Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

" I sabella!" His Grace, Frederick, the Duke of Thornton called as he stormed through his estate, rounding the corner and coming upon the drawing room where he knew his daughter to be "Isabella!"

"In here, father!" her soft voice called out.

He strode into the drawing room, not in the least surprised to find his twelve-year-old daughter with company. Her name was Miss Cecilia Wanton, a governess whom he had hired specifically to help raise his daughter in lieu of a mother. A perfectly acceptable arraignment, if only the same could be said of the outcome.

"Your Grace!" Miss Wanton squeaked at the sight of Frederick striding into the drawing room. "We were not expecting you."

"In my own home?" he responded coolly.

Her eyes went wide. "I did not mean—I was just—if I had known?—"

"Father…" Isabella sighed and clicked her tongue. "You are scaring her. You know that you are."

"That was not my intent."

Isabella snorted. "If you say so."

"Is it fine," Miss Wanton said softly, refusing to look at Frederick. Or perhaps she was simply unable? Rarely when Frederick was in the room did Miss Wanton so much as glance at him, as if she worried doing so might burn her eyes out.

"You do not need to be afraid of him," Isabella instructed. "I know he looks mean, but really, he is not that bad. Is that not right, father?" She winked at him.

He chuckled at the cheek. "Is that your way of saying I have been too soft on you, Isabella? That can change if you like."

She snorted. "No, no. Forget I said anything."

The sight of his daughter did much to calm Frederick's less-than-hospitable temperament, for he was in a mood today and did not relish what he had come here to do. And while a small part of him did wonder if he was overreacting, the greater part knew that this was as inevitable as the sun rising on the morrow.

As a duke, Frederick had been raised to understand that responsibility and discipline was not something that he had the luxury of shying away from. And while some might spurn him for the way he acted, calling him cold and callous and all sorts of horrible things, he knew that ultimately these decisions made were for the best.

He just prayed that his daughter forgave him. He was, after all, doing this for her.

She was seated across from Miss Wanton, a set of crochet needles in hand and a length of stitching falling from her lap and trailing across the floor. As part of her education, Miss Wanton was showing Isabella how to properly crotchet with needle and thread, one of the many skills that any young lady of the ton should have knowledge in. That, after all, was the entire point of a governess, to prepare a young lady such as Isabelle for adulthood and what was expected from a daughter of a duke.

And in a way, she had succeeded in said tasks. Having only been here a month, she was everything that she had claimed when applying for the role. But that was merely surface level.

"You look mad, father…" Isabella set down her needles and skipped across the room toward Frederick, throwing her arms around him in a tight hug.

"Do I?"

She giggled. "Although I suppose I would be more surprised if you looked happy. Right, Miss Wanton?" she then asked of the governess. "In the month you have been here, have you seen my father smile even once?"

Miss Wanton's mouth opened and closed, no words coming out. Fear struck her face, and it was only too clear that she wished to be anywhere but in her employer's presence.

"My point exactly, big meanie," Isabella giggled again, arms still wrapped around his waist, looking upwards and beaming because only she could get away with teasing him like this… and she knew it.

Oh, how Frederick loved her. How he adored her. She was the only source of light in his life, and he cherished her as if his own life depended on it. And the fact that she looked more like him than her mother only furthered this sense of protective love and worship as he saw himself in her often… or at least a side of himself that he rarely let out anymore.

Perhaps that was why he was so protective of her? Yes, there was the fact that she was his only daughter, and if things continued for Frederick the way they had been, she would likely remain his only child. And yes, he wanted the best for her, a life promised that only the daughter of a duke could fulfil. But mostly, it was that she reminded him of who he used to be, and what life might have been like if he hadn't been born to this station. Fun. Jovial. Even whimsical. Words not spoken in the same sentence as Frederick's name because of the image his peers had of him.

And it was this love, this sense of protection he had for Isabella, that had brought him here this morning. The reason he was set to perform a most unpleasant task, one which would undoubtedly anger his daughter as he so hated doing.

"How is everything going today?" he asked, watching Miss Wanton for her reaction. Typically, she grimaced and looked down at her lap.

"Wonderfully," Isabella said as she let him go and wandered back to her seat. "Miss Wanton is a wonderful teacher."

"And that is what she is doing, is it? Teaching you?"

"Well… yes." Isabella frowned and glanced at Miss Wanton.

"I just came from seeing Miss Tibbs," he said, looking between the two. "She was concerned, for she finished washing your clothing from yesterday, Isabella, and it seems she found something that she thought prudent to bring to my attention."

Isabella's eyes flicked to Miss. Wanton; the guilt in them clear. "W-what did she find?"

"Blood," he said. "On the skirt of your dress. Do you care to explain?"

"I…" Isabella's mind worked quickly. "I am not sure. Are you certain it was mine? Or even blood? Perhaps it was a food stain?"

"Show me your knees, please."

Isabella's eyes widened, but she was quick to reset. "My knees? Father…" An awkward chuckle. "I do not know what you?—"

"Your knees, Isabella. Show them to me. Now." It was not a question but a command that even Isabella would not refuse.

She bowed her head. "Father… it is not what you think."

"Show me," he growled at her.

Silently, with great shame, Isabella lifted the skirt of her dress to reveal her kneecaps, and as expected, as he had known, they were scuffed and torn with scabs growing over recently formed wounds.

"It is not what you think!" Isabella said quickly. "I fell! That is all!"

"And what were you doing when you fell?"

She grimaced, unable to look her father in the eye. "We had finished my studies—I made sure of it. I did. And there was still some time before supper, so I asked Miss Wanton if she might wish to play—I asked her!" Her head snapped up, her eyes turning red as she pleaded. "It was not her choice! It was me, father! I was the one who?—"

"Silence!" he snapped at her, feeling immediate guilt for yelling. "Isabella…" He then groaned and rubbed his eyes, doing what he could to contain the anger that brewed in him… and the disappointment. "We have spoken about this."

"I know, father," she said softly.

"And you have promised me, time and time again, that you would behave."

"I know, father."

"And still, you disobey me."

"But father…" Her chin began to wobble. "It was not as bad as you might think. And Miss Wanton—she did not force me. She did not even suggest it. I was the one who made her."

"Isabella…" He sighed and shook his head. "When will you learn, you are but a child. It is not on you to make these types of decisions. Nor is it on you to take the blame. As young as you are, you cannot be held accountable for them. That…" He fixed his glare on Miss Wanton who was sitting in silence, staring at her lap, face ashen for she knew what was coming. "That is on your governess."

It might not have been so bad if this was the first time such an occurrence had happened. Or if Miss Wanton was not one of nearly a dozen governesses who had come and gone these past two years for similar reasons. It was becoming all too familiar now, a pattern emerging, one which inevitably infuriated and broke his daughter while leaving Frederick to pick up the pieces whilst assuming the mantle of villain.

"I can explain," Miss Wanton began quickly. "Please, allow me to explain."

"Then explain." He crossed his arms and looked down his nose at her. "I am all ears."

She winced. "I… as your daughter has said, we had finished with her studies. There was still some time until supper, so she thought it might be fun?—"

"Is that why I hired you? For fun?"

She winced again. "We were only playing tag, Your Grace. And I made sure we did so on a grass-covered area so that if she fell, she might not hurt herself."

"It is not the hurting of herself that concerns me. It is the fact that she was doing so in the first place. I have told you, countless times, that I do not wish for her to play such games."

"I know…" she spoke into her lap.

"And I have told you countless times that if she is to ask, you will deny her."

"I know…"

"And I have told you, I did tell you, what would happen if you were to ignore my demands. You do remember what I said, do you not?"

"No, father!" Isabella leapt to her feet, fists scrunched by her sides. "Please! You cannot do this! Not again!"

"Miss Wanton…" Frederick had come here to fire Miss Wanton, yet the sight of his daughter pleading had Frederick hesitating more than he had expected. "I want to thank you for your time spent here but?—"

"Father, no!"

"—I am afraid that… that…" He chanced a glance at his daughter, her pleading stare fixed on him, and he could not bring himself to finish what he had started. Such was a father's love. "I am afraid that another warning is in order. A final warning."

Isabella blinked with disbelief. "Re - really?"

Miss Wanton frowned as if she did not understand. "Excuse me?"

"A final warning," he repeated. "I have told you what is expected of you and what is not. My daughter is not your friend. She is not your plaything. She is your student, and you are to treat her as such. Nothing more."

Miss Wanton continued to look confused as her eyes flicked from Frederick to her lap. "I… are you saying that I have not been teaching your daughter to your standards?"

"I am saying that is all you should be doing. And quite frankly, I am sick of having to look over your shoulder as I am forced to do. So, hear me now…" He looked pointedly at her, wanting her to meet his eyes, so she could see that this was not a discussion, only for her to continue in staring at her lap. "No more! Is that understood."

Frederick felt a strange sense of relief as he levelled Miss Wanton with a warning scowl. Having not at all looked forward to letting her go, this felt like an acceptable middle ground. One that would not result in his daughter hating him. Only…

"Your Grace, I am afraid that…" Miss Wanton was shaking visibly, hands clenched into balls, eyes still on her lap but that looked to change. "I am afraid that I do not accept your warning."

"Excuse me?" Frederick leaned back as if struck.

"For weeks now, I have done everything that you ask. I have put my blood and sweat into teaching your daughter and… and…" She forced herself to look at him, her stare a mixture of hatred and fear. "And still, it is not good enough."

"Miss Wanton," Frederick growled. "I should warn you that?—"

"No!" she cried. "No more warnings. I have greatly enjoyed teaching your daughter, Your Grace. It has been a dream. But you…" She was shaking still, anger boiling inside of her. "You have turned that dream into a waking nightmare from which there is but one escape."

"Miss Wanton!" Isabella cried. "Please don't!"

"I am sorry." She stood suddenly and quickly. "But I am afraid that I must tender my resignation, starting immediately."

"No!"

"Isabella…" She looked at Isabella, expression pained. "I am so sorry, dear. Truly, I am. This is not you." A glare next for Frederick. "It is him!'

Frederick could scarcely believe his ears! Miss Wanton was quitting on her own accord? She was doing herself what he had come here to do in the first place? He might have laughed at the absurdity, were it not for the look of pain on his daughter's face.

"Good day." And with that, Miss Wanton stormed from the drawing room.

"Miss Wanton!" Isabella cried after her. "Please do not go! Please! Father!" She grabbed a hold of Frederick's arm. "Stop her! Say something!"

"You heard her…" Frederick's lip curled as he looked in the direction that Miss Wanton had vanished. "She quit on her own accord. There is little that I can do."

"You can!" Isabella begged. "This is your fault! If you had not been so—" She caught her tongue, eyes going wide.

"So, what, Isabella?" he said warningly.

"So mean!" she stamped her foot. "You scared her! You scared all of them! That is why they always leave!"

"Careful, Isabella," he warned her. "I am sad to see Miss Wanton leave, but she did so at her own behest."

"She did so because of you!" she screamed now. "And you are not sad! You wanted her gone! You did! I know you did!"

"That simply isn't true," he said, doing his best to hide the lie. "I gave her a second chance, and she threw it in my face."

"I hate you!" Isabella screamed. "I wish… I wish… I wish mother was here! I wish it was she who was here and not you!" Tears streamed down her swollen cheeks, and she cast her father with a final, heartbreaking glare before sprinting from the room.

Even when he tried to do the right thing, it still blew up in his face.

Frederick might have gone after her if he had thought it would make a difference, but he knew his daughter well enough to know that all she needed was some time to cool down. She would get over it. She always did. But that was not the point. Every time this happened, he felt her pulling away such that one day, she might not forgive him at all. Worse, when that happened, he would not be able to blame her.

The life of a duke. One of privilege yet also one of expectation. One day, he hoped that his daughter would come to understand that all he did was for her. One day, he hoped that they might look back at moments like this and laugh… assuming that she had not cast him from her life by then.

"Your Grace?" a stern voice spoke from the door.

Frederick looked up and saw who it was. "What is it, Mr. White? I am afraid I am not in the mood."

"It is somewhat urgent, Your Grace." Mr. White was the head butler of the Dukedom of Thornton; well over eighty years old, he had served Frederick's father before his death also. "A letter came for you just now." He showed Frederick the letter.

"A letter?" Frederick sighed. "Leave it in my study, I shall read it later." He felt rotten, and all he wanted to do was go for a ride, so he might be alone to think. "Oh, and send out for a new governess, will you? We shall be needing one."

"The letter, Your Grace." He waved the letter again. "I took the liberty of reading it once I noticed who it was from." Only Mr. White could get away with such an act.

"And?" Frederick asked, noticing the look on Mr. White's face, one he could not quite discern.

"It is from your grandmother, the Dowager Thornton. It seems that her estate in Linfield has burned down."

His eyes went wide. "What? When? Is she all right? Did she say?—"

"She is quite all right, Your Grace," Mr. White hurried to assure him. "As are the staff. However, seeing as her home is currently a pile of burnt rubble, she has requested that she might come here and stay for a few weeks until a new residence can be found."

"Requested?" Frederick raised an eyebrow at Mr. White.

Mr. White grinned. "More a warning that she is on her way."

"Wonderful…" Frederick groaned. He loved his grandmother as any grandson should, but she was also a handful and seemed to enjoy the fact. Not to mention the joy she took from frustrating Frederick.

"And what is more, Your Grace, according to the letter, she is not alone."

"Her staff?" Frederick sighed. "How many? I suppose we have the room although it might get a little cramped."

"No, no, not all of them," he corrected. "Just the one. She is bringing along her companion, Miss Caroline Dowding. They will be here in two days."