In Honour Bound (Brides By Chance Regency Adventures Book 1)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  Next morning, that little comfort was snatched away. She was already awake when Becky brought her hot water, and she slipped out of bed only to be brought up short by the tearstains upon the maid’s cheeks.

  “Why, Becky, whatever is the matter?”

  The maid caught her breath on the sob. “It’s her ladyship, miss. She’s gone.”

  Blankness invaded Isolde’s mind. “Gone?”

  Becky caught her breath. “She died in the night.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The butler’s obvious distress when he opened the door alerted Richard. He wasted no time.

  “What has happened?”

  Topham’s control slipped and he heaved a sigh. “It’s her ladyship, my lord.”

  Richard’s heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t speak, only looked a question.

  “I regret to have to give you such dismal news, my lord. She’s gone.”

  Mechanically, Richard divested himself of his hat and greatcoat, handing them to the butler. The questions came without thought. “When did she die?”

  “Last night, my lord.”

  “What time is it now?”

  “A little after four, my lord. You are in time for dinner.”

  Dinner? An alien notion. He had no hunger, did not suppose he could eat if he was presented with food. “Has her ladyship’s body been removed?”

  “The undertaker has been sent for, my lord. Miss de Baudresey has taken all in hand.”

  “Has she indeed?”

  “Letters have been despatched to your man of business and the doctor has been to certify the death.”

  But his sister had not yet effected a removal of their mother’s body. Richard followed his instinct and headed for the stairs. When he reached his mother’s room, he hesitated on the threshold, unwilling to face what he must find on the other side of the door. Thoughts crowded his mind.

  He should not have gone. At least he would have been here in her final hours. Had Alicia treated her with kindness? Had she shown her due respect and care? Worst was the conviction his mother had died alone. Had he been here, he might have held her hand and eased her passage out of this world.

  Too late. He had been absent at a crucial moment and he could never redress the fault.

  He grasped the handle and pushed the door open, unprepared for the sight of the still figure lying in the middle of the four-poster. Riveted, Richard stared at his mother’s form, shrunken in death. She was unnaturally straight, her arms close at her sides. He noted the curl of her fingers and his heart lurched. Someone had dressed her, shrouding her in a lavender gown he remembered from the days after she went into half-mourning for his father.

  His thoughts spurred his feet and he found himself standing at the bedside, his gaze fixed upon the waxen face, its cheeks more drawn than he recalled, pale despite the application of rouge to her cheeks and carmine to her lips.

  His gorge rose. Who had done that? A desecration. Mama rarely favoured such aids, especially in these months of her illness.

  “I tried to make her look beautiful again.”

  The voice cut into his abstraction. He looked up. A face came into focus in the gloom on the other side of the bed.

  “Isolde! What are you doing here?”

  She did not speak, and Richard’s harsh tone echoed in his own head. His eyes were adjusting, and he could see now that she was sitting on a straight chair at his mother’s bedside, leaning forward, one hand cradling the still fingers.

  What had she said? She had tried to make her beautiful again. He looked again at the travesty of red lips and cheeks and disgust roiled his stomach.

  Instinct held him from bursting out against what she had done, the realisation at the back of his mind that her intentions had been admirable, if misplaced.

  “I suppose you dressed her too?”

  Isolde nodded, but her eyes bore witness to the impact of the tone over which he had no control at this moment. “I could not endure to see her in her nightgown. It — oh, it reduced her so.”

  She sounded apologetic, aware — afraid? — of his disapproval. Richard had an impulse to mitigate it, but he could not utter the words. His throat ached as the spurious unreality of the scene began to dissipate.

  This was his mother, regardless of her garments, what she looked like. He had loved her, and she was dead.

  “Go, if you please.”

  It was all he could manage. He wanted, needed to be alone.

  His eyes were on his mother, but in the periphery of his vision, he saw the slight figure rise and slip out of sight. He waited until the door latch clicked, and then gave way to his emotions.

  Dinner was a solemn affair, the silence punctuated only by the scrape of a knife on a plate, the clink of a glass, the stealthy footsteps as the servants moved about. And the occasional piece of information imparted by Alicia to her brother, who merely grunted in response.

  Isolde, sitting mumchance in her place, and taking note of how little Richard partook of every dish, learned much to which she had not previously been privy.

  Doctor Loader had expressed himself as astonished Lady Alderton had lasted as long. Mr Maxton — the lawyer? — had been sent an express.

  “I desired him to hasten, and have hopes he may be here by the day after tomorrow.”

  Isolde was dismayed to learn that the undertaker had already sealed the coffin. She’d hoped to sneak back into the room to say her farewells, after having had to leave so abruptly.

  “I desired him to wait in hopes that you would return in time, and you see I was justified. But there could be no further reason for delay once you had seen Mama for the last time.”

  On watch for every nuance in his expression, Isolde saw Richard’s lips tighten. Was he angry at this haste? No, he must realise the body could not be left too long. Did he object to his sister taking charge? Or was it her conspicuous lack of sorrow that rankled?

  Isolde looked in vain for any sign of mourning. Had Alicia even been back to her mother’s room? Isolde had anticipated a tremendous scold upon Alicia finding out about her interference with her mother’s corpse. Of all things, after she had done it, Isolde had dreaded that moment. She had not bargained for Richard’s reaction.

  A pang smote her at the thought. He had said nothing, but no words could have told her more than his expression and the way he asked the question. She felt his distress as acutely as if it were her own.

  She could not regret her actions. How dreadful if poor Lady Alderton was sent to her grave in that graceless state of undress. Papa had been buried in full uniform, leaving the world as bravely as he had lived. Why Richard disliked it so much, Isolde could not fathom. She regretted adding to his distress, but she still believed she had done right.

  When the repast was finished, Alicia stood up, looking across at Isolde.

  “You need not wait up, child. Go to bed. I doubt we will foregather in the withdrawing room this evening.”

  It was couched in kindly terms for Richard’s benefit, Isolde knew well, but the glint in Alicia’s eyes assured her it was an order.

  She rose and bobbed a curtsy, muttering a quick goodnight. She took care not to look at Richard while Alicia’s attention was upon her, but left the room at once. She could hear Alicia talking. Then she need make no pretence of going to her bedchamber. Instead, Isolde crossed the hall on silent feet and slipped into her little parlour.

  It was devoid of candles with no fire in the grate. The shutters were closed, the blinds drawn and the darkness was absolute. Isolde waited a moment for her eyes to adjust, and presently the outlines of the furniture became visible. She groped her way to a chair and sat down to wait, her ears attuned to hear the opening and closing of the door.

  Alicia’s footsteps very soon came out and she heard them ascending the stairs. All but the butler had left the dining room already, and he would remain until Richard had partaken of as much liquor as he wanted. Isolde had noticed that he drank freely of his wine, though he ate li
ttle. She hoped he would not succumb to his potations before she had a chance to talk to him.

  The resolution of her future had become a matter of urgency. Without Lady Alderton, she was all too vulnerable to Alicia’s spite. Not that she would tell him so. She hoped only to explain that without Lady Alderton, she believed it had become imperative to find her family.

  Outside the library door, Isolde paused to dig up her courage. She knew Richard was in there, for she’d heard him dismiss the butler.

  “Don’t wait up, Topham. You may lock up now. I have some matters to attend to in the library before I retire.”

  Holding her breath, Isolde carefully turned the handle and gently pushed the door inwards, slipping into the room.

  There was no one at the desk, but a pool of light from a single candelabrum centred on the armchairs near the fire, from where a faint glow still emanated. She could see a pair of booted feet crossed at the ankles, but Richard’s face was hidden by the wing of the chair.

  Isolde closed the door with care, and crossed silently towards the fireplace. She reached the chair opposite and checked there, looking across at him.

  His eyes were open, but he did not appear to have noticed her. His chin was sunk a little on his chest and he seemed to be lost in thought, his hands loosely clasped together in his lap.

  She was tempted to leave as silently as she had come, but the dejection in his pose stayed her. An urge to comfort him swept through her, but of course she could not go to him and draw his head against her bosom.

  Recalling her father’s sad demeanour in the days after her mother died, she thought of the next best thing. Looking about, she located a tray on a sideboard to one side. It contained several decanters.

  Isolde crept stealthily to the sideboard and studied the silver labels set upon the decanters. It took a moment to locate the brandy. She picked the correct glass and poured a measure.

  Turning, she found Richard’s eyes on her. A jolt shot through her, but she quashed the flurry of nerves and smiled at him. No longer troubling to keep her feet silent, she moved to the chair and stood before him, holding out the glass.

  “Here. Drink this. It will revive you.”

  He took it, though his brows drew together. He seemed about to speak, and then perhaps thought better of it and instead took a sip of the brandy.

  Isolde turned and took a seat in the armchair facing him. She found him watching her. She spoke, the hush in her voice instinctive. “I know how you are feeling.”

  “You can’t know.”

  It was rough, edged with grief. Isolde’s heart ached for him, but she said nothing more.

  For a moment his frown held. Then he gave a long sigh and his body relaxed.

  “Forgive me. I forgot you are also recently bereaved. Of course you know.”

  She waited, giving him time, remembering how hard it was to speak of her despair. But when he said nothing, she could no longer remain silent.

  “It will ease, Richard. For a time. You won’t have leisure to feel it for a while.”

  He nodded, as if the effort to respond demanded too much of him. He sipped again at the brandy and it seemed to fortify him. His eyes found Isolde’s.

  “Why aren’t you in bed?”

  She felt the flush rise in her cheeks and was glad of the poor light provided by the candelabrum. “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “About my mother? I’m not ready to discuss it.”

  The dismissal was like a pin prick in her breast, but Isolde ignored it. “Not about your mother. I wanted to ask if you’d had word from Lord Vansittart.”

  His stare became intense. “Now? At a time like this?”

  “What better time?” Isolde was aware her voice had sharpened, but she pressed on. “It’s a distraction, isn’t it?”

  “Not one I need.”

  He looked away. Evading her? Why? She would not be deterred.

  “Did you write to him?”

  Richard’s frown grew deeper. He kept his eyes on the liquor in his glass. “When the time is right, I’ll pursue it. Not now.”

  Isolde’s frustration surfaced. “But you must, Richard. I can’t stay here. Without Lady Alderton —”

  She broke off as his gaze turned back to her, his eyes hard.

  “So that’s it. And I was fool enough to think you were here to offer sympathy.”

  “I am,” said Isolde, dismayed. “I do offer it. But —”

  In one fluid movement, he stood up, setting the glass down on the mantelpiece with a snap. “You may rest assured that my mother’s death in no way changes my responsibilities towards you. I have said I will take care of your future. Believe that I meant it.”

  Isolde stared up at him, her pulse wild in her veins. What could she say? He had misinterpreted her actions. It was unjust, but he was grieving. She made one last effort. “You don’t understand…”

  “Go to bed, Isolde. We’ll talk of this another time.” With which, he turned away, leaning one arm along the mantel and gazing into the fire.

  Feeling alienated, and not a little guilty, Isolde pushed herself out of the chair. He did not look at her.

  “Good night, Richard,” she said softly, and left him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The bustle was evident all through breakfast. Isolde would have known something was afoot, even if Richard had not announced his imminent departure.

  “I must go to London.”

  Cold seeped into Isolde’s veins. Despite his altered manner towards her, she could not stop the question, and knew her dismay was in her voice. “London?”

  He did not look at her. “There is a great deal to do, and Maxton cannot proceed without me there.”

  Isolde cleared an obstruction from her throat. “How — how long will you be gone?”

  His gaze flickered towards her and away again. “A few days, I expect.”

  Don’t go, Richard. Don’t leave me here with her.

  She had to clamp her lips closed to prevent the words from escaping. Her gaze roved his drawn features, the lush dark hair that looped onto his cheek, the severity of his black cravat. He turned his head and his eyes met hers, and held. She could not read them, but she saw them change, soften. He opened his mouth to speak.

  “Your man has finished packing, Richard, so you need not delay.”

  The contact broke. Richard looked across at Alicia as she entered the room and Isolde drew in a tight little breath and looked quickly down at her plate. In the periphery of her vision, she saw the black-clad form take her seat on the opposite side of the table.

  “I’ve ordered the coach to be at the door within a half hour.”

  Isolde reached for her coffee cup, and saw Richard’s frown appear.

  “I was planning to drive myself.”

  “In this weather? Bad enough to be making the journey at all, though I know it can’t be helped. Your groom swears it will come on to snow before the day is out. You would freeze in your curricle.”

  The coffee helped Isolde recover a little of her composure, and she took a surreptitious look from Alicia’s triumphant features to Richard’s stony face. Did he resent this ordering of his journey? That he didn’t speak suggested he did not feel it worth his while to argue.

  Isolde had noticed several such instances of the brother and sister rubbing against each other in the days following their mother’s passing. Both had donned mourning almost immediately, and without being told, Isolde resumed the blacks she’d worn for Papa. She’d put them off once she left Holland and was no longer obliged to make a show for form’s sake. Papa could not abide the custom and Isolde had scant regard for society’s rules. But she was no longer mistress of her own actions, and she knew she would be expected to wear black at Bawdsey Grange.

  Neither Alicia nor Richard had time for her, and Isolde had kept out of the way, employing the empty days with the stitchery imposed upon her before Lady Alderton died. She had once sought to find a book to read, and went into the library when
she thought Richard was absent from it, only to find him seated at the desk, writing, a pile of papers to hand.

  Isolde made to retreat, but he looked up and caught her.

  “What is it?”

  The curt note was disturbing, although she was growing used to hearing it from him ever since the night after Lady Alderton died. No opportunity had arisen for her to have further speech with him. Indeed, she scarcely saw him, except at meals. She might have been a ghost, for all the attention paid to her in this house.

  “I just wanted a book,” she got out.

  “What sort of book?”

  She was tempted to say any book, but she did not want him to know how much his attitude oppressed her. “Just — something diverting.”

  The frown did not leave his brow and his stare bored into Isolde. Then he threw out a hand, still holding the quill, and pointed towards the other side of the room. “There are some novels in that bookcase. At the end, on the middle shelf, I think.”

  Then he bent his head and resumed writing.

  Isolde hesitated, her gaze following the motions of his pen across the paper. Should she apologise? Would he relent towards her? She cleared her throat. “Richard…”

  He did not look up. “What is it?”

  “I didn’t — it wasn’t — I never meant…”

  Her voice died. She could not get the words out.

  Richard’s pen paused and his eyes rose to meet hers. Was there a flicker of a smile?

  “I know. It doesn’t matter.”

  Then his attention returned to his task and Isolde’s heart sank. It was not the response for which she had longed, in the lonely night hours when she imagined what she would say to him. But at least he had forgiven her.

  She waited a moment, but he took no further notice of her. She crossed quickly to the bookcase he had indicated, hunting through the titles on the shelves without really seeing them, her heart thumping, her eyes pricking.

  Acutely aware of him at the desk, she made a pretence of searching while covertly watching him from under her lashes. He neither lifted his head, nor ceased his labours with the quill.