11 Anger And Disappointment

A nger. That was a safer emotion than this corroding sentimentality. She must never forget her rage at Ian for allowing this situation to arise in the first place. Even though her rational mind whispered that he could not have foreseen the disaster and could not be blamed, the irrational part of her screamed that someone was at fault, and it was not her, so it must be Ian.

Izzy raged in her room for some time, allowing the tears to flow, and, because her disordered senses could not abide order, hurling all her clothes to the floor in a jumbled heap. There was a very pretty pair of figurines on the mantel above the fire, and it took inordinate willpower to resist hurling them to the floor, too.

Her room proved too small to contain her overflowing emotions, but she remembered the long gallery, and there she paced up and down, up and down until her legs were aching and she had driven her tears away with anger.

Eventually, she returned to her room, asking a passing footman to send up some brandy. When it arrived, however, it was a stout middle-aged woman who brought a decanter and glass on a silver tray, which her shaking hands seemed in danger of dropping.

"Where is the footman?" Izzy said sharply. "Careful with that! Put it down here."

"Men ent allowed in t'ladies' chambers," the maid said, setting the tray down with a thump that almost knocked the glass over. "Ee, now, what's that mess there?"

"My clothes," Izzy said, with an indifferent lift of one shoulder.

"Who put 'em there? Lord, they's reet messy! Look at that!" She held up a badly creased silk evening gown. "Pity, a reet pretty thing like that."

"I put them there," Izzy said impatiently. "What does it matter? I was in a temper, so I threw them on the floor."

"Well, now," the woman said, resting her hands on her hips in a manner that reminded Izzy forcefully of her nurse of many years ago. "Anyone'd think tha's a bairn not a grown woman, behavin' like that! Maggie spent hours pressin' them dresses and now it's all to do again."

"That is what she is paid to do."

"Not twice! That's just makin' work, that is. Ent no one ever tell thee to behave yersel, lass?"

"I will not be lectured by a servant! Get out! Go on, get out, now!"

Izzy was not so angry as to risk any harm to the brandy decanter or glass, but those pretty little figurines… they would smash beautifully, would they not?

They did… oh yes, they did. Izzy screamed as she hurled the first, neatly missing the maid's head by about three inches as she ran to escape, and landing in the corridor outside, just before the maid slammed the door shut. The second landed plumb on the centre of the door, with a splendid crashing sound followed by a cascade of tinkling shards of porcelain.

Izzy laughed and poured herself a brandy. There was nothing like breaking things for relieving whatever frustration was building inside her.

And yet… it was not the same without Ian there to watch over her, waiting until the storm had blown over to hold her tight and murmur, "Better now?" into her ear. Dear Ian! Always so tolerant. What would have happened if he had not been tolerant, if he had told her not to be so childish? Or, as the maid had put it, ‘Anyone'd think tha's a bairn not a grown woman. Ent no one ever tell thee to behave yersel, lass?' No, no one had ever told her to behave herself. Not her parents, and not her husband. Only Josie had rolled her eyes sometimes and murmured, "Really, Izzy! Was that necessary?"

She looked guiltily at the shards of the figurine scattered over the floor. That had not been necessary. Perhaps it had been a precious heirloom, or a much-loved gift from a favourite aunt, and now it was gone, and all for what? A moment's relief from frustration.

Not long afterwards, she heard sounds of sweeping outside the door, followed by muttered voices, one male, one female. After a while, silence fell. No one was brave enough, it seemed, to try to enter the room to sweep up inside.

Sophie came up a little while later, carrying a dustpan and brush, and a bucket. "Well," she said, surveying the devastation. "The butler was right, there has been a breakage. Does it help, throwing things around?"

"It does. It is very satisfying to break things," Izzy said defiantly.

"Those figurines were so pretty, too. I hope they were not valuable."

"They are only things , Sophie," Izzy said. But then guilt made her add, "I hope no one was fond of them." Sophie gave her a quizzical glance, and Izzy chuckled. "Are you going to lecture me to behave? The maid ticked me off in no uncertain terms. ‘Anyone'd think tha's a bairn not a grown woman.'"

"Good heavens, did she say that?"

"She did. It is childish of me, but I must have some way to release my rages. How do you deal with it when you get angry, Sophie?"

"I go for a long, very brisk walk until I have calmed down."

"I do that, too, but sometimes… that is not enough."

"Have you always had these… outbursts?"

"It started when I was quite small — seven, eight maybe. Papa refused to let me ride one day, and for no good reason that I could see. I had a new pony and I was wild to try her out. There was a line of snuff boxes on a shelf, and I just swept them to the floor. Then a glass vase filled with dried flowers. Poor man, he was horrified, and immediately gave way. He even rode with me. So every time I wanted something, I knew how to get it, and it felt so good, Sophie! So easy and no one punished me for it, as they probably should have done."

"I do not remember such a thing when we were in town together five years ago."

"Oh no, not then! That spring was perfect, nothing happened to make me angry at all. But then I married Ian, and… there are times now that are not perfect. Not Ian's fault, but there it is. Sometimes I feel as if I am about to explode, but then I break a few things and I feel much better. It clears the air in my head like a summer thunderstorm. I wish I liked brandy more. It would be less destructive if I could simply drink myself into a stupor. A man can drink his temper away, but nothing is more disagreeable than a drunken woman. But I suppose I should find some other way. Ian is wonderfully forbearing, but not everyone is." Then, as Sophie knelt down and began sweeping, she added, "Leave that for the girl to do tomorrow."

"Suppose there was a fire in the night," Sophie said, sweeping steadily. "We might have to leave this room in our bare feet, and think of all these tiny shards we should walk over in the dark."

Izzy laughed again. The last of her anger had seeped away, and the brandy was warming her inside, so she merely shook her head indulgently. "That is exactly the sort of thing Ian would say. He is sensible like you, Sophie."

"It is simply being practical, that is all, whereas if it were left to you, your feet would be shredded."

"No, I should go through the connecting door to the adjoining room and leave that way."

"But it is locked, Izzy!"

"It is, but the key is on this side. You see, I can be practical, too. Not sensible, all things considered, but practical. Sometimes."

Sophie shook her head at her, as she emptied the last shards into the bucket, and took them out into the corridor. Returning, she heaved a sigh and set to work on the tangled heap of clothes.

"It is fortunate, perhaps, that I only have one small box with me," Izzy said. "I usually travel with three, at least, which would have made a far more spectacular wreckage."

"How do you keep a lady's maid, when you treat your clothes in so cavalier a fashion?" Sophie said.

"I did not, for a long time, but Brandon is a treasure, so she is spared my worst excesses. Besides, clothes are not very satisfying. Glass… that is my favourite. Decanters, for preference, especially if full, but windows are excellent for dissipating rage. Porcelain is almost as good, then anything else breakable, and if nothing else serves, furniture. It is surprising how much damage a single small footstool can do."

"But why do you get so angry? And why tonight?" Sophie turned away from the wardrobe, where she was attempting to hang gowns, her gaze anxious. "Is it Sydney? Are you angry with him, because he is betrothed to Ruth Plowman? It is a complication, admittedly, but I suspect you could win him back if—"

"It is not about Sydney," Izzy said firmly. "I am not angry with him, merely… disappointed. He was such a romantic man, and now he is prepared to marry in order to acquire a field."

Sophie chuckled, but said, "There is nothing wrong with marrying for practical reasons, Izzy. Not every match need be solely for love."

Izzy could not in honesty deny the truth of that. "True, but… oh, Sophie, he was the very embodiment of the romantic ideal. So handsome, so delicate of frame, so ready to burst into verse at the drop of a hat. Where has that man gone? Who is this person, quite unknown to me, who plans to marry a merchant's daughter, and all for a field?"

"Miss Plowman is… not of Sydney's class, it is true, but she is not some simpering miss who will let him have his own way in everything. It is a sensible match, in many ways."

"Sensible, sensible! I may marry sensibly, or you, or anyone but Sydney. He should settle for nothing less than a grand passion." Izzy sipped her brandy thoughtfully. "I had not realised until this evening that you and he were such good friends. Or is there more than friendship between you?"

Sophie gave her a wry look. "Now, you must not be making anything of it. We have known each other a long time, that is all. Tonight we talked mostly about Miss Plowman, and what might be done to bring her around, for the two fathers are determined to see it done."

"If you were talking about Miss Plowman, then you both found the subject highly amusing, to judge from the amount of laughter I saw between you," Izzy said archly. "Sophie, I will try not to build something out of nothing, but I remember the way the two of you were in town, when you hardly spoke to each other beyond the barest number of words that civility decreed. Yet this evening, your heads were together as if… well, let us simply say that you looked like very close friends."

"Oh, we are. We always were, but in town…" She abandoned the wardrobe and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. "I have always liked him… admired him, and for all the reasons you give. A romantic ideal — that is precisely it! He has always been my idea of a hero. I was not in love with him, or anything as definite as that, but I enjoyed his company, and for two pins, I could have been head over ears in love. A very little flattery would have done it. If he had ever looked at me seriously… But when the Davenports took me to London for my season, I was told very firmly that I was not to set my sights on Sydney. He was destined to make a great match to someone from a noble family. Someone better dowered than I was. If I were seen to be… close to him, it might deter more eligible ladies. Thus, I took the greatest care not to be over-friendly with him. But here, now, there are no such constraints, and we may be as friendly as we please, although they would still be displeased if we were to make a match of it."

"But you would like to," Izzy said softly.

"The question does not arise," Sophie said crisply. "He still hopes to marry Miss Plowman. Besides, I cannot possibly think of my own happiness when Olly's future is so uncertain. I wish I knew how he is getting on."

"We could borrow horses and ride over there tomorrow, if you wish."

"No, no, no! I would be recognised, and that might draw attention to Olly. It was awkward enough finding the Hearles here this afternoon, sitting in the saloon quite as if they belonged there! They were not at all pleased to find me in Northumberland, I can tell you. I had to assure them that I have no intention of going to Bayton House, which is true, and that I am only here because of you, which is also true. They asked after Olly, and I told them exactly what we agreed — that he is back in England, but he was very ill and a friend has been looking after him. And I said I had no idea where he is, which is also true, because although I know where he might be staying, I cannot be sure of it. But the last thing I want is to draw their notice any further, or they might ask more pointed questions which I cannot answer honestly."

"Well, perhaps I can ride over alone," Izzy said. "It is only ten miles away, but I should enjoy the ride."

"Alone? You should take Barty with you."

"I hardly need a groom for propriety, Sophie."

"For safety, then. These moors are quite wild, and who knows who might be lurking? And it will be easier for Barty to find Olly unobtrusively. Nothing you do is ever unobtrusive, Izzy dear. But are you not in a rush to leave, then? You will want to go on to Strathinver soon, I imagine."

Izzy could not miss the wistfulness in her voice. "No, there is no rush. Besides, if Robert has changed as much as Godfrey and Sydney, it will mean nothing but more disappointment. We can stay for a few days… perhaps a week. Or I might go on alone. Mama is at Lochmaben, so I need not tear you away from your friends here."

Sophie's face brightened. "It would be pleasant to stay a while longer. But do you truly think they have changed so much? Perhaps these new aspects to their character were always there, but not readily visible in the frenetic social whirlwind of the season? Or perhaps the change is in you, not them."

"Pfft! I have not changed a bit," Izzy said robustly. "Everyone said I would become more settled, less… less readily agitated once I married, but it is not so."

Except when she was increasing, she acknowledged to herself. Something about that state rendered her more docile, more willing to sit quietly at home, more satisfied with her life. But then, her daughters had been born and all her restlessness flew back with a vengeance. Daughters… Would she have been more settled if she had produced the expected son?

Ugh! Sentimentality again. What on earth was the matter with her?

"Shall we go to bed? Can you unfasten these buttons or shall I ring for a maid?"

"But these clothes, Izzy…"

"Leave them. They will still be there in the morning."

***

I zzy readily obtained permission to borrow a horse, and a riding habit, since she had not brought one of her own. There were one or two carefully casual questions about how long she planned to stay, but she deftly turned them aside.

"Are you planning to go to Lochmaben when you leave us?" Mrs Davenport said brightly. "Your cousins will be delighted to see you, I make no doubt, and of course your mama is there just now. We see very little of them, although the castle is only a short drive across the border from here. Why, they are almost neighbours! Since you have not your own carriage with you, we should be delighted to lend you ours to convey you there, whenever you should wish to go. It would be not the least inconvenience, I assure you, for James Coachman could be there and back in a day."

Izzy made some non-committal remark of thanks, and went eagerly to change into the borrowed habit. A fast ride was just the thing to stir the blood and blow away whatever of her megrims still remained.

When she saw the horse made ready for her, she groaned. Her idea of a suitable lady's mount was an elegant, high-spirited creature, dancing with impatience to be away. This docile beast looked reluctant to move at all.

"Well, she will not run away with me, that much is certain," she said resignedly.

Barty laughed, his own horse shifting restlessly.

"Would you like to swap?" she said. "Your mount looks far more appealing."

"I doubt he's used to a side-saddle," he said. His accent today was more Northumberland than Yorkshire.

"Well, this slug will have to do. Perhaps when we get out onto the moors she will be more frolicsome."

The head groom boosted her into the saddle, and then they were away, Barty's eager horse trotting nimbly ahead, while Izzy urged her mare into reluctant motion. And that was the story of their entire journey, as Izzy's horse plodded along, barely reaching a trot most of the time, and Barty's raced ahead. No matter how he tried, he could not keep his horse the approved distance behind her, as a respectful groom should.

By the time they were halfway there, his horse had settled down somewhat and fell back to walk alongside the mare.

"That thing should be pulling the governess cart," he said, with a nod towards the mare. The accent was pure again.

"Too good a fate for her," Izzy said grimly.

For a while they rode in silence, but since Barty's horse seemed content to stay with her, Izzy took the opportunity to say, "Will you tell me something about yourself, Barty?"

"Best if you know nothing, milady," he said, reverting instantly to… was it Yorkshire again?

"You could at least tell me what county you are from originally, before you went to India."

A hesitation. "Bedfordshire."

"And your age?"

"Twenty-four."

"I thought you older than that. Barty, I will not pry, I promise, but your situation intrigues me. It is clear that you are a gentleman, and perhaps at the highest level of that state. I knew a gentleman in Scarborough who was known to all his friends as Bart, not because it was his name, but because he was a baronet. Perhaps that is why you call yourself Barty. I do not ask you to confirm or deny my guess, I merely wonder, that is all. And if it is so, then I should very much like to know how you come to be acting the part of a groom, because I have to say, you do not act it very well. Your accent is all over the place."

He laughed, and when he spoke, the gentleman was back again. "You are quite right, of course. I am, in the strictest sense, a baronet, but I have never claimed the title, nor ever will, and no, I have no intention of giving you my real name. That person is long gone, lost in the past and never to be recovered. My future will be very different, I hope."

"I am glad to hear it, because you seem to have been living hand to mouth. But you must have had a good income once. What happened? Did you gamble it all away?"

"Not me, no, and not my father, either. It was my grandfather who gambled, and so unsuccessfully that he lost everything. The estate is gone, the bank accounts were emptied and when he died, he left a mountain of debts, which could not be repaid. My father took me to India, where we scraped a living on the fringes of society under false names in case the debtors ever caught up with us. We had to live on our wits, and that was where I learnt to play cards to win. Not by cheating! There are strategies that can be employed, perfectly legal methods, like staying sober, and remembering the cards."

"And being very careful who you play against," Izzy said. "I learnt that the hard way. Also, knowing when to stop. That is a very important strategy."

"Yes, very true," he said. "We managed, anyway, but when my father died, I wanted to come home. Not to claim the baronetcy, just to find honest work for once. It is surprisingly hard to do. No one wants to give a stranger a chance. I would have done better in London, or one of the ports — Newcastle, perhaps. There are people of all types in such places, but I needed to bring Olly to his sister, and so… here I am."

"Have you no family left in England, no one you could turn to for help?"

He shook his head. "My mother is dead, and I have no brothers or sisters. My cousin believes me dead, so he is using the title himself, but his income is small, and he would hardly welcome my return. Without any income or trade to support me, what is the point? I could not bear to be the poor relation, leeching off those who have trouble managing as it is. No, this way I am still independent, and Olly is going to employ me as soon as he is master of Bayton House."

"As a groom?"

"As whatever he wants me to be. You will not betray me, I trust?"

"You have told me so little about yourself that there is nothing to betray," she said. "So long as you do not harm me or my friends, your secret is quite safe with me."

"I have already given my word," he said with all the hauteur of a baronet. "If you want further reassurance, know that I would lay down my life for Olly Bayton… or his sister." He threw her a sideways glance. "Not necessarily for you, however."

Izzy laughed. "Well, I asked you for honesty, did I not? Do you think this slug of a creature, laughingly called a horse, could be prevailed upon to canter?"