Chapter 28

CHAPTER 28

“ H ow lovely to see the roses blooming so beautifully,” Jessamine remarked, though her sharp eyes were fixed on Isolde’s face rather than the garden. “However, you, my dear, look rather wilted.”

“I’m perfectly well.” Isolde managed a smile that felt brittle even to herself. “Just a touch of summer fatigue, nothing more.”

Although she knew her aunt would see through her facade, the last thing she wanted was to burden the older woman with her troubles.

They sat in the morning room, where sunlight caught the colors in Octavia’s wedding gift, casting rainbows over the tea service. Isolde focused on pouring the tea with perfect precision, willing her hands not to shake.

“Interesting.” Her aunt’s tone could have dried paint. “And I suppose your husband’s sudden departure to London is also nothing to concern ourselves with?”

The teacup rattled against its saucer. “You’ve heard about that?”

Of course, Jessamine had heard. The ton loved nothing more than juicy gossip, especially when it involved the scandalous Duke of Meadowell.

“My dear girl, all of London has heard about it. The Duke of Meadowell has been seen at his club every night this week, drinking rather more than is dignified.”

Isolde’s heart clenched as she pictured Arthur holed up in some smoky gambling hell, trying to drown his sorrows in brandy.

“The ton does love its gossip,” she said bitterly.

“Isolde.” Jessamine set down her teacup firmly. “I did not travel all this way to exchange pleasantries while you pretend nothing is wrong. What has happened?”

“Nothing’s happened. Everything is…” But Isolde’s voice cracked on the lie, and suddenly tears were spilling down her cheeks. “Everything is horrible.”

In an instant, her aunt was beside her, gathering her close as she had always done when Isolde was a little girl. “There now, my dear. Tell me everything.”

Isolde recounted what happened between sobs—their growing closeness, her foolish hopes, that terrible night at the engagement party, and finally, the devastating question she’d dared to ask.

“I was such a fool,” she whispered into her aunt’s shoulder, “to think he could ever love me back.”

“Oh, my dear girl.” Jessamine stroked her hair. “The only fools in love are those too afraid to risk their hearts.”

“But he doesn’t want love! He made that perfectly clear.” Fresh tears threatened. “Please, Aunt Jessamine, could you stay for a few days? I know it’s on such short notice, but I cannot bear being here alone with only memories for company.”

“Of course, I’ll stay.” Her aunt’s voice was gentle but held a note of steel. “Though I suspect your husband’s actions speak far louder than his words if you’ve ears to hear them.”

“What do you mean?”

“A man who truly feels nothing doesn’t flee to London to drown his indifference in brandy.” Jessamine’s eyes held ancient wisdom. “But that’s a truth you’ll both have to discover in your own time.”

Isolde managed a watery smile. “When did you become so wise about matters of the heart?”

“My dear, from whom do you think your mother learned it?” Her aunt pressed a handkerchief into her hands. “Now then, shall we see about having my things sent from the inn? And perhaps you might show me that lovely music room I’ve heard so much about.”

Isolde’s smile faltered at the mention of the music room, but she squared her shoulders. She might be heartbroken, but she was still a duchess. And if nothing else, her aunt’s presence would help fill the echoing silence Arthur had left behind.

“Perhaps some air would do us good,” Jessamine suggested, noting how Isolde’s eyes kept straying to the music room door. “I heard that the village in Meadowell has a charming tea shop.”

The walk into the village helped clear Isolde’s head somewhat, though every familiar path held memories of rides with Arthur.

The tea shop’s cheerful window boxes reminded her of their early morning walks where he’d point out each new bloom.

As they settled at a table outside, young Tom hurried past with an armful of packages, touching his cap respectfully when he saw them.

“Careful there, lad!” Mr. Lyndall called from his bookshop next door. “Though I must say, you’ve grown steadier on your feet since His Grace took you under his wing.”

“He’s a good master,” Tom said earnestly, setting down his burden. “Nothing like folks said he’d be, considering…”

“Considering his father, you mean.” Mr. Lyndall’s voice dropped, though not quite enough. “Dark days, those were. Used to hear the boy’s screams from across the grounds some nights.”

“My father remembers,” Tom nodded. “Says that he once found His Grace hiding in our stables, his back bleeding something fierce. Wouldn’t let anyone near him except the late Duchess, God rest her soul.”

Isolde’s teacup clattered against its saucer. Jessamine’s hand found hers beneath the table.

“Hush now,” Mrs. Timmons scolded, setting fresh scones before them. “Though I will say, it is a miracle the current Duke turned out as kind as he is. We all feared…” She glanced at Isolde and fell silent.

“What became of the old Duke?” Tom asked.

Mr. Lyndall shook his head sharply.

“Some tales are better left untold, lad. Though I will say this—His Grace has done more good in one year than his father ever did in thirty. The way he looks after his people, especially the young ones who remind him of…” he trailed off, finally noticing their audience. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace. We shouldn’t speak of such things.”

“No, please.” Isolde found her voice. “I would like to know more about my husband’s younger days.”

But the villagers had already dispersed, leaving only meaningful glances in their wake.

“Did you know?” Isolde asked her aunt once they were alone. “About Arthur’s father?”

“There were rumors,” Jessamine said carefully. “A friend once mentioned wanting to help the boy, but the former Duke kept him isolated. Some wounds are deeper than flesh, my dear.”

“And leave scars that may never heal?” Isolde traced the rim of her teacup, remembering how Arthur sometimes flinched at gentle touches, how he struggled to express tender emotions.

“Perhaps…” Her aunt’s voice softened. “Or perhaps they simply need the right kind of healing. Your mother always said love was the best medicine for a wounded heart.”

“If only the patient is willing to take it,” Isolde whispered.

The walk back to Meadowell House was quiet, both women lost in thought. Isolde found herself seeing the estate through new eyes—not just as her home, but as the place where a little boy had learned that love brought only pain.

No wonder Arthur struggled to believe in love. No wonder he fled from it.

The question was, would he ever find the courage to face those fears? And would she be strong enough to wait if he did?

That night, as Isolde prepared for bed, she found herself thinking of that frightened boy and the man he’d become—a man who taught kindness to stable lads and rescued nervous horses, a man who played the piano in secret and showed tenderness in the dark.

Perhaps there was hope yet. If only she knew how to help him heal.

Sleep eluded her that night. She found herself wandering the shadowed corridors of Meadowell House, her candle casting dancing light on the family portraits that lined the walls. She’d walked these halls countless times before, but tonight she studied each face with a new purpose, searching for traces of the boy Arthur had once been.

The portraits told their own story. In the first ones, Arthur appeared perhaps five or six, standing stiffly beside his seated father. Even captured in oils, the former Duke’s eyes held a coldness that made Isolde shiver. Young Arthur’s face was solemn, without a trace of childhood’s natural joy.

In each successive portrait, she watched him grow more guarded, his shoulders tensing beneath increasingly formal attire, until the final portrait—painted just after his father’s death. Here was the rake she’d first met, his smile challenging the viewer, armor fully in place.

“Your Grace?” Mrs. Phillips’ quiet voice startled her. The housekeeper stood in her nightdress, carrying her own candle. “Is everything all right?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Isolde admitted. “I find myself seeing this place differently tonight.”

The older woman’s eyes softened as she followed Isolde’s gaze to the portraits. “It wasn’t always such a happy home as you’ve made it, Your Grace.”

“Will you tell me?” Isolde asked softly. “About how it was before?”

Mrs. Phillips hesitated, then gestured toward the kitchen. “Perhaps over some warm milk? It’s what I used to bring him on the bad nights.”

In the familiar comfort of the kitchen, Mrs. Phillips stirred milk in a copper pot while Isolde sat at the worn wooden table where the servants took their meals.

“The former Duke believed in strict discipline,” Mrs. Phillips began carefully. “But there was cruelty in it. The current Duke—he was such a bright, lovely child. Always trying to please his father. But nothing was ever good enough.”

She poured the warm milk into two cups, before adding a touch of honey.

“The worst times were after his mother passed. She’d been his shield, you see. After that…” She shook her head. “We did what we could—we hid him when his father was deep in his cups and tended to his wounds. But the deeper wounds… those we couldn’t reach.”

“Yet, he survived,” Isolde murmured, wrapping her hands around the warm cup. “He grew into a kind man who helps others, who shows kindness when he thinks no one is looking.”

“Because of his mother’s influence, I’d warrant. And perhaps…” Mrs. Phillips smiled gently. “Perhaps because some part of him never stopped hoping for love, no matter how deeply he buried it.”

“Thank you,” Isolde said softly, “for looking after him all these years. For telling me now.”

Mrs. Phillips took a final sip of her tea, setting down the delicate china cup with a soft clink. She rose, smoothing her apron, and paused at the door.

“Just…don’t give up on him, Your Grace. He’s worth waiting for.”

Returning to her chambers, Isolde paused at her writing desk. After a moment’s contemplation, she pulled out some paper and a quill.

My dearest Arthur , she wrote, then paused, considering her words carefully. There was so much to say, yet she knew this wasn’t the time for all of it.

When you’re ready to come home, I’ll be here.

Always yours,

Isolde.

She sealed the note but didn’t send it. Instead, she placed it in her desk drawer, a promise to herself as much as to him.

Whatever demons Arthur was fighting in London, she would be here when he was ready to face them.

It wasn’t a solution, but perhaps it was a beginning.