2 Corland Castle

I zzy retreated to the safety of her own apartments. The carriage was sent away, and Ian had sent off a note to the Cotterills, although what he had said she neither knew nor cared. Indisposition, perhaps, or a family crisis. He had gone haring off to town to get a special licence, leaving her on her own. How dared he go away? How dared he, and even expected her to go with him! Go to town after this? She would never be able to show her face in town again.

She paced about her sitting room like the lion she had seen once in the menagerie at the Tower of London. Up and down, back and forth it had gone, twitching its tail as it went. If Izzy had had a tail, she would have twitched it, too. How dared Ian inflict this humiliation on her? She had trusted him, and he had failed her utterly. And her father, too. The two men in her life who should have looked after her, and now she was in this hideous position while they were unscathed. Papa was still Lord Rennington and Ian was still Lord Farramont, but she was nothing! Her daughters — her sweet, innocent girls — were nothing, too. And for all Ian insisted there would be no difference in their lives, everything would go on just as it had and they would have the full dowries he had set aside for them, that was nonsense. Izzy knew perfectly well the difference between legitimate daughters and illegitimate. No good family would contract an alliance with them. Their whole lives were ruined.

Inside her, rage still simmered, never quite boiling over, but not subsiding either. Brandon lurked in the dressing room, asking periodically if Izzy wanted anything, but what she wanted was not anything that Brandon could supply. Not a tisane, or a lavender-soaked handkerchief for her forehead. Nor a different gown, or a bowl of soup, or a fast, hard ride on Nightstar — all of these things Brandon could arrange. But for this nightmare to go away, for her to be Lady Farramont again, and her daughters the Honourable Miss Farramont and the Honourable Miss Aurelia Farramont, no, Brandon could not do that.

How was it possible that her life could come crashing down so abruptly and spectacularly? Surely it was not possible. It must be some kind of mistake. Papa had got muddled again or had not been attending properly and had taken a wrong idea. It could not be so awful as it appeared… could it?

Mama would know. Mama was the sensible one of the family. She would write to Mama, and explain how impossible it all was, and Mama would laugh and tell her not to worry, all would be well.

She sat down at her escritoire and began to write.

***

J ULY

Ian's journey to London was, he supposed, no worse than usual. He travelled the route regularly enough to be a familiar figure at all the coaching inns where he changed horses or stayed overnight, so he was always attended to swiftly and efficiently. Nor were the roads especially bad. Yet he was in such a fever of impatience that he could not bear even the trivial delays which beset them, when they were obliged by the narrowness of a bridge to wait their turn, or the toll-gate keeper was slow to respond.

Then he spent two infuriating days, trying to convince the obtuse personages at Doctor's Commons of his need for a special licence. Another day was lost to the Sabbath. It was only when he lost his temper completely and stormed into Lambeth Palace, insisting on seeing the Archbishop of Canterbury personally, that he made any progress. The Archbishop had already received word from his counterpart in York, and knew the situation. The special licence was issued within the hour.

Another two days brought him back to Stonywell, where Henry came out to greet his return.

"Well? Did you get it?" Henry said.

"Eventually. Where is she?"

"Gone. She left the day after you, heading north. Corland, probably. You will not go after her tonight, surely? It is only an hour until dinner and—"

Ian exhaled slowly. Gone! How like Izzy! She could never stay in one place for long.

He gave Henry half a smile. "Not today, no. If she has the best part of a week's lead on me, a few more hours are neither here nor there. Let us go inside, Henry. I am parched. So much dust on the roads! Ale in the library, Eastwood, right away."

The servants, well used to Izzy's sudden starts, waited by the carriage in case Ian chose to leap back inside and drive off in instant pursuit. However, he gave the order to unload the luggage, and went inside with Henry. Casting his hat and gloves towards a loitering footman, he entered the library, which had been restored to its usual immaculate self. Only the terrestrial globe was missing, presumably away being repaired.

"So tell me what happened, Henry."

"She stayed in her room after you left, writing a massive letter to Lady Rennington… to her mother. Lord, Ian, what are we supposed to call her now? What about Izzy?"

"Legally, everyone reverts to his or her birth name, without honorifics. Izzy is Miss Isabel Atherton. Her mother would be… what was her maiden name? Miss Caroline Horncastle. But since both ladies will be remarried very soon, it would be best to continue to call them Lady Farramont and Lady Rennington. As for the rest of the family… Lord Birtwell is plain Mr Walter Atherton now. He is the worst affected, I should say. One day he is heir to an earldom and vast estates, with a courtesy viscountcy, and the next minute he has nothing, and no possibility of reinstatement. Poor fellow!"

There was silence as the two men contemplated the awful fate of the former heir to Lord Rennington.

"Who is the heir now? Rennington's younger brother, I suppose."

Ian nodded. "George. He has two… no, three sons. I wonder how they are taking their sudden elevation? Well, I shall find out when I reach Corland."

"There are letters for Izzy," Henry said. "Two from Josie, one from Olivia, one from the Lady Alice, one from Her Grace of Lochmaben and one from Lady Tarvin."

"Nothing from her mother?"

"No. That worries me, I must admit."

Eastwood came in just then with the ale, cool from the cellar. Ian drank a glass thirstily, and then refilled, drinking that too. "All this travelling in the summer is the very devil, Henry," he said gloomily. "This will be the second time in a month I have gone haring up to Corland for Izzy, and the last time she had left before I even got there. Let us hope history does not repeat itself. At what hour did she leave here?"

"Oh… you know Izzy. Late. She spent the morning with the girls, as she usually does when she is going away, then she left in the middle of the afternoon."

"So, at the speed she likes to travel, and bearing in mind that she will not travel on the Sabbath, she may not have reached Corland until yesterday, perhaps. I can cover the distance in two days if I leave early tomorrow."

Henry gave a shake of his head. "Do you never grow tired of chasing after her, cousin?"

"Not in the least," Ian said, and he smiled. "Never was a woman more worth chasing."

***

I zzy arrived at Corland Castle in a fine drizzle. She disregarded it, striding across the bridge to the entrance while Samuel, her footman, rushed about after her, trying to unfurl an umbrella. The castle was not a medieval affair, but a modern version, designed to look imposingly solid and impregnable from the outside, while providing every comfort within. Izzy had once thought it the finest house in England, or certainly in the North Riding, but five years as mistress of Stonywell had changed her opinion markedly. She now thought Corland squat and unwelcoming, with its austere walls, corner towers and fake battlements and dry moat, a house pretending to be a fortress. Stonywell, by contrast, was all elegance, from its high portico to its domed saloon and delicate rooftop balustrades and statuary.

Today she barely noticed her surroundings, for her rage still simmered inside her. It had sustained her through the long journey north, and now it burned a little brighter at the prospect of confronting her father with his perfidy. How could he not check the chaplain's credentials? His own brother-in-law, even, for Arthur Nicholson had married the Lady Alice Atherton. And that brought another spurt of anger, for she still had her title! So did her father, but all his children and even his wife were nothing now. How could he allow his family to be so cruelly disgraced, as they must surely be, in the eyes of the world?

The butler hastened forward to greet her. "Lady Farramont! Welcome back to Corland, my lady. Your father will be so pleased to have you home."

Would he, indeed? She doubted that. "Thank you, Simpson. Is my mother at home just now?"

"No, my lady. Her ladyship is not in residence at present."

"Not in residence?" she said sharply, pausing in the act of unfastening her bonnet. "What do you mean, not in residence? Where has she gone?"

"To Lady Tarvin at Harfield Priory, my lady."

"Why? Is there some great crisis going on there? A greater crisis than here, that is to say?"

"I am not privy to her ladyship's reasons, my lady. Ah, here is his lordship now," he added with an air of relief.

"Father…"

He looked older, all his customary carefree air leached out of him. "Izzy, dear," he said wanly. "Come into my study. How are you?"

It was such a ridiculous question to ask that her bottled-up anger burst out of confinement. "How am I? How am I? Is that all you can say to me, Father? How do you think I am, having been told that everything I believed about myself is a lie? That I am not a viscountess at all, and not even noble… I am base-born , Father, and so are my daughters. How do you imagine I feel?"

He winced as he ushered her through the door and firmly shut out the curious servants. "I know, I know. It is difficult for all of us, but Birtwell… Walter… is the hardest hit, after all."

"Walter is a man . It is never so bad for a man. He always has the option of a career of some sort, to make a name for himself. For a woman, everything — everything — depends upon the rank her father bestows on her… or her husband. And I am nothing. Olivia is nothing. Even Mama is nothing. Why has she gone away, anyway? I wanted to see her… to talk to her. She is the sensible one of the family."

"She is indeed," he said with a sigh. "I wish she had not gone away, but… well, she would go, and I cannot keep her here against her will."

"Papa, is it really true — that Uncle Arthur was never ordained? Surely there must be some mistake. How is it possible that no one knew?"

The earl sighed again, rubbing a hand tiredly across his eyes. "Oh, Izzy, I only wish it were a mistake! He certainly presented himself for ordination at Winchester, but something happened to prevent it."

"What can possibly have prevented it? Was Winchester Cathedral struck by lightning? Washed away by floods? Burnt to the ground? Men are ordained without difficulty every year, so what made Uncle Arthur an exception?" She was pacing again, quite unable to be still.

"Do you truly want to know?" her father said with a spurt of laughter. "You are a married woman, so I will tell you. He was caught in bed with the dean's scullery maid the night before he was due to be ordained. The bishop not surprisingly harboured doubts as to his commitment to the precepts of the church and sent him away to consider his future. But after leaving Winchester, he bumped into your grandfather and ended up here, where he was instantly called upon to marry your mother and me."

"And he said nothing? He simply… married you, knowing that you were the heir to the earldom, without mentioning the minor detail that he was not, in fact, a priest?"

"Precisely. Neither then nor at any other time did he so much as hint that he was not ordained. He never went back to Hampshire, of that I am certain, and the Archbishop of York has made enquiries of all the bishops in the north, and he has not been ordained here, either. He was never ordained."

"What are you doing about it?"

He frowned, blinking at her. "Doing about it? What do you mean?"

"I mean, obviously, what are you doing to set things right? Surely the archbishop can—"

"No, Izzy. No. There is no setting things right, not entirely. What is done is done, and cannot be changed. But Izzy, it is not so bad for you. Farramont will marry you again, properly this time, so it will only affect your girls, and illegitimacy is never so bad for girls. If they are as pretty and lively as you, and with good dowries, they will make excellent matches, so you need have no fear on that score."

"No fear on that score? Are you insane, Father? Have you truly so little understanding of how society works that you think it makes no difference? Of course, people will smile and seem friendly enough, but doors will remain firmly closed to them. Do you imagine they can ever be presented at court? Or dance at Almack's? None of the most important hostesses will invite them to anything. They are condemned to live on the fringes of society forever. If they are very fortunate, perhaps they may marry some bucolic squire willing to exploit the tenuous connection to the peerage. That is your doing, Father! You should have asked questions of Uncle Arthur. You should have checked his papers. And Farramont, too. Women are helpless in such matters — it is for men to protect us and ensure that all is done as it should be. You and Ian between you… and grandfather, too… have destroyed this family. It is all your fault, and I shall never forgive you, never!"

She stormed from the study, almost knocking over the footman lurking outside the door, and strode away to her room. At least she had the principal guest suite on this visit. Last time, it had been occupied by Birtwell, since his own room was undergoing redecoration, and she had been forced into one of the smaller rooms. She paced about, getting in Brandon's way, reciting her grievances loudly, until interrupted by a timid knock on the door.

A dark head appeared with artfully arranged curls framing a heart-shaped face. Izzy's younger sister, Olivia.

"Izzy! Oh, Izzy!" she wailed, bursting into copious tears. "Is it not the most infamous thing imaginable?" So saying, she flew into the room and hurled herself into Izzy's arms.

"Olivia! It is, it is! We have been shamefully treated, both of us. Come into the sitting room. Brandon, send for some tea."

"And cakes," Olivia added through her tears. "Macaroons, or some of the cherry cake, if there is any left."

The sitting room was in one of the circular towers set at each corner of the castle, and although it was small, it was elegantly appointed in pale colours, with a sofa and two chairs, a davenport, two small tables and a narrow bookcase. The sisters settled on the sofa, and wept violently for some time, wrapped in each other's arms. They cheered up a little when the tea tray arrived, Izzy pouring the tea and Olivia eyeing the array of cakes with relish.

The two sisters were six years apart, and alike in both appearance and temperament. Both were small, dark and universally accredited as beauties, although Olivia's fondness for cakes had given her a plumper figure. Both raced through life in either the highest glee or in despair. Not for them the steady, even temper of most of their relations.

At present they were both in the depths of despair, raging against the unfairness of life such that one deceitful chaplain had destroyed their respectability.

"It is all very well for you," Olivia said, mumbling a little, for her mouth was full of cherry cake, "for Farramont will marry you legally and you will be Lady Farramont again, just as before. Nothing will have changed. Whereas I—"

"Nothing changed? What about the girls? And let us not forget that I have been Ian's mistress , in effect, for five years. How can I hold my head up in public when this becomes known?"

"At least you already have a husband. How am I ever to marry, let alone marry well, with this terrible blot on my reputation?"

This was an unanswerable point, and Izzy wisely did not attempt to address it.

"I planned to have the most successful season imaginable," Olivia said, becoming tearful again. "Even better than yours, sister, although I know that would be difficult," she conceded gracefully.

"It would," Izzy said, rather startled. "I do not like to boast, but I had twelve offers in total, although to be fair, many of those were hopeless — fortune hunters and charming rogues. But three peers and an heir, although the baron was sixty if he was a day, and the earl was only an Irish title, so he was more fortune hunter than anything else. As for the heir…" She shuddered at the memory. "He was the ideal example of why one should not choose a husband solely for his title. No rank could compensate for the thought of meeting that at the breakfast table every day."

"Or in bed," Olivia whispered, and giggled.

Izzy chuckled. "You should know nothing of such matters, sister. But still, twelve offers, and I should like to know, Miss Ambitious, how you plan to do better than that?"

"I cannot now, of course," Olivia said, deflated, a tear trickling down her cheek. "It is out of the question. But it was not a matter of twelve — only one would be needed, if it was the right one. I had planned to be a duchess."

"A duchess! That is ambitious indeed! Did you have a specific duke in mind, or would any duke do?"

"Well, most of them are in their dotage or married already, so there are few available, but my investigations have shown that there is one whose heir is as yet unmarried. The Duke of Bridgeworth's eldest son, the Marquess of Embleton, is thirty, and that is the perfect age for a man to marry, is it not?"

"It is!" Izzy said, much struck. "But you should be aware, dearest, that when a man of such high rank is still unwed at thirty, there is usually a reason for it."

"Oh," Olivia said, instantly deflated. "Is he quite horrid?"

"No, not at all, but he has the most appalling stutter, and barely speaks. I am sure I have never had more than five words from him at a time, and that took him an age to manage, poor man. Most women do not want a husband with such an affliction."

"I do not think I should mind that," Olivia said thoughtfully. "It might be very restful to have a husband who is not constantly holding forth about this and that. I have been following him in the journals and newspapers for several years now, making note of all the events he attends in town, so I know his habits perfectly. I am sure we should suit admirably, and I should so love to be a duchess! It would make me the happiest creature alive!"

"Then if that would make you happy, sister, I say you should aim your sights at Lord Embleton and bend all your efforts towards that end."

"But how can I, now? If I had been allowed to have my season this past spring, I should have snared him, I am sure of it. But of course we could not go with grandmama so near her end, and now… I do not know if I shall ever get a proper season, and even if I do, I can never aim so high again. My life is ruined, sister, quite ruined!"

She began to weep again, and Izzy wept too, in sympathy for her sister, and for her own trouble, and not even tea and cakes could raise their spirits again.