10 Reflections

W hen he reached York, Ian called into the bank for funds and found the normally unflappable bank manager in rather a state.

"Oh, my lord, so glad you are here! I did my best to follow your instructions but—"

"Then Lady Farramont has been here?"

"Yes, my lord, as I say, and—"

"When?"

"Oh… let me see… a week ago. Yes, exactly a week ago, and I told her precisely what you said, my lord, and gave her the letter but—"

A week ago! He was not gaining on her at all. He sighed. Lord, but he was so tired of chasing her around the country, and never catching up with her. At least he knew where she was going now. Surely he would be bound to gain on her soon?

"She smiled at you, I suppose, and you crumbled," Ian said, sadly.

"No, my lord, no! I followed your instructions, even though it distressed her ladyship. One does not like to disoblige a lady. But Garthwaite next door—"

"Garthwaite? The jeweller?"

"The very same, my lord. He knew nothing of the circumstances, and so… when she offered him an item of jewellery… He was mortified when he learnt of your wishes, my lord. She left a letter to be handed to you, in the event that you should happen to call in."

He withdrew a sealed letter from a drawer, and Ian unfolded it.

‘Farramont, You are a clever man, but not quite clever enough. If you call at the premises of Garthwaite and Sons, you may redeem my diamond pendant for me, the one you gave me as a betrothal present, for the sum of five hundred pounds. Isabel Farramont.'

Ian laughed. "You had better give me an extra five hundred."

***

I zzy found a footman to show her where the Rose Room was. It was still alive with maids bearing clean sheets and towels and soap, other maids hastily packing, and footmen humping boxes about, so she retreated to a quieter part of the house. Finding a winding staircase off the long gallery, she descended to the ground floor again, found the hall, and slipped out of the open front door and down the drive, past an empty carriage awaiting some departing guests. It did not take her long to find the lake with its elegant bridge, but that would be too quick for her. She had anger-fuelled energy to dissipate, so she set out to walk all the way round the lake.

Finally, clean country air away from the dust of the road and the stench of the town, and somewhere to stretch her legs. The lake was larger than she had supposed, so by the time she had made her way round to the elegant little temple, she was ready to sit and admire the view for a while. The lake was fringed with reeds at this end, almost hiding a small jetty where a rowing boat was tied up.

The thought of it made her smile, remembering a time when Ian had taken her rowing. They had not been married for more than a few weeks, and had been at Stonywell for a fortnight or so. He had brought her breakfast in bed, for she was already troubled by nausea because of Helena, and he had sat on the window seat in her room, munching his way through a mountain of ham and bread and fruit, while she nibbled at a piece of toast.

"It is a glorious day," he had said. "Should you care to go out on the lake? A restful day will do you good, I am sure. We could take a picnic to the island."

The lake at Stonywell was not very large, but unlike the Harringdon one, it boasted a small island with a marble pavilion, perfectly designed for languid summer days. So they had taken the boat out, and Ian had removed his coat and rowed her round and round for what seemed like hours, as she lay on cushions and trailed one hand in the water.

He never seemed to tire, his muscles straining under the linen of his shirt. He had always seemed so comfortingly masculine to her, a big man like her father and her oldest brother, Walter. When she had had enough of the boat, he had lifted her onto the island as if she weighed nothing at all. They had spent hours there, eating and drinking a little, talking a lot… Or rather, she had talked a lot, while he had said little. He had always been a man of few words.

Eventually, when the sun was already low in the sky, he had rowed her back to the shore, still not tired. In fact, she was the one who had yawned all evening and gone to bed early. Such a happy day, when neither of them had had anything more important to do than potter about on the water. A time before reality had intruded. Before she had discovered that the babe growing inside her was not the hoped-for son. Before he had remembered his account books needed attention. Before she had grown restless and in need of… something.

What was it she had looked for, that Ian and Stonywell and her daughters could not give her? She could not say, but there was something missing, all the same, some emptiness inside her that would not be filled.

If she had had a son… but she had not.

If she had married someone else… but she had not.

She ached inside for the loss of those halcyon days, when everything seemed to be perfect, her happy future mapped out in front of her like a page from Paterson's Itinerary, the road unfurling onwards forever. Somehow, the promise of those early months and years had drained away. She loved her daughters but she was not fulfilled by motherhood, as Josie was. Nor by her marriage to Ian… but there was nothing wrong with Ian. He was the steady, reliable husband she had settled for. Yet she yearned for something more.

For love, perhaps?

She had been offered love, once. Not the practical honesty of Ian Farramont. Not the acquisitive desire of Godfrey Marsden. Not the romantic flourishes of Sydney Davenport. No. It was Robert Osborn who had offered her a deep, abiding love, and she had loved him too. Five years ago, he had had nothing but that love and his own charm to recommend him. But now… now he was the Earl of Kiltarlity, and a man of wealth and power. Now he was eligible.

And she was free.

***

I zzy was the last to enter the saloon before dinner, finding it full, as she had expected. The Davenports themselves were enough to fill it, but she was surprised to see the Plowman family still in residence.

It was less of a surprise to find herself on the receiving end of a multitude of disapproving looks. She had, after all, arrived out of nowhere into the middle of a gathering for a family wedding. The son and heir — the only son, in fact — was on the brink of an advantageous match, and she had well and truly sunk it. She had barely begun a circuit of the room looking for the most amusing dinner companion, when Mr Plowman intercepted her, glaring belligerently.

"I reckon you've a lot answer for, missy," he said without preamble, in a strong northern accent. "Everything agreed and signed and sealed, everybody happy, and you have to poke your nose in, and muck everything up."

"I am not missy to you, sir. I am Viscountess Farramont."

"No, you're not. I know all about that, and it's not your fault, true enough, but it means you've no right to tell other people what to do."

"I only tell servants what to do, Mr Plowman. To your daughter, I merely offered my opinion and she then decided to call off the wedding. Her decision, sir, entirely hers."

"Don't you bandy words with me, missy."

He puffed himself up like some kind of farmyard cockerel, and Izzy could not help laughing. There was no point taking offence. He was a preposterous little man, in many ways, just a jumped-up sheep farmer or mill owner or some such, thinking himself so grand as he mingled with the gentry in his stiff, new coat and his valiant efforts with his cravat. But she respected a man who stood his ground when she played the great lady. She liked to have her rank acknowledged, but there was nothing she despised more than abject obsequiousness.

"So how are you planning to salvage this marriage, Mr Plowman?" she said silkily. "You have a plan, I take it? Or are you merely hoping to browbeat her into submission? For I have to tell you, purely as my opinion, you understand, that I do not see such a strategy achieving your aims. Miss Plowman does not strike me as a girl who is susceptible to being browbeaten."

"Aye, you're in the right of it there," he said, with a rueful laugh. "And is it your opinion, miss— my lady, that she can be persuaded any other way?"

"Sydney can be very charming when he wants to be," she said thoughtfully. "If he wants your field badly enough, he will set himself to win her round."

"He doesn't seem to be putting much effort into it," Mr Plowman said, nodding to the side of the room, where Sydney was engrossed in conversation with Sophie, with smiles on both sides and a great deal of laughter.

"They are old friends," Izzy said, but she was puzzled, all the same. Sophie had talked often about Sydney's sisters, who had been her childhood friends, but never a word about the man himself. In town, during the season they had all shared, she had been brought out under the aegis of Mrs Davenport and was often in Sydney's company, yet Izzy could not recall any sign of closeness. Yet now they were as cosy together as if… No, surely there was no attachment between them?

But there was no time to investigate this new idea, for they were called into dinner just then, and Izzy was fully occupied in finding an amusing companion.

Despite the bad feeling against her, Izzy was not ostracised. There was a certain stiffness from the ladies, but it was reassuring that despite everything, several of the men jostled for the right to escort her into dinner. The Davenports were not starchy enough to care about precedence, which was just as well, for Izzy would have been the lowest ranked guest in any formal arrangement. Even so, it hurt to find herself accorded no privilege at all. She was accustomed to being offered the place of honour beside the host, or very close to it, so to find herself in the middle of the table, far from the best company and the best dishes, was not at all what she was used to. It stung, there was no doubt about it.

However, evenings were her time to shine, and she was not one to let such a trifling matter stand in her way. She had one of the cousins and the husband of one of the sisters on either side of her, and she set herself to entertain them as only she could do. The rest of the table might be serious or silent or downright dull, but Izzy kept her companions in a constant ripple of amusement. By the time Mrs Davenport rose to lead the ladies away, both men gave every appearance of being half in love with her. She still had the power to bewitch, then.

Back in the saloon, she began her usual restless prowling. An hour and a half of sitting still at the dinner table left her needing to move about, to stretch her legs and give her an ever-changing view of the room. The rest of the ladies disposed themselves in small groups about the room, but Izzy was not minded for female conversation. Normally she could entertain them with her inexhaustible supply of town gossip, or else talk of fashions or children or servants or the horrors of travel if that pleased them. Only the weather was too dull ever to be worthy of comment. But tonight her own problems pressed close about her like a chill fog, and it was hard to sustain her spirits for long. Being light-hearted and amusing could be so exhausting.

Izzy drifted towards the window. It was still light outside, and she wished she could escape to the gardens again, but she could see the trees and shrubs being tossed about by the ever-present wind and the doors to the terrace remained firmly closed.

So often at Stonywell after dinner, Ian had found her gazing through the window like this. ‘Fancy a quick walk?' he would say, although as often as not it would turn out to be a long walk, she talking non-stop about anything and everything, and he saying very little, as always. Only when it was full dark would they turn back to the welcoming lights of the house. How long was it since they had last taken a walk together? Not since last summer… or the one before.

Where was he now, this not-really-a-husband of hers? Was he at Stonywell, looking out at the more benign landscape of Nottinghamshire? Was he doggedly following her from inn to inn? Was he thinking about her at all? Or was he, like her father, already contemplating his next wife, one who would be meek and demure and not throw plates at him? One who would give him a son.

So foolish to be thinking of him now, feeling tears welling over a man she had never loved. She could not have sat tamely at Stonywell waiting for him to return with a special licence and then go quietly to the parson to be married again, as if nothing had happened. That would be the pretence, to go on as if everything were just as before.

Yet now she felt bereft, empty. Unrooted. Her home, her family… all gone. Her place in society, that she had always been so proud of, had vanished like a puff of smoke. She had married Ian because he could give her that — a noble title, a lineage almost as long as her own, a son who would grow up to be a peer like his father. As Lady Farramont, she could move in the highest circles in the land. All of that was lost to her.

But if she married Robert…

She was veering into sentimentality again, and that would never do. Music! That would calm her, and lift her spirits again. She spun round, about to move towards the instrument, then saw that the men were returning and hesitated. Cards, perhaps? Or just more interesting conversation. Men talked about more lively matters than the purely domestic. Some of them had no thoughts in their heads beyond crop yields and heads of cattle and repairs to barns, and that was deadly dull. But politics — now that was exciting! She loved to preside over dinners at their Brook Street house, with every seat occupied by a government minister or a diplomat or a general, hearing the dramatic truth behind the carefully worded reports in the newspapers. Brook Street… another house lost to her.

One of the sisters bustled over to her, a false smile affixed to her face. Was it Tabitha? Izzy could not tell one of Sydney's sisters from another. They all had the same round faces framed by blonde curls, and slightly protuberant blue eyes, like the glass eyes on a china doll that had not been pushed in far enough.

"Lady Farramont! May I prevail upon you to play for us? Your performance is so superior, but I believe our instrument will not disappoint you."

Well, that settled that. Music it was to be. It was a good instrument, Tabitha was right about that. Izzy played, then sang a little. Before long, she had attracted a little audience around the pianoforte who took turns to join in duets with her, or with each other. Then Tabitha… or perhaps it was Phyllis… rounded up most of them as the card tables came out. Izzy played on, only barely attending to what her fingers were doing, until she realised she was playing one of Ian's favourite pieces. She had a sudden vision of him sitting watching her play, that gentle smile on his face. He always smiled as he watched her, and he always watched her.

Her fingers froze. This was foolish! Everything she did reminded her of Ian, and surely there was nothing in that to distress her. After five years together, there were innumerable memories they had shared. Everything she did from now on, whatever became of her for the rest of her life, there would always be these sudden moments when he would rise forcefully to her mind. There was nothing remarkable in that, nothing to upset her. Nothing to bring this odd lump to her throat.

Except that he was gone. Perhaps she would never see him again. No, more likely they would be distant acquaintances, meeting now and then in town. She would enter a ballroom or a drawing room, and there would be that distinctive head of red hair, visible like a beacon above all the other heads. But he would not be watching her and smiling, as he used to. Perhaps he would see her and nod politely, or perhaps he would pretend he had not noticed her at all.

She crept from the saloon and fled to her room before her tears overwhelmed her.