Of Twisted Fates (Kinsley Sisters Book 1)

by Heather Chapman

  Perhaps even…I bit my lip. No, I could not think it.

  He took my hand. “I wish to make you my wife, Isabelle.”

  “You wish to…” Finishing the sentence, particularly when the next word was make, proved impossible. I did not mean to be made into anything.

  He nodded. “Yes, if you will accept. Will you accept?”

  “I—I…” My mind spun. I will—the words were so simple, so easy. Two words and my sisters’ good fate would be sealed. I will—I tried to form the words on my lips to no avail.

  “With my hand, I pledge my fortune, my connections to you and your family. Your sisters will have their pick of husbands.” He pulled my hand to his lips. “Do not mistake me—I have the power to make their future, to hand them into society with a favorable recommendation. Or...the opposite, I suppose.”

  I winced. A proposal and a threat? Never had I heard them rolled into one question.

  “And,” Mr. Braithewaite said, releasing a hot breath against my face as he glanced over my figure with an enthusiasm that made my skin crawl, “you must not mistake this business. I will pledge my entire being to you as well.”

  I pulled from his touch but managed to remain silent.

  Juliet and Charlotte deserved the future he spoke of, and the ability to help them was at my disposal. Marrying Mr. Braithewaite, by society’s standards, was a small price to pay for my sisters’ happiness and my mother’s comfort. If only the ache that pulsed against my temples would settle, but it would not. The pain only grew, settling into my chest and soon into my entire body. Marriage to Mr. Braithewaite was certain bondage—one without chains but bondage all the same.

  The clouds outside were as dark as ever, and a slip of paper blew down the lane. Why did it not rain? Did not even the sky have the courtesy to cry for me?

  “Isabelle? What more can I say?”

  I gasped for breath. Mr. Braithewaite and marriage—the weight. I could not survive such a pulverizing crush, even with my entire family’s future riding upon my shoulders. Someone like Mr. Rowley—the damage would have been minimal, but Mr. Braithewaite…

  I could not sell my soul, even for such a noble cause.

  “I understand my proposal must come as quite the shock. But welcome, nonetheless. My lady?”

  I shook my head and ran from the room directly to my bedchamber, where I frantically found Juliet’s letter and read it over and over, until my breath returned to its normal rhythm.

  Dearest Isabelle,

  For nearly two nights, I have not slept. I cannot bear to think of you, parading—as you called it—in front of eligible matches. Pray, please tell me I am not too late, that you have not already given up your future for your poor sisters and determined mother.

  Duty is ever the chain. I cannot claim to know your feelings in full, but I imagine you as you always are—carefree upon all appearances, whilst bearing the entire world on your shoulders, as oldest sisters often do. I do not mean to say you are wrong in answering Mother’s wishes. You are right to remember duty, particularly when Mother and Father have sacrificed the funds to send you to London, but, Isabelle, my dearest sister and friend, I will not have you exchange happiness on my or Charlotte’s account.

  Attend the balls, carry on with Mother’s wishes, but promise me you will not accept an offer without certain love. I suppose Lord Byron said it best, when he wrote: Man's love is of man's life a part; it is a woman's whole existence. In her first passion, a woman loves her lover, in all the others all she loves is love.

  You must not give away your existence for me.

  All my love,

  Juliet

  Aunt Susan’s music room was smaller than most, and white sheets draped over more than half the furniture in preparation for our impending departure. Those facts made the room the perfect hiding place.

  Unfortunately, Mama knew me too well, and there was no hiding from her.

  I sat at the pianoforte bench, curled over the closed keys.

  Mama stroked my back with one hand, running her other hand under each of my swollen-but-tearless eyes. “Dear girl, this is not the end. Mr. Braithewaite was more than understanding.”

  Even the mention of his name brought a convulsing shiver. As a rule, I did not cry. In fact, Juliet often asserted that I was unusual in that regard. She was rather easily touched by most everything, while I was not. Or rather, I did not wish to be so affected. I did not wish to cry, for I did not wish for others to see me as weak.

  Laughter, on the other hand, came much more often and easier than tears.

  “Really, Isabelle, you should have seen him. He was quite touched by your overwhelmed manner. He had not thought his proposal would affect you so. In fact, he offered his vocal assurance that his offer will remain in place for as long as you need to decide. He means for you to return to Bridlington and write when you have an answer. I cannot imagine most men to be so understanding. Can you?”

  I wrinkled my nose, shuddering as if I had smelt something foul. Mr. Braithewaite—or Chauncey as he wished me to call him—did not possess the feeling my mother so quickly assumed. The man was manipulative and controlling, and his understanding only served to further his agenda.

  Mama pulled a limp curl from my cheek. “Please say something. Your chances are not ruined, not in the slightest.”

  I sighed and offered a rather unladylike grunt. “I could not accept him, Mama. I could not. I wanted to—I tried to, but I could not fathom spending my life with such a man.”

  Mama’s brows drew downward. “Such a man? What do you mean? He is the type we have wished for—wealthy, respectable—”

  “You cannot believe he is respectable.” I pulled from my mother’s touch. I mumbled into my hands, “You married Papa. He is good and kind and handsome.”

  Mama’s hearing was commendable. “Yes, your father is all of that, and I love him for it. But he is poor. I did not mind for myself, but I do for the sake of my children.”

  I cringed. Papa was better than anyone deserved, even Mama. “But Mr. Braithewaite does not know me. He cannot care for me, nor can I care for him.”

  She chuckled. “Why would you say such things? Most marry without knowing one another in the slightest. It is the way with these things.”

  I stood from the bench. Stubbornness—a feeling I knew quite well—set in my jaw. My mother was not evil; she longed for my future to be easier than hers; she wanted Juliet and Charlotte to be given more opportunities. Yet, anger rolled inside of me, building to a burn that clawed at my throat. Mama had wished me to accept despite my reluctance and even refusal.

  She reached for me once more, and her expression softened. “You have always been my favorite, Isabelle. I have told you well enough. You were best equipped for the task of marrying well. You have the cream of me and your father, in terms of features and spirit. I am rather impressed with your efforts these last months in schooling that fiery spirit. And now, you have triumphed. I am so very proud, my dear.”

  My anger did not yield. Understanding Mama’s love and her reasons did not make them righteous. How could she place such a responsibility on me? How could she sit beside me, so unashamedly, and proclaim my triumph?

  The doors swung open, and Aunt Susan stood in her frilly mob cap. She lifted her arms in the air. “I daresay I doubted you could do it. ‘Sister,’ I said, ‘you must send Juliet instead. She is so quiet and well-mannered and perfectly amiable’, but your mother insisted you were the one to—”

  “No.”

  The word leapt from my lips without permission, and my aunt’s eyes bulged in response. She placed both hands across her chest. “So ungrateful, Sister. After everything we have done for your Isabelle. Why, I have set her up in my own house, which has not gone unnoticed by my many friends. I have faced ridicule and neglect for sponsoring a penniless niece, whom cannot seem to keep her mouth from running about.”

  “Sponsoring?” I clenched my hands and released a puff of air. At last, my anger seemed
to come to a head, and I felt justified in releasing it on my tactless aunt. “You cannot claim such things when my parents have sacrificed so much for me to come. No, Aunt. You have lent only your townhome and company, the latter of which was grievous to bear indeed.”

  “Isabelle.” Mama moved between us, and a silent war ensued.

  I hardly knew what weapons I might ever throw at Aunt Susan, for she was as icy and solid as she was untouchable. She lifted a brow at my insolence but did not have the decency to counter any insult.

  Only the arrival of the footman broke through the tension. “Miss Kinsley?”

  My shoulders relaxed slightly. “Yes?”

  “A letter has just arrived for you.”

  “Letters have a way of saving a person,” I said.

  I took to my room immediately, grateful for Providence in sparing me another moment of Aunt Susan’s disdainful glare.

  Dear Isabelle,

  Pleasantries cannot precede my pressing news. You will never guess—or perhaps you might. You seem to anticipate most everything. Mama has agreed to host a summer house party for Elliot and me. She thought a party to be the perfect diversion before I settle on a husband. I could laugh at my prospects—three eligible, handsome young men.

  Can a person die of anticipation? House parties, if stocked with the best of guests, are much better than an entire season, for when all guests are under one roof, then is there true fun to be had. A gentleman of interest cannot escape chance meetings, and that is just how I wish it.

  Elliot has left all invitations to me, as he so often does. I hardly cared about the list at all, except for two names—yours and one other that I shall wait to divulge when I see you. Please tell me you shall come to Haven’s Landing. I cannot survive my Uncle’s presence without you. We shall have great balls and dinners, and you might even catch your own set of proposals by the end of the month. Mama considers herself ever the matchmaker and has gentleman prospects for you in mind.

  I shall visit you in two days for your answer, and I hope you will accept!

  Your friend,

  Anna Somerville

  Chapter 4

  Simon

  The sun had already set along the London skyline—the sky painted in purple and pink, rather than the usual array of glowing oranges—or the dreary cloud cover that spent most of the winter hanging just over the rooftops. I tapped the quill to the paper, but no reply came. I sighed, rather wishing I might blend into the sunset before me. That was why I had gone abroad, after all—to escape these exact matters.

  I sat at the desk in my room. Breeches on, shirt loosely draped on my body after my bath. Cards in town tonight, but I’d do my best to avoid the Rooms.

  Father’s letter had found me no more than two days after my arrival to the townhouse. I had hoped for more time. Alas, his demands—or rather, his relaying of my mother’s demands—seemed to jump off the page altogether and into the physical form of the man himself. I could well hear the authoritative diction, clip of impatience, and general disinterest dripping from his lips.

  I rarely, if ever, had heard him speak differently.

  For some time, I had been away, yet my father wrote only to tell me my mother expected me back at Windham Manor and quickly so that she might find me a suitable wife to produce an heir. He did not inquire about my travels or even my welfare. I’d assumed they’d come to London, but as the season was nearly finished, Mother had clearly turned her attentions elsewhere. Grandmother would soon be living in the manor as well, which would have Mother distracted enough to allow me at least a bit more leisure.

  I watched as a curtain of clouds passed over the sliver of sun. I blinked furiously. Sentimentality often accompanied thoughts of home, though, admittedly more for the place and memories than for my parents. I so wished to return, if not for the dread.

  I flinched at the sound of a knock, a knock I recognized instantly. “Yes,” I called to my footman, “do come in, Kearns.”

  Mr. Kearns cracked open the door, and his thin frame slid into the room. He held a silver platter and dipped his head in humility. “It seems, Mr. Windham, in the hurry to deliver your father’s note, I overlooked another.”

  I grasped the letter. “It is no matter. I shall read it now.”

  He bowed, leaving me alone with the scribbles.

  Scribbles was far too generous a word. Elliot’s penmanship had always been poor, but it seemed to continue to deteriorate with age. I grinned, far happier to hear from him than my father.

  Simon,

  My mother bids I write to you and tell you that you must come to Haven’s Landing for one month, as she intends to host a house party. Your presence was one of her first requests. She simply will not accept a no, and so I write, pleading you will humor me and her. I have no doubt that Anna will pay some exorbitant amount of money for a true invitation on proper paper, but I’m also aware that after your travels, you may have to re-arrange some of your schedule to attend.

  As you have returned to London, I do hope you are in good health. Mother assures me that you are to return to Derbyshire by next week, and I hope that you come to Haven’s Landing instead of the manor. That is, if your mother can spare you. I suspect she will, when she understands Mother means to have you surrounded by eligible young ladies. The party consists of only a handful, but, as you know, my mother will have her way in the planning of balls and picnics. She will not rest until she has married off half the party, or so she claims.

  In other news, I should warn you: my sister has already secured three proposals. She has not accepted any as of yet, but neither has she rejected any. I do not pretend to know how you feel about her at this moment, not after our spat over her welfare, but in the case that you still feel something akin to affection, be forewarned. This house party may be your last chance to throw in your hat. That, or you may rest assured that she will be provided for.

  Mary Farrington will be in attendance, and my stomach is in knots—I say this as I know my worries often bring you amusement.

  If time allows, I shall call on you tomorrow morning. Time has separated us long enough, my friend.

  Regards,

  Elliot

  I chewed the inside of one cheek, dropping the letter to the tabletop. I did wish to see Elliot, and, equally, I did not wish to offend his mother by refusing her invitation to Haven’s Landing. Elliot’s little sister, Anna, however, presented considerable difficulty. I’d left a young woman in the rain with only a harping mother as a chaperone simply to avoid facing Anna Somerville.

  I scratched at my chin, rereading Elliot’s scribbles. Perhaps the situation was not hopeless. Anna had three proposals, an absurd number of possibilities for a young lady. Surely, she would settle on one of her suitors. Two years seemed a sufficient time for a heart to heal. And poor Elliot—he had secured Mary’s hand just after his visit to Italy, but I knew he had not seen her since. Though Mary was several years his elder, Elliot had been in love with her for as long as I could remember.

  I traced my finger along the edge of the table and determined to accept Elliot’s invitation. The idea of visiting Haven’s Landing, my favorite of places, brought a smile to my lips. The Somerville family felt more kin than my own parents—even if I needed a bit more time to prepare myself to see Anna again.

  Mrs. Somerville had practically raised me each time my parents toured abroad and tended to their many and frequent houseguests. I seemed more burden than son at the manor, but not so with the Somerville family—they laughed at my outrageous and childish antics; they celebrated in my victories; and, they always expressed utmost confidence in the person I strove to be.

  Anna’s emotional whims had clouded those memories.

  If I was to marry—and my mother made it clear that I was—I wanted something, someone different. I had no model of marriage I wished to duplicate, but my entire being revolted at the idea of marrying for the sake of marrying. Was there not a single lady in all of England that might foster a deeper co
nnection?

  I rang the bell and scanned Elliot’s letter a second time.

  Elliot’s final phrasing pressed against my conscience: Time has already separated us for far too long. His visit to Italy had been short, and a year was significant.

  I had fled. That, too, was reason enough for me to accept his invitation. Marrying his younger sister to satisfy Elliot’s feelings—no matter our friendship—had been impossible then and had grown only more so. Anna always was a bit of a silly girl with romantic notions that no man could ever possibly live up to. I had no intention of marrying a silly wife. No, I needed far more substance than the trappings of outward appearance my parents’ relationship seemed to be built upon. Furthermore, unless Anna had changed drastically since our last meeting, she and I were possibly the least likely match in all of England—within the same class, at least.

  Kearns tapped against the door. “Your carriage is ready, Mr. Windham, but I have not yet—”

  “Do come in,” I said, standing from the credenza, and cleared my throat.

  Kearns entered the room with my waistcoat and cravat.

  I stood as he adjusted my shirt and began preparing for my evening out.

  My slovenliness slowly disappeared as Kearns worked his magic. “I shall need my trunks packed this evening. We leave tomorrow.”

  “But Mr. Windham, we’ve only unpacked your trunks yesterday—”

  “Yes.” I offered an apologetic smile as I grasped my coat and gave it a slight tug to straighten the front over my chest. “I am called back to Derbyshire.”

  Kearns visibly swallowed, fully understanding the meaning behind my words. “Then your mother has decided you must return.”

  “Precisely.” I glanced at the clock across the room. If Elliot wasn’t currently in the company of his sister, I’d drive by and force him to join me at the card tables, but I did need more time to prepare to see Anna again. Perhaps she’d make a choice of gentlemen in the next few days, and I would no longer be forced to cautiously navigate that relationship. My attention returned to Kearns. “I shall return to the manor briefly, before attending a house party at Haven’s Landing.”