When he’d gone, Isolde sank back into her chair, setting her elbow on the arm and, somewhat gingerly, leaning her cheek into her cupped hand. Part of her plan was going to be easy enough. She already had provisions to carry with her, so that was not a problem. But how in the world was she to get from here to Hertfordshire in this severe weather?
The solution crept into her mind and she caught her breath. Dared she? It was one thing to walk away from Richard’s protection. Quite another to steal one of his horses.
But, she argued to herself, it was not really stealing. She would return it once she was done. She was only borrowing it, and surely Richard would not begrudge her this one small favour after what his sister had done to her?
Should she leave a message for him, after all? Although she had said as much to the upper servants, that had been only to placate them. It would defeat her purpose to write to Richard. He must not know what she intended, or where she had gone, until she’d had a chance to confront Lord Vansittart herself.
A twinge of conscience threatened to ruin her scheme, but she hardened her heart. This was her life. Richard had accepted her with a good grace, but there could be no doubt she was a problem to him. He had not wanted her in the first place, even if in the last he had shown himself sympathetic. He’d gathered her into his embrace — where she would very much like to be at this moment — and let her cry into his coat.
Isolde felt tightness grow in her chest, making her breath short.
She must not think of that. He was only being kind, and kindness would not serve to protect her from Alicia’s vengeance. The unacknowledged hope she’d harboured was irrational and she was glad she had succeeded in quashing it before Alicia attacked her. Now she could go on her way without regret. She hoped.
Before she could drive herself into a quagmire of contradictory thoughts, Becky reappeared with an enormous armload of bedlinen. Puffing, she pushed her way into the store room and dumped the lot on the bed. Isolde half rose from her seat, but the maid waved her down.
“Don’t you fret, Miss Izzy, I can manage. I’ve a surprise for you, too.”
“A surprise?”
The maid’s cheeks were bright with effort, and she was out of breath, but she grinned. Bending over the pile she’d brought, she lifted a corner and, like a conjuror flourishing his cloth, she turned it aside, disclosing a familiar-looking pile of bunched-up clothing.
“I hid them, miss. As if I’d have burned them, no matter what she said!”
Enlightenment dawned, and Isolde uttered a shriek, jumping to her feet. She regretted the hasty motion at once as her battered body protested, but she paid no heed, crossing quickly to the truckle bed.
“My boy’s clothes! Oh, Becky, thank you. I was going to ask you to find me some male attire, even if you had to steal it from one of the menservants.”
“They’re that crumpled, Miss Izzy,” said Becky as Isolde sifted through the garments, checking everything was there, “but I can soon set that to rights. I’ll bring in the iron and they’ll be good as new.”
“Becky, you are an angel. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Is all there, miss? What else do you need?”
Isolde paused, looking across at the maid. Had she guessed? Becky’s brows rose and she tutted.
“You didn’t think as how I didn’t know you meant to go anyhow, Miss Izzy?”
“I should have realised you would. The shirt is here, but there’s a cravat missing, and some small clothes. Oh, and stockings. My boots and hat too. They’re at the bottom of the trunk, if Alicia hasn’t emptied it.”
“She’s not done that, miss. She’s not been next or nigh your chamber yet, though Janey told me she said as how she meant to be rid of everything.”
Isolde’s guts clenched. “Then there is no time to lose!”
She gave Becky exact instructions and the girl nodded and hurried away. She would eat and sleep tonight as best she could, and wake early in the morning. She was used to early rising, but she’d ask Becky to call her as soon as she got up, just in case.
In the event, she was already up and dressed with her provisions packed by the time Becky came creeping into the store room. She was stiff and sore, but the salves Mrs Pennyfather had used on her had helped her sleep in relative ease. It was going to be an uncomfortable ride, but that could not be helped.
It was pitch dark in the room, but the maid had brought an oil lamp and she guided Isolde to the stables. The grooms were not yet up, though they would no doubt appear in short order.
Isolde found a saddle and tackle without difficulty, but choosing a horse was another matter. She went from stall to stall, softly greeting each occupant until she found one that looked to be a good weight for her. A bay mare, as far as Isolde could tell. The horse whickered in response to her blandishments, answering with a friendly toss of the head.
Isolde talked the mare into quiet and led it from the stall. She was happy enough to take the saddle and made no objection to the bit. Isolde hoped this augured well for the coming ride. She fastened the girths and strapped on saddlebags. Thanks to Becky, who had willingly dug into the bottom of her trunk, she was armed. Her father’s sword was soon strapped onto one bag, her pistol and provisions tucked into the other.
All of a sudden Becky grabbed Isolde’s wrist. Were the stable boys coming?
“What is it?”
“I’ve just had a thought, miss. Have you money?”
Isolde laughed. “Have no fear. Coins are sewn into my breeches and jacket.”
“Lord-a-mussy, and the mistress would’ve burned it all!”
“Yes, but I have other hiding places, Becky.”
She was not going to give away the cunning contrivance that concealed the bulk of her funds in one of her boots. Reassured, Becky held the bridle and Isolde mounted up. She settled herself in the saddle and arranged the thick cloak to give as much protection as possible from the cold. She felt the horse’s mouth and urged her gently out of the stable block. She cast a glance around the yard, but it was still free of servants.
“You’d best ride around the edge of the forest, Miss Izzy. You’ll be seen if you go down the drive.”
Isolde thanked her and leaned down from the saddle to clasp the maid’s hand. “You’ve done so much, Becky. I won’t forget.”
“Good luck, miss. Be careful.”
Isolde nodded and clicked her tongue at the mare. It was many weeks since she’d been on horseback, and her misused body was protesting. But she’d been well taught and she was used to riding astride. She looked at Becky, touched her whip hand to the brim of her hat in salute, and set off.
She could not help smiling to herself. Lord Vansittart was in for a surprise.
Chapter Seventeen
The freezing weather persisted and the inside of the carriage felt cold and damp. Richard wished he was driving his curricle. At least he would have enough to do in controlling his team, which would have kept his mind off his discomfort — and those uncomfortable thoughts that had plagued him from the moment he left Bawdsey Grange.
All through the affairs that occupied him in settling the aftermath of his mother’s death, the niggle in his head would not be banished. Now, with all too much leisure for thought, the niggle had become a plague.
Try as he would, he had not been able to get Isolde’s face out of his mind. Those damned expressive eyes! Her voice echoed in his head, and he found himself regretting every harsh word he had ever spoken to her. He could only be glad he’d left her in kindness, although the remembrance of Alicia’s strange look still troubled him. He could only hope his fears were mistaken.
His conscience smote him still for that cursed night he’d snapped at her. And the remembrance of her tear-stained cheeks when she came to find a book in the library would haunt him forever. He remembered how he had been conscious of her presence the whole time, unable to concentrate on the business he’d had in hand. So many letters, so much to do. And he’d left it until the
last minute to allay the poor child’s distress. It was unworthy. She might have chosen her time badly, but she was clearly in a great deal of alarm for her future. He should have paid more attention, taken the time to talk her into calm again.
Still, with matters more settled, he might take leisure to turn his attention to her difficulties. What he would tell her of Vansittart he could not decide. What he did know was that he could not in conscience hand Isolde over to her uncle. The man was ruthless, and would only want the girl if he could turn her to his advantage. Better to keep her away from him altogether.
Which left her squarely on his hands. Fortunately she was young yet, and there was time in which to prepare her for society. Here Richard’s mind balked. The correct procedure was to take the girl to London for a season and find her a suitable husband. Somehow this course was distinctly unpalatable. Besides, it was fraught with difficulty. Even could she cope with the complexities of that social whirl, how in the world could he introduce her without revealing her relationship to Vansittart? The man would be bound to cause trouble, if only to coerce him into paying down his dust for this accursed cotton plantation.
It was hard to imagine what sort of man would be willing to take a child brought up more boy than girl, with no portion to recommend her. Although any man who knew her must readily discover attributes that had no bearing on her social eligibility. The touching naivety that was counterbalanced by a boldness born of bravado. The warm heart with its impulse of sympathy, even if the manner of it was misplaced. How many debutantes were as quick, or as bright? Indeed, unspoiled by arts and artifice in a way that could not but enchant the male breast.
No, there could surely be no difficulty in marrying her off. Which was the only possible future for her. Isolde might blithely speak of finding employment, but that was ineligible on all counts. She was granddaughter to an earl, for one thing. For another, she couldn’t do anything of the least use in the only occupations available to genteel females.
He had discussed as much with Mama, who had, he recalled, been amused by the girl’s determination to support herself somehow. But his mother had known as well as he how impossible that was. Nor could he have rested easy, knowing Isolde was out there somewhere, working her fingers to the bone. No, it would not do.
He had made himself responsible for her, and he must take the consequences. It was, in effect, no worse than having Alicia on his hands. A deal better, to be truthful. Passing an evening in Isolde’s company, rather than his sister’s, could only be a significant improvement. And he must get her off his hands before he married himself, as he must one day if his title and lands were not to pass to a remote cousin. What woman could be expected to endure a household containing an older woman determined to rule the roost, and a youthful bundle of mischief with no prospects?
He dwelled with pleasure on the memory of discovering Isolde wielding one of the foils in his gun-room. She was an original, no doubt of that. If only she might be permitted to be herself, without the shibboleths governing the female of the species, she would undoubtedly thrive and delight all who came in contact with her. That, however, was quite out of the question.
Richard sighed, conscious of a sense of dissatisfaction for which he could not account. He tried to banish thought and composed himself for sleep, succeeding in dropping off for a while to the rhythmic swaying of the carriage. His dreams were nebulous, but disturbing, and he woke with a feeling of urgency to be home, the piquant face of his dreams shifting effortlessly into his waking mind.
As the carriage turned in at the gates, Richard’s blood quickened inexplicably. He had no thought in his head of anything beyond anticipation of how Isolde might greet him.
The coach stopped, the door was opened, the steps let down. Mechanically, Richard descended and walked up the stone stairs to the open door where his butler was waiting to receive him. He allowed himself to be divested of his hat, gloves and great-coat.
“Is all well, Topham?”
The man did not reply, busying himself with the garments. Richard thought nothing of it. Perhaps the fellow had not heard him. He had been in service here since before Richard was born and might well be growing deaf.
Having handed the clothes to James and the valet Fareham, who had come hurrying down the stairs, Topham gave his master a bow and gestured to the dining-parlour.
“Dinner will be served within a half hour, my lord, unless you wish for more time to remove the travel stains?”
“No, thank you. Half an hour will suffice.”
He must suppose the ladies were changing for dinner, for it was unlike Alicia not to come into the hall to welcome him. She made a point of ensuring her position as the mistress of house was never overlooked, Richard remembered, a trace of cynicism in the thought.
He made haste with his toilet, changing his travelling clothes for the black silk breeches and coat more suited to the table and walked directly to the dining-room. The family had got out of the way of foregathering in the drawing-room since his mother stopped coming downstairs for dinner, except when they had guests. A rare event these last couple of years.
Alicia was already seated and she greeted him with, he thought, a trifle of reserve.
“You made good time, Richard. I hardly knew when to expect you.”
He took his seat at the head of the table. “It hardly seemed worth sending an express. I could not suppose it to be necessary.”
“Not in the least,” she agreed, signing to the butler to begin serving.
Richard glanced at the door, expecting at any moment to see it open to admit the slim form of Isolde, slipping into the room in that unobtrusive way she had. “Should we not wait for Isolde?”
“No need.”
It was curtly said, and Richard glanced at his sister. Had matters not improved between them? He knew Alicia was inclined to despise the girl, but he’d hoped she might at least have heeded his admonitions to take care of Isolde.
Topham was filling his glass with ruby liquid. Glancing up to thank him, Richard noted tautness in the austere features. Was the man avoiding his eye?
He was on the point of enquiring into this when James appeared, ready to serve him with some sort of fricassee. To his astonishment, as he laid a portion meticulously on the plate, the footman caught his eye and wiggled his eyebrows.
What in the world was that about? Had the fellow been drinking? He looked down the table to where James was laying down the dish and taking up another upon which reposed a cut pigeon pie. Richard watched him move around to serve Alicia. When he had done so, again he raised his eyes to Richard’s. A discreet cough from Topham and the footman was once more the invisible servant, serving him without expression.
Richard looked at the empty place across from Alicia. All at once, the anomalies coalesced into a cutting shaft as a presentiment shot through him. He turned to his sister. “Where is Isolde?”
For an instant, she kept her eyes upon her plate. They rose, flashing with contempt.
“She left.”
“What?”
“I’m afraid she left us, brother.”
Richard’s mind blanked. “Left us? What do you mean, she left us?”
Her lip curled. “What do you think I mean? She has gone.”
“Gone where?”
“How in the world would I know? She slipped away. Nothing was said of her intentions.”
Bewilderment was beginning to give way to anger, and a stirring of apprehension.
“And you let her go?”
Alicia was glaring at him. Her voice came low and vibrant, throbbing with emotion. “Let her? There was no question of letting her go.” She drew a breath and let it out with violence. “If you must have it, I threw her out.”
Richard could not speak. A maelstrom crowded his mind. The oddity of the behaviour of his servants jumbled with images of Isolde, a desire to strangle his sister, and a tearing fear of what could have become of the child.
Alicia was not yet done. “W
hat would you? The girl offered me violence. She is a hoyden, little better than a strumpet. Do you know what I found in her trunk? A set of male clothing, if you will believe me. Would you expect me to house any such? No, indeed, brother, she can have no home here. I flung her from the premises, with nothing but the clothes she stood up in.”
The words battered at Richard’s brain, but this last loosened his tongue. He rose in his wrath, oblivious to the presence of the servants. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“Not I, brother.”
“Dear Lord in heaven, what did you think you were doing? I would not treat a dog in such a fashion!”
His sister was on her feet, her hands grasping the edge of the table, words panting from her lips. “No! You are blind and a fool. Could you not see what she would be at? Had you no eyes to recognise the scheming little hussy for what she is? Oh, such innocent eyes! Oh, such a winning manner! She even had my mother eating out of her hand. But not me, brother, not me. I knew what she was from the first. Believe me, you are well rid of her.”
Richard stared at her, beset by so many conflicting emotions he could not think straight. The one thing that stood out above all others was that his sister was indeed beyond reason. He’d always known her for a jealous woman, grudging contentment to any in her vicinity, worse since her humiliation at the altar. But he feared now she was truly unhinged.
He flung down his napkin, struggling to command his temper. “You have committed a grave wrong, Alicia. I only pray I will be able to undo whatever harm you may have done.” Turning away from her, he threw a furious glance at his butler as he strode from the dining parlour. “Topham, come with me!”
“How could you let this happen? How could the two of you stand by and permit your mistress to commit such a villainous act?”
Reaching his library, Richard had made straight for the decanters, poured himself a measure of brandy and tossed it off. He was in control again, able to operate in at least a semblance of his usual manner as he addressed the senior servants before him.
In Honour Bound (Brides By Chance Regency Adventures Book 1) Page 11