“Indeed. It was due to the love he had for his children. However, there is something he loved more, and no matter how much I begged, he would not stop.”
Isabel’s eyes widened. “I do not understand. Father, he did not…?” The mere thought nearly crushed her, and Isabel could not stop herself from holding her breath as she awaited her mother’s response.
“Have another woman?” her mother asked. “No, he did not have a mistress, not in that sense. He had a love of cards.”
Isabel gasped. “He gambled?” she asked in astonishment.
“Yes. He was invited to gatherings with other men of the ton, and he was soon attending once a fortnight or so. Then it became more frequent. Sometimes he won, and he would return with deeds to houses and land, or other rewards.” She fingered her necklace, and Isabel wondered if that had been one of those prizes, but she did not ask. “Yet, as time went on, he began losing more than he won.”
“I did not know,” Isabel said as she tried to make sense of what her mother was telling her.
“As the instances of losing increased,” her mother continued, “he began to take out loans. Soon, the banks refused to extend him further credit, and he had to reach out to men of questionable character.”
“The two men who came just after his passing?” Isabel said as the realization hit her. She recalled how fearful she felt in their presence, but her mother had assured her they were simply friends of her father. And she had believed her without thought.
“Yes,” her mother replied. “So, I found myself a widow. I made every attempt to maintain my strength to keep our family from falling apart, paying off as much of his debt so you and your sisters could have the lives I had always wanted for you. Then your Arthur died, leaving you a widow, as well. Juliet got into more mischief. Hannah retreated into herself. Everything began to collapse around me. But not you, not my Isabel. For she is strong in heart and mind, and she took over when I was incapable of doing what needed to be done. All of my energy was spent on trying to figure out how I could save our home, and therefore, I neglected my duties to my children.” She turned a tear-stained face toward Isabel. “That, my sweet child, is why I asked you to take this burden that was not yours to bear; one I could no longer carry on my own. Please, I just ask that you do not hate me, for I could not live another day if you did.”
“I do not hate you,” Isabel sobbed. “I am so sorry. I love you, and I am glad now that I have married Laurence.”
The two held each other, and Isabel allowed the tears of anger and hurt to fall unchecked. When the embrace ended, her mother took Isabel’s hands in hers.
“I know I have asked much of you,” she said. “And now I ask again. Where is that girl who was filled with laughter and love? I miss her terribly.”
Isabel nodded. “I miss her, as well,” she whispered. “And I know when it was that I last saw her, but I must admit that I do not know how to find her.”
“Perhaps I can help.”
Isabel stared at her mother’s hands, hands that had brushed her hair. Hands that had held her when she scraped her knee. Then she looked up at that house, and then she knew where to begin her search.
“I have my secrets, as well,” Isabel said. “And that girl who was full of love? She disappeared soon after I was married.”
***
Laurence stared into the empty fireplace, a glass of brandy dangling from his fingertips as he slumped down in the chair. Isabel was gone, and he doubted the woman would ever return. She would return to collect her belongings, to be sure, but then she would leave him as alone as he was now. Harriet had returned to her husband, and, for the first time in many years, she had left on good terms with Laurence. It was a good feeling, and he looked forward to seeing where this new bond they had reconstructed would lead them.
Even today, he wondered at the change that had come over the woman. When he had expressed his concern over Isabel and the possibility—the great possibility—that she would leave him, Harriet had comforted him and even gave him advice. She did not berate him, nor did she place all the blame on him as she would have in the past. No, this time, she was the sister he had not seen in all too long.
Sighing, he sipped at the brandy. Time moved without care for those around her, and soon winter would be upon them. Yet, would he have a companion with whom he would share a fire? In his heart, he hoped Isabel would be with him, but he feared that would never happen, for she did not love him as he had grown to love her. How strange life was. When Lady Lambert had approached him about marrying her daughter, he had thought it barbaric. Granted, even his parents had married for convenience, but times were changing, and more people married for love than they had in the past. He had thought he had taken a step back in time when he decided to agree, but he could not imagine Scarlett Hall in the hands of anyone but a Lambert.
It had to be due to the loss of her husband that Isabel could not love him. She had loved Arthur, and Laurence knew it was impossible for a heart to have love for more than one. If she did decide she did not wish to reside with him, he would allow her to leave, just as he had said during their argument. If he forced her to remain, the agony he failed to remove would only worsen. And he could not bear to see his wife suffer more than she had already.
Footsteps stopped outside the closed door, and Laurence glanced at the clock on the mantle. It was just after midnight, and Weber had retired for the night. Perhaps the old butler had decided to check on him. Or maybe Mrs. Atkins was doing some late-night work. It could be any number of servants who fell behind in his or her duties.
However, Laurence had not expected the person who stood in the hallway when the door opened.
Isabel’s blue dress matched her eyes and her face was bright. As handsome as he had seen her in the past, at this moment, she was beautiful.
“Isabel,” he said and went to stand. “I did not expect you. Not tonight, at least.”
“Please, sit,” she said. “I would like to speak with you.
“Yes, of course,” he said, and he joined her on the sofa. “Speak whatever you must.” Although he gave her permission, he wished he did not have to know what she wanted, for this was it. This was the moment she would inform him she was leaving. Forever.
“My anger during our argument,” she said, “it is imperative you know that you are not the cause of it, despite the fact you were the recipient. For that, I am sorry.”
“You are forgiven,” he said readily. “And for my actions and words, I apologize, as well.”
Then she surprised him by taking his hand in hers. “That is kind, but you owe me no apology. You have done more for me than any could ask, or even wish.” Her smile was much different than any he had seen from her, and he was curious to what decision she had come concerning her place of residence. “I would like to begin the painting tomorrow, if you do not mind.”
The painting? He had expected her to return with an excuse as to why she was unable, or unwilling, to keep that promise. “Yes. I would like that.” However, that did not change the fact she would leave once it was completed. Yet, he did not speak that thought aloud, for what difference would it make in her decision? “Do you know what you wish to paint?”
“I do,” she replied with a firmness that surprised him. When she rose from the seat, he followed suit. “You have asked me to paint from the heart, and that is what I shall do.”
“Then I look forward to seeing your completed work,” he said. He could see the exhaustion in her features. “You should retire for the night. Will you remain here or return to Scarlett Hall?”
“Yes, I am tired,” she replied. “I will remain here. But know this. I will finish this painting. It may not be a masterpiece worthy of a fine gallery, but it will be mine.”
“Good. I cannot wait to see it.”
She smiled and then leaned in to kiss his cheek, and his hand remained where her lips had touched his skin long after she left the room. What had come over her? Whatever had happened, to
morrow, Isabel would not be the only one creating a new work of art, for, in the morning, he would begin his most magnificent piece as he sat by her side.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Isabel rose the following morning in the best spirits she had experienced in some time. To be able to speak to her mother and share with the woman the very secrets that plagued her soul began a cleansing of sorts. Now, rather than wallowing in what she realized was her self-pity, Isabel had a sense of determination. She would put her secrets to canvas and ease the pain that resided deep inside her once and for all.
“You seem spirited this morning, Your Grace,” Nancy said as she adjusted the final ribbon on her dress. It is good to see you smile.”
Isabel looked at the woman’s reflection as she sat before the dressing table. “It is good to smile,” she replied. “I must admit I have not done so as of late.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that, Your Grace,” Nancy said as she put the curling iron to a strand of Isabel’s long blond hair. “You being a duchess and all, well, that lets you be however you want to be.”
“That does not mean I should be unhappy.”
Nancy gasped in horror. “Oh, no, Your Grace! I didn’t mean to tell you how you should feel…”
Isabel laughed. “It was not a reprimand,” she said, and the girl relaxed visibly. “What I meant to say was that it is my right to control how I feel, and it is about time I took back that control.”
Nancy gave her a puzzled look but did not comment. How could she understand the agony Isabel felt if the young woman had yet to marry? Had yet to live through the atrocities of life? Had yet to become a widow? Granted, almost everyone experienced the mountains and valleys of life, but she hoped that, if this girl was forced to endure them, they did not come tumbling down around her as they had for Isabel.
As Nancy continued on Isabel’s hair, babbling about this and that as she worked, Isabel looked at the woman staring back at her. Her mother had been correct; a girl existed inside her who was once happy, and Isabel believed she would find her and release her from the prison she, herself, had created. And the painting she created would be the first step in that rescue.
“There,” Nancy said as she stepped back from her finished work. “Does it meet your approval?” Morning dressing was much easier than readying for dinner, and the girl had formed large curls from Isabel’s otherwise straight hair, pulled it all back with pins, and finished it off with a strip of fabric that matched Isabel’s morning dress.
“It is perfect,” Isabel said as she rose from the stool.
Nancy beamed with pride, and Isabel was glad. “I am so pleased that you are with us, Nancy,” she said as she placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “You are a wonderful addition to our staff, and I do not know what I would do without you.”
The girl blushed at the compliment. “I’m so terribly happy to be here, Your Grace,” she said with a curtsy.
Isabel made her way to the ballroom. She did not know how many days it would take her to complete the painting, but whatever it took, she would do it. What she wished was that she could complete it in one day, but what she had learned was that paint needed time to dry between layers. No, she could not be impatient with this piece of art, for it was to be her redemption—and her salvation.
When she arrived at the ballroom, she caught the movement of a figure outside in the garden. Laurence stood alone, staring in the distance, and Isabel readily joined him. The sun beamed down on them, and the sky was a deep blue with just a hint of clouds scattered across the horizon.
“I did not know you visited the gardens in the morning,” Isabel said as she came to stand beside him.
Laurence chuckled. “This is the first time, or rather the first in some time. Either I am busy painting or I have work that needs completing, both of which keep me away from the crisp morning air.” He sighed. “Now, I realize that I have missed many enjoyable things in life that cost not a single farthing.”
Isabel smiled but said nothing, enjoying the light breeze that rustled her skirts.
“Harriet came by to see me while you were gone.”
“Oh?” Isabel asked. What did that woman want now? That was another item on her long list of things to repair. The woman might be her sister-in-law, and sister to Laurence, but she would no longer be allowed to create predicaments in Isabel’s family. Either she—Isabel—would set the woman straight, or she would see that Laurence did.
“We have mended our relationship,” Laurence said.
Isabel groaned inwardly. What lies had Harriet told him to get him to agree to a reconciliation? Yet, Laurence had a peace about him that was not there before when speaking of his sister. Perhaps Isabel should allow him to finish, for now her curiosity was piqued.
“I will not go into details at the moment,” Laurence continued, “but we were able to iron out our differences. I realize I have been a fool in the past when it came to my sister, but this time I know she spoke the truth. Never has she outrightly apologized, and yet, that was exactly what she did.”
Isabel was shocked. She did not know the woman well, but what she had seen of her was enough to show the type of person she was. And that person did not apologize. Not for anything. However, if that is what Harriet did, the tale would be good indeed, and she was anxious to hear it. When Laurence was ready to share it and not a minute before.
“I am happy for you,” she said. “She reminds me a bit of Juliet, or rather Juliet of her. Either way, their hearts are good, but they are consumed by mischief.”
Laurence laughed. “I have heard tales of women leaving for grand adventures and for faraway lands. I never believed them, yet Juliet strikes me as the type of woman to make a go of it.”
Isabel joined in his laughter. “Indeed. I can certainly see that,” she said. She reached up and adjusted the lapel of his coat. “There we are. I cannot have a duke who wears his coat with a rumpled lapel.” She gave him an impish grin.
“I should hope not,” he replied with an amused smile. “Very well, if you are finished dressing me,” this made them both laugh, “and if you are ready, we should begin painting. Unless you wish to eat something first?”
“No,” Isabel replied firmly. “I am ready.”
The returned to the ballroom, and Isabel noticed that the easels, which in the past had sat side by side, now sat apart and faced each other.
She raised an eyebrow at him, and he chuckled. “I thought it would be nice if we did not see one another’s work until they were completed.”
“That is a wonderful idea,” Isabel agreed. “May I begin now?”
“Yes, of course,” he said. He sounded surprised, but Isabel did not wish to relinquish even the tiniest of moments; she had too much to do.
They went to their prospective stools and Isabel slipped the apron over her head. Then she collected her tools, organizing them just so, and with a brush in hand, she sat on the stool before the empty canvas. For a brief moment, panic overtook her. Where did she begin? However, she closed her eyes and recalled the conversation she and her mother had shared the night before. She had shared her heart then and it was time to do it once again.
In her mind, she pictured Scarlett Hall with its dark gray walls and tall height. The hedges that grew to either side of the front door rustled as Juliet rushed through them, and the large trees Hannah could often be found reading in the shade they provided stood tall. However, it was not the bushes or trees she had to paint; it was herself. Therefore, opening her eyes, Isabel knew exactly where to begin.
On her pallet, she mixed the perfect gray. She dipped the tip of the brush into the new color and brought it to the canvas, and her heart pulled. However, as the brush moved in a solid stroke, it was as though a small chain that had bound her heart loosened. It was the most wondrous of feelings, which only increased with the next pass of the brush.
For some time—Isabel was unsure how long—she focused on her artwork, ignoring everything around her. The ballr
oom no longer existed, nor did the windows. Nor did Laurence across the way. Just she, the canvas, the brushes, the paints, and her emotions. Each stroke was perfect, the colors mixed with care.
Finally, after what seemed like forever, exhaustion forced her to stop, and she wiped her brushes and placed them in the oil before observing her work thus far.
The painting was far from complete, but Isabel could already see traces of what it would become, and that brought her joy.
She glanced over at Laurence, who was also cleaning his brushes as he studied his canvas. He looked her way, and although they sat separate from one another, she felt closer to the man than she ever had.
“I do not believe I can paint anymore today,” he said with a sigh.
Isabel laughed. “You are not alone,” she said as she joined him in the center of the room. “I never realized how tiring painting could be.”
He chuckled. “Painting from the heart takes much more effort than copying what we see in front of us.” He paused. “Shall we eat, or would you rather paint through the remainder of the day and starve ourselves instead?”
Isabel laughed at his joke. “It will do us no good to starve. What would people think of finding us thin and dying beside our paintings?”
“I would not care,” Laurence replied as they made their way to the dining room. “Let them think what they wish.”
Isabel loved the answer her husband gave, for it expressed her thoughts, as well.
“If it is not too much to ask,” John said, “I would like to breakfast in the garden. Would you care to join me?”
“Yes,” Isabel said without hesitation. “I would be honored.”
It was not long after that they sat at a table in the middle of the garden. They ate in tranquility, sharing in pleasant conversation, and Isabel found that she enjoyed it so much that it saddened her when Laurence said he had work to complete.
After he returned to the house, she remained at the table, her mind not focused on the past as it had been when she first arrived at Camellia Estates but, for the first time in many years, she thought of the future.
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