrew Stafford, Lord Saybrooke. And he pledged his to her. The words were said, the prayers offered and the couple kissed after being pronounced man and wife. Before God and these witnesses, they were now Lord and Lady Saybrooke.
Adriana had arranged a sumptuous wedding breakfast for the smallish group in the Persian Room. Lady Whitcomb enjoyed the delectable spread immensely, almost as much as she enjoyed flirting with the confirmed bachelor, Charles Simeon. Simeon, his health of late limiting his social interactions, enjoyed the lively debate about the rights of women with the garishly dressed and singular Lady Whitcomb.
Anyone observing the rosy glow in Serena Endicott’s cheeks might have attributed the lady’s flushed complexion to the champagne she had consumed or to the shyly welcomed attentions of Jasper Finch. Most likely, both were to blame. While she blushed and inexpertly flirted with Jasper Finch, Serena’s daughter Charis, and Reggie, the young Duke of Warwick dashed here and there in between the milling group, faithfully followed by the canine Duke. Their antics upset more than a few glasses of champagne and plates of pate.
Her Grace in Disgrace (The Widows of Woburn Place) Page 24