4 A Fresh Start

D ressing for dinner was even more fraught than usual. Izzy never could make a decision about what to wear, so Brandon was used to laying out several gowns for her to choose from, or hastily pressing others, if required. Brandon never grumbled — Izzy would not employ her if she did — but she had a way of pursing her lips that showed disapproval.

Izzy paced about her room, too agitated to stay still for more than three seconds at a time, giving voice to all her grief for her mother, who was to be cast aside at the age of fifty.

Brandon followed her around the room, removing or adding garments whenever Izzy stood still for long enough, but her lips grew steadily more pursed, until she burst out, "Well, I think it's a good thing, my lady."

"My father marrying again? How can it possibly be a good thing?"

"Her ladyship's taking thought for the future of the family, my lady. Better by far to have a new son to bring up in the proper way than have the title fall to those who are unprepared for it. Make a fresh start, like."

"A fresh start? A fresh start? Is a wife of thirty years to be cast aside so that her husband can make a fresh start? Does he not owe his wife his loyalty? Does he not have a duty to care for her unto death? That is what he swore, so how is it right for him to toss her away as if she were a worn out shoe?"

"It's what she wishes herself, my lady, and I think—"

" You think? And who asked you for your opinion, Brandon? I certainly did not! You are a servant, and it is not your place to have opinions. If there is one thing I cannot abide, it is a pert servant. Keep your thoughts to yourself, in future. There are plenty more lady's maids in the world, you know."

Brandon paled. "Beg pardon, my lady."

"And get rid of all those gowns. I shall wear the white satin — the one I wore to dinner at Marford House that the Prince of Wales admired."

"Very good, my lady."

Izzy was the last down to the Yellow Parlour, where the family had gathered for dinner, owing to getting lost on her way there, so she was already out of temper.

There were four ladies awaiting her. Josie and Lady Rennington shared a single sofa, while Lady Tarvin and Mrs Edward Harfield sat on chairs at opposite sides of the room. Lady Tarvin was Lady Rennington's sister, a plump, affectionate woman who smiled kindly at her niece, and Izzy greeted her with a kiss.

"Aunt Myrtle! How are you? I did not see you in town this year, not once."

"No, I have not left Harfield all spring. Heavens, Izzy, there is nothing of you! Do you never eat, child? But I see you have not lost your propensity for being late."

"I beg your pardon, but it is not my fault… not entirely my fault, anyway. There was no footman on hand to guide me through this rabbit warren that you live in, and I wandered about for an age until I stumbled upon someone to ask."

Aunt Myrtle only laughed, and allowed her to pass on to the final member of the group.

"Mrs Harfield," Izzy said, making a decorous curtsy. "You are well, I trust?"

Mrs Edward Harfield was of a different nature, an angular woman who looked Izzy up and down with a disparaging frown. "I am well. It would be more convenient if you could inform us in advance of your coming here, Lady Farramont."

"Oh, but I never know where I am going until I arrive," Izzy said lightly.

"Nonsense! You must have known when you set out where you intended to go."

"But I might have changed my mind, and besides, I only left Corland yesterday. A letter could hardly have reached you before I did myself."

She was quite prepared to argue the case all night if need be, but her mother said hastily, "Lord Tarvin made a speech in the House last week, Izzy. He is becoming such an asset to the government, is he not, Alvira?"

Mrs Edward's face softened at once. "Oh, indeed! Such an asset!"

Izzy felt she could not endure any encomiums on the virtues of Edward, the present Lord Tarvin. His predecessor, Aunt Myrtle's husband, she had liked well enough, but since there had been no issue from that marriage, the title had passed to Mrs Edward Harfield's son, also called Edward, who took his responsibilities as head of the family very seriously. He was otherwise an inoffensive young man, but Izzy had never warmed to him or his mama.

There was another Mrs Harfield, the wife of the youngest son, Jack, who had a large family, but they lived some distance from the Priory and were never spoken of, so Izzy knew little of them, except that they were reputed to be wild and uncouth. All hopes rested on the new Lord Tarvin who would, his mother was sure, soon make a splendid match and set up his nursery at the Priory.

The butler wheezed into the room to announce dinner, and they all followed him through. For at least half the meal, Izzy wondered if perhaps she should have stayed in her room. The conversation was insipid, focused on the banal, such as the food, or the uninteresting, mainly the marital prospects of Lord Tarvin. His mother had been trying to arrange a match for him since he had inherited the title three years earlier, at the age of twenty-four. If Izzy had been in a less fractious mood, she would have enjoyed his continuing success in doing exactly as he pleased.

Yet she could not look at her mother, placidly eating her dinner and making light conversation as if nothing at all had happened. As if she had not just been abandoned, like the spent stems of pea vines, their fruits plucked and eaten, tossed onto the compost heap. How could she be so calm? Izzy wanted to scream and rage and throw things about. So much expensive china and glassware on the table, just begging to be hurled against the wall with a satisfying crash.

She pushed a piece of veal about her plate unseeingly, listening to these stupid women talking about Lord Tarvin's marriage as if marriage was the be all and end all of a man's existence. Or a woman's… Till death us do part, her father had promised, but Mama was not dead and yet she was parted from her husband, just as Izzy was.

The servants cleared the table for the second course. Her plate gone, Izzy held tight to her wine glass as if it would hold her above the waves in stormy seas. Mrs Edward was still prattling on about her precious son, something about town and society and being good ton.

"Do you not agree, Lady Farramont?"

Izzy stared at her uncomprehendingly. Then, with a sharp crack, the stem of the wine glass snapped.

"Oh, Lady Farramont!" Mrs Edward cried, gesturing to the butler. "Quick, a cloth to bind Lady Farramont's hand."

"I am not Lady Farramont!" Izzy screamed. "I am not Lady anything. I am Miss Isabel Atherton and Mama is Miss Caroline Horncastle, we are neither of us married, so let us not pretend that everything is normal. Nothing is normal, and will never be normal again."

Into the shocked silence, she stormed from the room, and ran for the stairs.

"My lady! My lady!" a voice puffed behind her. The wheezy butler, a cloth in his hand. "You are bleeding, my lady."

She snatched the cloth from him with an exclamation of pure frustration, wrapped it roughly round her hand, and ran away. It was the sheerest luck that led her straight to the right wing of the house. She stopped, recognising the big bowl of dried honesty on a console, tried the door beyond it, and there she was. Or was she? She crossed to the dressing table to check that the brushes laid out were hers, then gasped at the sight of herself in the mirror. Her lovely white gown, so admired in town, was streaked from waist to hem with blood.

It was too much. She backed away in horror, tears welling, until she found herself against the wall. Sliding down to the floor, she buried her face in her satin-clad knees and wept for all she had lost. Even her gown was spoilt, as if to say, ‘You have nothing any more, no husband, no home, no place in society. You will never dine at Marford House again or be complimented by the Prince of Wales.'

Sometime later, although whether minutes or hours, she could not say, her mother came to find her.

"Oh, Izzy, dear!" she said softly. "It is not so bad as all that. You will marry Ian again and all will be well." She picked up the miniature of Ian that Brandon had placed on the bedside table and gazed at his serious face. "He is a good man, Izzy, and will not treat you or the girls any differently after this. You chose well five years ago. I expect he is on his way to collect you as we speak."

"I hate him!" Izzy cried. "I hate Papa, too, and so should you, for what he has done to us."

"It is not his fault, dear," Lady Rennington said. "He has suffered as much as anyone over this. He has lost his family, and he feels it keenly, as you must be aware."

"He still has his title," Izzy spat.

"Well, I intend to keep mine, too," her mother said, with a wry smile. "I know that legally I am merely Miss Caroline Horncastle, but I have been the Countess of Rennington for thirty years, and I find I cannot change now. If my friends continue to call me Lady Rennington, I shall not correct them. Besides, how inconvenient it would be to have to get new cards made."

She laughed, but Izzy could not see any humour in the situation. "But you cannot be happy to think of him marrying some silly bit of a girl, surely."

"I hope he will not do anything so foolish, but a somewhat older woman, with good sense and enough years left to her to give him a stout son or two… yes, I should be content with that. Izzy, we must all do our duty. A woman's duty is to give her husband sons to inherit. So I have always taught you girls, and so I believe still. Since I cannot do that, I willingly step aside so that your father may find someone who can. But you are young enough to give Ian a dozen sons. That is where your duty lies. Now let me ring for Brandon to help you into a clean dress. Will you not come downstairs? You will not want to play for us, not with your hand injured, but you could sing, dear. You have such a lovely voice."

"I do not want Brandon, or a clean dress, or to sing anything."

"Very well, dear. Josie is attending to the baby at present, but shall I send her to bear you company when he is settled?"

"No… thank you. I need to be alone."

"Your hand—"

"It is fine, Mama. The bleeding has stopped. Please do not fuss."

Lady Rennington nodded and went away again, but Izzy was not surprised when Brandon appeared shortly afterwards with a bowl of warm water and cloths. There was no glass left in the wound, so after cleaning it, applying a salve and then a bandage, Izzy told her to go.

"Shall I find a new gown for you, my lady?"

"No need."

"Your nightgown, then?"

"Come back at eleven, Brandon. I need to be alone."

"As you wish, my lady. It'll be dark soon, so I'll light some candles before I go."

Izzy was still sitting on the floor, but the storm had blown itself out. After the maid had left, she sat on as the last rays of the sun disappeared. Somewhere, an owl hooted.

You chose well five years ago.

Had she? Jumping to her feet, she crossed to the bedside table and picked up the framed miniature of Ian. He had insisted on having one of her — ‘So that I may carry it next to my heart, always,' he had said in the glib way men had — and had given her one of him, too. ‘Just in case you ever forget what I look like," he had joked.

His strong face gazed back at her, topped with that distinctive red hair that no one else in his family had. She had never thought much about that until after they were married, and she had seen the family portrait hanging in the drawing room. There they all were, his father and mother, his two older brothers and his little sister, all with dark hair and dark eyes. In the middle, beside his mother's knee, her hand on his shoulder, was Ian with his vivid hair and blue eyes. Then she had wondered a little. And how strange that all the dark-haired ones, the parents, the older boys and even little Sarah, had all died young. At the age of eight, Ian was the only surviving child, and by the age of fourteen, he was alone in the world. No wonder he was serious.

He was a good husband, she would concede that much. Kind, generous to a fault, not censorious. He was placid… perhaps too placid. She liked a little drama, but there was none of that from Ian. Even when she threw breakable objects at his head, he never scolded her. He was steady, reliable, dependable. A little dull, perhaps, but then he never rubbed her the wrong way, as a more dogmatic man might. She had no complaint to make.

And yet… had she chosen well five years ago? If she had chosen differently, what would her life have been like?

Now, that was an interesting thought…

***

I an was frustrated. All his instincts screamed at him to pursue Izzy with all speed, and make use of the special licence burning in his waistcoat pocket beside the miniature of her he carried everywhere. He had planned to leave early the next morning, reaching Harfield perhaps only a day behind her. But over the port, the earl had begun talking about the state of the accounts, and how his brother George was attempting to understand it all, and not getting on very well.

"You have such a clear head about money, Farramont," he said gloomily. "My steward is very good at the practical side of things, and Willerton-Forbes has a legal mind, and has been looking into titles and properties and leases and so forth, but the accounts! We cannot make head or tail of it, and that is the truth. Would you be so obliging as to have a look? I know you got everything straight three years ago, but—"

"I should be happy to, but Izzy—"

"Izzy will be safe enough with her mother, and you will only be leaving one day later than you planned."

"Two days. Tomorrow is Saturday, so I shall not be on the road again before Monday."

"Oh… I suppose so. Well, where can Izzy go from Harfield? Only to Josie, and she is at Harfield also at the moment," he said triumphantly. "Izzy will still be at the Priory on Monday, and you can be married there. Oblige me in this one small matter, if you please. I should be most grateful."

Ian gave way gracefully, and thus spent the whole of Saturday closeted with Mr George Atherton, Mr Willerton-Forbes, Clarke the steward, and the account books. Despite the inconvenience of the delay, it was of all things a task he enjoyed. Long after the others had left, he laboured on, his pen dipping into the ink pot, scratching away on the paper, then dipping again, writing out long columns of numbers and adding them up. Even on Sunday before church he made some final adjustments, and then spent the hour before dinner correcting the account books.

The earl was suitably grateful, but Ian knew perfectly well that the accounts would be in a muddle again within the quarter. Clarke was too careless about the business, mixing up entries, entering payments or rents incorrectly and sometimes forgetting to make an entry altogether. He was undoubtedly good at the outdoors part of his job, for the rents had improved in recent years, and the tenants seemed contented, but he was lax about record-keeping.

"If I may venture a suggestion, sir," Ian said that evening as the gentlemen lingered over the port, "I believe you should engage someone to oversee the accounts and keep them properly up to date. Your steward is very efficient at paying bills, but not so prompt in claiming all the monies owed to you. A thousand pounds adrift, and no one noticed! That should not happen."

"No, and of course you have my gratitude for finding that amount. Clarke will see it collected, I shall make sure of that. So you think I should employ someone, do you? As a secretary? Or purely for the accounts? It is difficult to find anyone willing to live out here, Farramont. We are very remote from the attractions of the town."

"It does not need to be an employee. You have sons, after all. Who else would have such an interest in ensuring that you receive all the income to which you are entitled?"

"Walter is looking into a government position, and Eustace has his own affairs to manage." His eyes turned on Kent, watching them with his habitual smile on his face.

"Not me, Father," he said with a laugh. "Numbers are a mystery to me."

"Anyone may learn how to keep accounts," Ian said. "It is merely a matter of attention to detail, and diligence. It would not take up a great deal of your time, and would be of inestimable help to your father."

"It is all very well for you, Farramont," Kent said. "You enjoy trawling through these dry lists of numbers, but most of us would rather be outdoors, riding fast over the moors or out with a gun."

"One may shoot things and also keep the accounts up to date, I should have thought," Ian said, but he did not press the point. He was content to have offered the suggestion, and it was for the earl to take it up, or not, as he chose. He suspected nothing would get done. A man who was too indolent to take an interest in the accounts himself was probably also too indolent to appoint someone else to do it for him.

First thing on Monday morning, Ian set out for Harfield Priory, near Durham. The roads were no worse than usual, but no better, either, so it was rather late in the afternoon before he drew up outside the ivy-covered building. The great doors creaked open as he descended from the carriage, but it was not the ancient butler who appeared. Instead, two ladies rushed out to meet him, Lady Rennington, and Josie.

"Ian! Thank goodness you are here!" Lady Rennington gasped. "We were sure you would come but— Oh, it is dreadful!"

His insides contracted in terror. Not Izzy! Not that!

Josie's voice was more measured. "She has gone, Ian. Disappeared."

Oh, thank God! Not dead, then.

"When?"

"Saturday."

"So she has two days' lead on me. I shall catch her up."

"But we have no idea where she has gone… whether she left Durham at all, and if so, which road she took," Lady Rennington wailed.

"She will not be hard to find," Ian said. "Her carriage is very distinctive."

"That is just the problem," Josie said. "She has not taken her own carriage, nor her maid or manservant. She has taken one small box of clothes and simply vanished."