I twisted in the chair, careful to move my legs as little as possible. “They will all love the addition of her if you wish her to come.”
Mother paused, the touch of sadness pulling at the edges of her mouth making her appear more human and less like Mother. After one more moment, she strode from the room, leaving me in peace.
After my journey down the stairs, I had no wish to go back to my rooms. Perhaps I’d spend some time in the library reading. Once I found the courage to attempt to stand.
Chapter 9
Isabelle
“You must take it.” Anna placed the necklace in my hand, bending my fingers over her unwelcome gift.
Nearly one week at Haven’s Landing and the gifts were already coming. I shook my head, protesting in every way I could think of. I stood from my chair at the dressing table, and a pin fell from my half-finished hair.
“My apologies,” I said to the maid at work on my hair before returning to the chair. “Anna, I cannot. You must not try to gift me everything I compliment, or I shall never offer you a compliment again. I have necklaces enough.”
I felt like a charity case, picking through tossed-out rags. Anna had already given me two of her discarded items—lace gloves and an afternoon dress—all in only the week since we had arrived.
Things meant little to my friend. Her family was infinitely wealthier than mine. There was no disputing that fact, but I liked to imagine we were more equal—we were friends after all.
“Isabelle,” she said, whimpering as if I had treated her unfairly. Her blue eyes grew as wide and watery as a puppy’s. “How can you deny me, when I so clearly wish to give it to you?”
Anna did not wear anything that did not come from Paris. Each piece of her wardrobe, from her stocking and slippers to her dresses and hair ribbons, exuded privilege. And, as most that had never known want, a dress or shawl or pair of gloves was nothing to her.
I constantly found myself in a predicament in her presence, always teetering between preserving my pride and avoiding offending my dearest friend. I opened my hand and studied the green pendant on the gold chain. Green—I adored green. If dresses of green were not made with arsenic, I would have worn green every day. Oh, how I loved green.
Anna pushed back her dark hair. “I see you like it.”
My jaw jutted forward, and I shot her a pointed gaze. She was far too perceptive—that or I was transparent. “Anna…”
She took the necklace from my hand, wrapping it around my neck, and stepped behind me to close the clasp. The movement interrupted the maid’s work at my hair for a second time. Anna bent and whispered in my ear, “I cannot imagine this color looking as lovely on my neck as it will on yours. Brown eyes and blonde hair are all the rage.”
“I disagree entirely.” I blew out a puff of air.
I had envied her dark hair and blue eyes many times. Mama said that was the way with women—we were never satisfied with what we were allotted. Curly hair appealed to those with straight, straight to those that battled the frizzed and unruliness of curls.
Anna shrugged one shoulder, fanning a hand at me in mock bashfulness. Yet, no matter how often she played at humility, she was very aware of her charms. I played along with her feigned modesty and reassured her, if only to indulge her.
“Please,” she pled.
“I do not believe you will be satisfied until I accept it,” I said, glancing at her reflection in the mirror.
I loved my friend for her self-indulgence, her unfailing generosity, her good humor—but I had not understood how fully she’d gone below her situation to befriend me. Haven’s Landing was even grander than the Somervilles had made it out to be. The staircase in the entrance hall descended on both sides, and the largest, gold chandelier I had yet to see hung in greeting. From my limited experience, I surmised the Somerville’s to be one of the wealthiest untitled families of the county, if not all of England—and still, Anna had chosen me as her closest friend.
She folded her arms across her chest, winking. “I haven’t the slightest need for the trinket, and if you do not take it, I will send it to the poor house.”
She was lying, but I relented. “Thank you.”
“Now, once Emily finishes with your hair, you will look every bit the part of the much-sought-after young lady my mother has been telling so many people about.”
My mouth shot open. “But that isn’t true at all—”
“Shhh, no one will believe otherwise when they meet you, and we shall yet provide you with an advantageous match that your mother wishes, someone far more agreeable than Mr. Braithewaite.” She picked up a pair of gloves from the edge of the bed and pulled them over each hand. “I have promised the wife of the local clergyman to help her with visiting the poor today. I shan’t be gone long, for today is the day our guests begin to arrive.”
My stomach rolled at the mention of the house guests. I did not know a single invitee from my season. Anna’s uncle and aunt and their daughter, Elliot’s fiancée, would be joining us for a month, along with two of Elliot’s childhood friends, friends I had never met.
Mrs. Somerville had two balls planned within the next month and promised all the eligible young ladies and gentlemen of the county would be in attendance. This summer, she had said, would be the talk of all Derbyshire for years to come—the year she singlehandedly saw to the matches of her son’s friend, her daughter, and mine, if I would allow. She had clapped her hands after the declaration. “And that, my dear Isabelle, does not touch upon the concerts, dinners, and picnics I have planned for the happy party.”
Emily pulled the curling tong from my final piece of hair, a strand that now framed my face. “There, I am finished, Miss Kinsley.”
Anna’s lips twitched. “There, much better than your aunt’s maid, don’t you think, Isabelle?”
I laughed, nodding in agreement. Aunt Susan’s maid had been far too old to attend to young ladies’ hair, and I had tried everything in my power to avoid her. My aunt seemed oblivious to my preferences, however, and often sent her maid into my room as a special favor. I much preferred the work of my own maid. In truth, I preferred the work of my own hands to that of the dear-but-feeble Delilah.
“Now, as you know,” Anna began, grinning in a mischievous way, “I have three proposals I am mulling over, most dreadfully—”
“Clearly.”
She laughed. “But there is one gentleman…”
I stood and leaned closer. “Yes?”
Anna surprised me by frowning. Her dark lashes cast a shadow on her porcelain cheeks. “You always seem to know just how to catch a man’s attention, Isabelle. I watched you in London, and while you feel quite the failure, I know you to be otherwise. Elliot heard many men speak of—oh, that is not my point.”
I swallowed hard, trying to repress the laughter rattling my chest from escaping my lips. Dear Anna—only a good friend could say such things. If I had truly been gifted in the way she surmised, I would have left London with something other than Mr. Braithewaite’s proposal.
I cleared my throat, offering a cynical expression. “I am not sure why you carry on as you do. Anna, you have three proposals—proposals you have yet to reject and by respectable gentlemen! Why would you think to bring my apparent charms into this, when I have no prospects?”
“Because—because you have something more than privilege. You have not been doted on in the way that I have. Your mother loves you, yes, but she has not spent every hour of every day filling your head with nonsense.” Her voice cracked, and she shook her head, unable to continue.
I placed a hand on her shoulder. “Anna, what is this about? If you do not wish to accept Mr. Rowley or Mr. Collidge or—”
A shrill giggle leapt from her lips. “Mr. Rowley? Mr. Collidge?”
I dipped my chin. “I am sure your mother will understand.”
Anna shook her head. “I am speaking of another—”
“Anna,” Mrs. Somerville called from outside the door. “Mrs. Finc
h’s carriage has just arrived. You mustn’t keep her.”
I lifted my hands, hoping Anna would divulge the secret that upset her; I had never seen her as anything but confident. “Anna?”
She straightened her back and lifted her chin, composing herself, once again, into the portrait of perfection. Her downturned brows lifted, and her trembling lip curved into a smile as worn as the slippers on my feet. “Do not worry on my account. I am well enough.”
She filed past me, but I stopped her by the hand. “You will tell me, won’t you?”
“There is breakfast awaiting you, and Elliot has promised me that he will take you for a tour of the stables when you are finished. Emily has placed a spare habit in your armoire.”
I tucked my free hand in Anna’s elbow, following her down the hall and the grand staircase. Questions plagued me, and I desperately wanted to force her back into my bedchamber to answer each one of them.
“I will return before afternoon tea.” She tightened the ribbon on her bonnet and smiled. Just like that, my friend disappeared from view and back into her façade—a façade I had not known existed at all.
Elliot had not been at breakfast, nor had he been by the stables, and so I gave up the task of finding him, settling for a walk through the budding rose gardens and around the central fountain, all the while Mrs. Somerville accosted me with tales of each of her guests that would be arriving as well as half the people I would meet in the next month.
I tried to take mental notes about the important things, but my mind instantly settled on unimportant details: Mary Fullerton—has an affinity for pink and blood pudding, lots of blood pudding, and is Elliot’s intended; Mrs. Fullerton—has an unruly mane and covers it with an assortment of wigs; Mr. Fullerton—must have silence at the breakfast table to read the Times; Mr. Simon Windham—Elliot’s oldest friend and neighbor, found great satisfaction in causing mischief as a child, especially at the breakfast table. Miss Guppy—a young lady burdened with a last name that called to mind a goldfish. Mr. Ralph Gregory—a man that considered himself an amateur poet.
There had been other facts, far more important ones like wealth and character, but Mrs. Somerville supplied so many names and so many pedigrees, that I could only manage to remember a few, unimportant but rather humorous, details.
I had a useless talent for such things.
Decidedly, I detested gossipy old women—or gossipy women of any age. But then, Mrs. Somerville was different. Her ramblings were far from malicious and more like a misguided enthusiasm for details. Her eyes grew as large as apricots, threatening to burst from her tiny head, whenever she recalled a story or preference of those she loved.
“And then he always prefers his tea in solitude,” she continued, speaking of a gentleman whose name I had already forgotten. “Solitude? Can you imagine? But then again, poor Mr. Barrington was raised with that pack of sisters—he must need silence from time to time.”
Poor Mr. Barrington indeed. I added his name to the mental list beside ‘tea in solitude’. As much as I craved conversation and friendship, didn’t everyone need a moment alone from time to time?
Mrs. Somerville tapped my arm, shaking her handkerchief as she spoke. Her features grew serious. “Tea was not created for anything more than an excuse to sit with friends, as I always say.”
“Of course,” I said, placing my hand over hers. A smile cracked through my attempts, and I could not resist teasing her. “Why else would the cook bring roast pork and scones? Company I tell you!”
Her lips parted, and she stared into the distance. “Scones! Goodness, I almost forgot. Isabelle, you must excuse me. There is a matter I must speak to Cook about. Enjoy the rest of your turn around the garden.” Her small, round figure took off at a surprising speed, shuffling along the gravel path, her bonnet’s ostrich feather flapping as ferociously as a frightened bird.
Settling onto the edge of the garden fountain, I marveled at the crystal-clear water. The sun reflected back on the surface like a thousand diamonds. A garden fountain—the name made it sound like nothing more than an accessory, a vase of flowers on a table. Yet, the marble statue of the Grecian god Apollo and the countless dots of light on the water seemed a declaration, as excessive as the crowned jewels, a declaration that said over and over, “this is luxury.”
I raked my hand atop the water, watching the changes as the light caught the ripples, listening to the silence that for once encompassed me like a warm blanket. Mr. Barrington was right to take tea in solitude. Perhaps I would adopt such a tradition when I had a house of my own.
If I ever had a home of my own.
I stood and stomped my way through the garden. In my one moment of solitude, my one moment before the rush of guests, I refused to have such thoughts disturb me. I pushed past the garden walls and back into the house, all the while laughing aloud at my ridiculousness. I was eighteen, not twenty-seven. How had I let Mama’s disappointment morph into my own?
Mr. Braithewaite would be a last resort, and, even then, I did not know whether I could stomach the idea. I could try for a match at Haven’s Landing or beyond. And after the Somerville’s house party, my options might be limited, but not nonexistent! I could try for the few eligible men in Flamborough Head or visit my other aunt in Bath.
“Miss Kinsley,” the footman said, closing the door behind me. “Your gloves?”
I slipped off my gloves, distracted by a set of voices originating from the library. Anna had warned me that guests were to arrive, and curiosity flooded me. I had not heard any carriages during my venture outdoors.
My feet carried me down the hall and through the open, arched French doors. The Somerville library was more statement than sanctuary. The Greek columns, the artifacts from Mr. Somerville’s travels, and the many, many books, each in pristine condition, stayed in keeping with the rest of the house: luxury at its finest.
I filed through a row of books, attempting a peek at the voices.
Beneath the glass-domed ceiling, Elliot sat beside a box of books on the edge of a table, conversing with another man, a man I did not know. I surveyed the stranger’s olive-colored coat, the back of his brown hair that curled ever so slightly.
“Oh, Simon…” Elliot’s grin filled his face. “First the story about the horse, glad to hear you’re feeling better by the way, and now this?”
“What are friends for?”
“I can’t imagine you expect I will truly read all these books in the next summer,” Elliot said, sorting through the newly arrived items. “You know I am not the bookish type.”
“I have yet to meet a person that is not the bookish type.” The timbre of his voice was warm…almost familiar… “Perhaps you haven’t been introduced to the right authors.”
I flinched as the details came back to me in clear focus. That deep voice, that expressive tone…
I scratched at my lace collar, which had suddenly grown unforgivably suffocating. Or, perhaps it was my heart that had climbed and now clamored in my throat. My breaths grew shallow and far too spaced apart.
Impossible. It could not be.
Elliot held one particular volume toward the window, illuminating the cover. “Fantasmagoriana? You know my French is worse than my skills at billiards.”
I froze. The odds of such a coincidence made this reality impossible. My ears played tricks on me—they had to be. But then, I had sent that exact book to Juliet by post last week.
The stranger laughed, and the sound was freedom itself—unrestrained and glorious yet perfectly manly. “I thought you might consider it, since the book is comprised of ghost stories.”
The clerk from the bookshop was here—in the Somerville library, conversing with Elliot as if they were old friends, and he had brought a copy of the exact book I had purchased for Juliet. My sister would never believe this—I hardly did.
“Ghost stories? What on earth possessed you to purchase such a thing?” Elliot stood, stepping around the man with the unnerving charm.
I retreated carefully, one step at a time. I dreaded the stranger’s answer as much as I dreaded the memory of my ridiculous display in the bookshop—the screeching ladder, the book banging atop the man’s head, the paper cut and my absurd apologies that made as little sense as they did penance! And my ribbon…
“That was a decision on impulse, based on a chance meeting with—”
The board beneath my slippers creaked in an uncalled-for fashion. I gritted my teeth.
“Isabelle.” Elliot locked eyes with me.
Providence was laughing at me—I was sure of it. I straightened the front of my skirt and puffed out a breath. “Good morning, Elliot. I did not see you at breakfast, nor at the stable for our tour.”
I tried to ignore the figure next to his that rose, turning to face me.
Elliot placed a hand on his forehead and lifted his brows. “Blast. I knew I had forgotten something. Please forgive me, Isabelle. My oldest friend has come—you must meet Mr. Simon Windham.”
“Oh, your oldest friend?” My voice came out as a whisper.
There was no use hiding in the shadows. I stepped closer and offered a smile, praying for the impossible—that the supposed clerk might not recognize me. I clung to that minute possibility. Anna’s maid was far superior than Aunt Susan’s maid, and my hair was not wind tossed as it had on that unfortunate day at the shop.
Perhaps all was not lost.
“Simon, meet Miss Isabelle Kinsley, my sister’s guest this summer.”
Those striking, honey-brown eyes widened, and Mr. Windham’s mouth fell open in apparent stupor. “Anna’s guest?”
His shock only confirmed my fears, but I lifted my chin. He seemed as shocked and uncomfortable as I felt. “A pleasure, Mr. Windham.”
He blinked furiously, bowing only when Elliot cleared his throat. “Charmed, Miss Kinsley,” he said, and he scratched at his temple.
“Simon was just telling me why he was silly enough to purchase me a collection of ghost stories.” Elliot handed me the book as proof. “Go on, Simon.”
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