Chapter 2

4 YEARS LATER

Isadora wanted to skip to her aunt's carriage. Her feet felt lighter than air, despite an evening in which she had partaken of every dance. She walked towards the carriage, arm in arm with Cousin Charlotte. They laughed and giggled as they left the residence of Sir Obadiah Keats, their host for the evening. Agnes Strickland walked ahead of them, mother to Charlotte and aunt to Isadora. She walked with dignity on the arm of Elliot Keats, son, and heir to Sir Obadiah, the textile magnate whose wealth from industry had purchased for him a place among the elite of Hampshire society.

"Such fun, Lottie! I do declare. And Stonymeadow Hall is a delightful residence."

"Keats Hall, Izzie," Charlotte corrected.

"Ah, yes, I was forgetting. I hope that Master Elliot did not overhear," she whispered.

Isadora looked at her cousin who was blushing too. They were a contrasting pair, though as close as sisters. Isadora was tall and willowy, with golden hair and blue eyes. Charlotte was shorter and with dark hair and brown eyes. Isadora had the button nose and smattering of freckles that she had inherited from her mother, while Charlotte's nose was pointed as were the noses of her father and brother. Ahead of them, Elliot Keats was in deep conversation with Lady Agnes. Charlotte was watching him as he walked, her blush deepening.

"He is very handsome, isn't he?" Charlotte asked.

"Very. A trifle too lean for my taste," Isadora said.

"You are awful, Izzie. Fancy saying something like that. As though we were cattle farmers at market," Charlotte protested.

But she laughed. Isadora had always been able to make her cousin laugh and delighted in doing it. Her introduction to Charlotte had not been in the most ideal of circumstances. The sudden death of her father had taken away the core of her very being. In a life of change and turmoil, he had been her one constant. To then discover that the remainder of his estate was eaten up by death taxes, leaving her destitute, was another blow. But Aunt Agnes had insisted. There was plenty of room in the house of her son, the Earl of Swingfield, with herself and her daughter, Charlotte.

"That is what women and men become when the subject of choosing a mate arises," Isadora continued, "Father and I used to attend the village dances when we lived in Twyford, near Winchester. I can remember seeing the village men and village women of marriageable age eyeing each other up from across the room. If you want to get to the heart of what makes us tick as human beings, go to a village dance."

Charlotte laughed, her own upbringing as the daughter of an earl being considerably more sheltered than Isadora's, as the daughter of a bankrupt baron.

"I noticed that you danced with Master Elliot more than you danced with any other man," Isadora ventured.

"He is a magnificent dancer and an intelligent, humorous conversationalist," Charlotte replied, "I am almost jealous that it is Mama who is being escorted to the carriage by him."

"Aunt Agnes will be singing your praises, have no fear," Isadora said, "and if she is not, then I certainly will."

Charlotte hugged her cousin's arm. "You are far braver than I, Izzie. You would just march up to him and ask him what he thinks of me, wouldn't you?"

"I would," Isadora replied, and meant it, "growing up among the children of farmers, I learned to speak up or be ignored. I was never very good at being ignored."

They walked through the ornamental gardens at the south side of Keats Manor, following a gravel path that led to a towering fountain. Torches had been placed along the path with flames that burned with assorted colors. Charlotte was amazed by the effect and Isadora explained how it was achieved by burning powders made of varied materials.

"How clever you are Izzie," Charlotte enthused, "it must be all that time you spend in my brother's library."

"Papa could not afford a governess for me when I was a child. I learned my letters with the village children of Twyford, at Sunday school. I think it has left me with something of a passion for learning and reading," Isadora replied.

"You would have been welcome to my governess," Charlotte complained, "she was responsible for giving me a lifelong distaste for learning and reading."

"But you do enjoy the plays and poetry I read to you."

"Oh yes, but that is because you are a fine narrator. You make the words come alive. Were I to read those books for myself, I would promptly fall asleep," Charlotte giggled.

She looked at her cousin for a moment, then asked. "You danced with a fair few handsome young gentlemen yourself, Izzie. Was there anyone in particular?"

Isadora glanced around. Other couples walked behind them, filing casually from the palatial house towards the fountain and the circular driveway where carriages and drivers awaited their masters. None were close enough to overhear and were engrossed in their own conversations besides. The question touched on a delicate matter, one that Isadora would rather have kept secret, as indeed she had for the past year since the death of her father. But she could keep no secrets from Charlotte, her cousin in fact and sister in spirit. The fact that she had not discussed this with Charlotte before now was a source of guilt for her. But, she would not lie or evade a direct question.

"There were one or two who were handsome and charming," she began.

Charlotte's eyes lit up and she clutched at Isadora's arm. "Oh, wonderful. Do tell me who!"

"I will not because nothing can come of it," Isadora said firmly.

"Is it because you do not have a dowry? Because you must know that Henry regards you as a sister, and Mama, as a daughter. They will provide you with a dowry. You will not have to ask, they will not take no for an answer, and for that matter…"

Isadora smiled fondly and pressed a finger to her cousin's lips. She was a dear girl and positively bubbling with enthusiasm, especially on the subject of love and marriage. But, she was getting ahead of herself.

"There can be no possibility of marriage, for that matter has already been decided."

Charlotte's look of surprise was almost comical. Her eyes went wide and her mouth fell open until she remembered herself and snapped it shut.

"I have not seen you being courted by anyone and there have been no gentlemen callers," she whispered.

"This was arranged by my father before he died. I was not consulted," Isadora said.

She could not keep the chagrin from her voice. She had always thought to marry for love. There had been many evenings between herself and Charlotte, spent in idle fantasy, wondering who they would marry and what he would be like. To discover that a binding agreement had been entered into without her knowledge, the matter decided for her, had been a shock.

"Father left me a letter to read after his death in which he explained that he had promised my hand to a man in marriage. That the match would bring me title and wealth, a comfortable life."

"Who? Who? Who?" Charlotte said, sounding like an owl.

"That is the problem," Isadora replied, "I do not know who. Papa did not specify. Only that I would be sent for when my future husband decides the time is right. As though I were a chattel, no more than property, like a piece of furniture."

Isadora's temper rose as she spoke, her voice rising with it. Aunt Agnes glanced back over her shoulder, eyes dancing over the two younger women as though to check all was well. Isadora swallowed the flare of anger and smiled reassuringly. It hurt to keep this from Agnes and Charlotte, Henry too, but she did not want them to think badly of her father. He had made mistakes in his life and had confessed them all to her. She knew that he had resorted to stealing in order to feed and clothe her and she forgave him. He had taken work that should have been beneath a member of the titled aristocracy, burning with shame, but he had done it. Isadora did not need to forgive that. There was no sin in working to provide for one's child. She herself had secretly taken on work, assisting at the Twyford Sunday school in exchange for a few pennies. But, she would not shame his memory.

"So, you have no idea who you are to marry?" Charlotte sounded horrified.

"None," Isadora said stoically, "but I trust papa's judgment. He would not promise me to a man who was not worthy."

In truth, she felt a good deal less stoic than she sounded. Her father would regard a good match as being a man with the means to provide for her and the appropriate social station. But he could be a cruel man or a foolish man. Isadora felt a good deal of trepidation, her heart racing every time a letter was delivered to her or there was a knock at the door. She did not know how long she could go on living in a state of nervous anticipation.

"Uncle George would certainly not do that," Charlotte agreed, "but his idea of suitability and yours might be very different. I mean, the Beast of Bellmore is a Duke and presumably wealthy. But, he would not be in any way a suitable husband."

Isadora shuddered at the thought. "Father would not promise me to a man like him. Besides, he is a recluse, up there in his cursed castle. When would my father have ever had the opportunity to discuss it with him."

"Never," Charlotte said firmly, "but it could be someone equally as cruel and…and…well, beastly."

They had reached the fountain and joined Lady Agnes and Master Elliot Keats waiting for the carriage from Swingfield Manor to be drawn up. A warning look from Isadora told her cousin to change the subject. She would broach it with Aunt Agnes in due course. This was not the time. As they embarked onto the carriage and it was driven away, Isadora allowed herself to be swept along by the conversation between Aunt Agnes and Charlotte, singing the praises of Keats Hall and the ball that had been arranged by Sir Obadiah. Keats Hall lay south-west of Winchester, an hours ride from the village of Twyford where Isadora had grown up. Their road home to Swingfield Manor took them south towards the town of Romsey, climbing hills before descending into the valley of the River Test. As they rode, Aunt Agnes seemed to notice that Isadora was not contributing actively to the conversation.

"Is there something wrong, Isadora?" she asked in a kind tone.

Isadora found herself woken from a reverie in which she had been contemplating the arranged marriage her father had made for her. She saw the concern on her aunt's face, the creases at her eyes and the tightening of her lips. Agnes Strickland, Dowager Countess of Swingfield, had always treated Isadora as her second daughter. She was a woman of genuine kindness and infinite compassion. Isadora would not worry her for the world. She smiled brightly.

"Nothing at all, Aunt Agnes. I think the evening is catching up with me, that's all. I think I could fall asleep here in the carriage."

"You girls did too much dancing and not enough eating. There was a suitable amount of food and drink provided by Sir Obadiah, copious amounts in fact. I'm sure most of it will go to waste but that is the kind of man he is. He likes to show off his wealth."

There was a note of disapproval in Agnes' voice. Isadora nodded and allowed the conversation to move on again, sitting back in a corner of the carriage and letting her thoughts wander. When would she meet the man to whom she had been promised? And who was he?