Chapter Eleven

"If there is no other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not be kept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to marry Miss de Bourgh…. If Mr. Darcy is neither by honour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make another choice? And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?"

"Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it. Yes, Miss Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family or friends, if you wilfully act against the inclinations of all. You will be censured, slighted, and despised, by everyone connected with him. Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned by any of us."

"These are heavy misfortunes," replied Elizabeth. "But the wife of Mr. Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily attached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause to repine."

"Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you!"

Clayton set down the book for a moment, grinning to himself.

He had taken up a post in the window seat to read his new purchase, and certainly not because it reminded him of the Bells' circulating library and Lady Isolde Belford.

And, of course, of her unusual and unexpected invitation. He hadn't expected to be included in her literary circle, and once he made a polite demurral, he certainly hadn't expected her to insist.

Could it be that she truly wanted him there?

No, no, nonsense.

He marked his place carefully and put the book aside. He had gone straight from the library to a bookshop and bought himself a copy of Pride and Prejudice. It was a popular story, according to the seller. That was ages ago, shortly before luncheon. Now, supper was nearly upon him and the sky outside was dark, and he'd raced through the book in a matter of hours.

Whoever the Lady was, she was a remarkably talented writer. Clayton caught himself laughing aloud more than once at comical moments in the book, at Elizabeth's Bennet's store of wit, and the frolics of her family. Amelia would enjoy it very much.

He wasn't entirely sure how his present of a library subscription would be received. It might well be returned. But he would not have it said he was not trying, and perhaps Auric would begrudgingly accept a library subscription over an at-home library.

But when has Father ever accepted anything he did not like? At all?

Pushing the thought away, Clayton got to his feet.

The weather had settled in for the worse, with rain pattering down the glass. He stared out of the window, watching the rain drench the grounds. Beyond, the streets of London were slick and grey, with the few people who had to be out and about hurrying to and fro about their business, heads down, hoods pulled low, umbrellas up if they had any.

The weather had not been kind to them, and the following week was meant to be worse. A perfect week, really, for huddling indoors and talking about books.

To his horror, a frisson of anxiety started up in Clayton's gut. Was he… could it be that he was nervous about tomorrow? About the invitation which had been so oddly given and received?

What would a literary salon be like? He could certainly say that he'd never been to such an event. And if Isolde had vouched for him, he had better behave himself.

The rake and the book club, he thought wryly. That would make a good title for a novel, I think.

Moving over to the velvet-rope bell-pull tucked neatly away beside a desk, he tugged on it, and waited.

Less than a moment later, the door inched open.

"You rang, my Lord?" Thomas asked quietly.

"Why is it, Thomas, that you seem to have a remarkable insight for when you are the one I want, rather than any other servant in the house?"

"A knack, my Lord," the man responded smoothly, without batting an eyelid. "What do you require?"

Clayton drew in a deep breath. "Do you read novels, Thomas?"

"I read when I can, my Lord. You'll recall that all of the servants are permitted to borrow books from your own library whenever they like. I often borrow books myself."

"Ever gone to a literary salon?"

Thomas aimed a level look at his employer. "No, my Lord."

"Right. Well, I've been invited to one, and I would like your advice on how to dress. Advice only, I won't guarantee to take your advice."

Something flickered in Thomas' face. "Did Lady Isolde Belford invite you, my Lord?"

Clayton missed a beat. "What? Why would you assume it was her?"

Thomas cleared his throat, smiling nervously. "No reason, my Lord."

"No reason? As I would believe that," Clayton thought sourly. He would get to the bottom of that later. Obviously Thomas, too, liked to read gossip columns.

"Hmph. Well, never mind. Now, let's talk about suits. No, boots. I don't want to wear dancing slippers. Would my Hessians work, do you think?"

***

Isolde had hoped fervently that the rain would make Lord Raisin cry off.

She was to be disappointed.

It had rained at breakfast, having rained all night, and the rain seemed set to continue all day.

And yet, here was the wretched man, beaming up at her from the hallway, water dripping from his many-caped driving coat onto the floor.

"Lord Raisin," Isolde managed, "I didn't expect you. Is it not too wet for Kew Gardens?"

"Not at all, not at all! I have brought the curricle, you see. It has a hooded top, and we'll be quite dry, I tell you, quite dry!"

Isolde wondered whether to point out that he was soaking wet, indicating that the curricle did not provide quite as much protection as he promised. She descended the rest of the stairs, standing awkwardly in the hallway. The drip-drip-drip of Lord Raisin's wet coat echoed louder than she could have thought possible.

Beatrice rescued them. The drawing-room door inched open, and the lady peered out.

"Oh, Lord Raisin, here you are! Why don't you step in…" she trailed off, gaze dropping to the growing pool of water around his feet. "Oh. Perhaps not."

"Mama, is it not too wet for Kew Gardens?" she tried desperately.

Beatrice wavered, glancing briefly at Lord Raisin's damp clothes, and then to the pattering of rain on the window outside.

She swallowed hard. "Well, I'm not sure…"

"You are not composed of sugar, Lady Isolde," Lord Raisin chuckled, his voice light and teasing. "Surely, you shall not dissolve in the rain. Unless..." He leaned a fraction nearer, an expression of playful mischief illuminating his features, "...unless, perchance, you are indeed fashioned from sugar and other such delectable confections."

Isolde cringed. "Mama?"

Beatrice drew in a breath, venturing out of the doorway altogether. She avoided Isolde's eye, a sure sign that her verdict was not going to be a good one.

"I think that the rain is getting a little lighter," she said, voice forced and breezy. "Go on, Isolde, some fresh air will do you good and a maid will accompany you as chaperone"

Isolde glared at her mother. Beatrice stared back, smiling innocently.

"What luck I have!" Lord Raisin beamed, actually clapping his hands together. "I shall let you get dressed for our outing, Lady Isolde, and we shall be off!"

Isolde, who was already dressed for the outing, went stamping back upstairs.

"Don't be long, dear," Beatrice called up after her, sounding vaguely desperate. "If you take too long, the rain will set in again."

To highlight her words, a gale rocked against the house, rattling the windows. Groaning aloud, Isolde put her head down and ran faster up the stairs.

She would need her heavy-duty bonnet, and thickest coat.

And boots. Good ones.

***

The rain lashed down, dripping from the roof of the curricle, and directly onto Isolde's lap.

She huddled down further into her thick cloak, hands shoved deep in her gloves.

"Not too bad at all, eh, Lady Isolde?" Lord Raisin shouted above the buffeting wind, narrowly manoeuvring the vehicle around a tight bend. "Pity we can't see much."

That was an understatement. The rain formed a grey haze in the distance, blurring the scenery and purplish hills. There was, of course, no prospect of getting out and looking at anything, certainly no walking around. The dirt path was mostly mud by now, rutted and dimpled by the few vehicles willing to risk the rain. Huge puddles gaped across their way, and more than once the curricle lurched so violently that Isolde was sure that she would be thrown out.

"I am rather cold, sir," she managed at last, clutching onto the side of the curricle for dear life. "Do you think we could head for home, perhaps?"

Lord Raisin shot her an annoyed look. "Very well, very well! I'd say it's bracing more than anything. But if you are cold, Lady Isolde, we shall return."

"Thank you," Isolde replied, trying to ignore his obvious irritation. They had already been out for close to an hour, rocketing around the Gardens in a chaise not at all suited for poor weather. The horses, too, were soaked, rain running in rivulets over their flanks.

"Would have thought the Ice Queen could stand a little cold," he muttered, under his breath.

It was barely above a whisper, but the wind happened to conveniently drop at that very moment, and Isolde heard.

She twisted around to face him.

"I beg your pardon?"

Lord Raisin's face went red.

"I… I did not say anything."

There was a brief moment of silence. Then, taking her life in her hands, Isolde got to her feet.

"Stop the carriage."

His eyes bulged out of his head. "But, Lady Isolde, it is a curricle."

"Stop at once, or I shall jump."

Lord Raisin stared at her, meeting her eyes directly. Whatever he saw there clearly convinced him that she was not joking. He hauled on the reins.

The wheels had barely stopped when Isolde leapt over the side. Her maid tried to step down as well but Isolde stopped her, telling her there was no need for her to walk with her.

Splosh. She landed in a puddle, naturally, and found herself ankle deep in cold, filthy water. Isolde breathed in deeply, pretending that she did not feel water soaking through her boots and stockings right to her skin, and began to stride forward.

How far was it to get home? A mile? Two?

"Lady Isolde, please! I… I may have made a rash comment, but you cannot walk home. Do forgive me."

"I cannot give forgiveness when an apology has not been offered," Isolde retorted. The curricle trundled alongside her, keeping pace easily. The wet seemed to be creeping up her hem and soaking through her bonnet and cloak. She was going to be wringing wet by the time she got home, assuming she did not slip in the mud and twist her ankle.

I must look an absolute sight. Forget the Ice Queen, I'll be the Bedraggled Princess.

"Then I am sorry," Lord Raisin said. "I should not have said that. It was unkind of me, but you must admit, Lady Isolde, that you are exceptionally unyielding. How many Seasons have I put in effort to secure your hand? And yet you remain unmoved. Unfeeling, some would say. Not I," he added hastily, "But others."

"You are a fine man, Lord Raisin, but you know my intentions not to marry."

Silence greeted her. Isolde half expected the man to snap his reins and drive off in a temper. To his credit, he stayed where he was, looking more determined than ever.

He doesn't believe me, Isolde realized in a rush. Of course, she should have realized it before, but somehow the truth hit her more powerfully now.

He thinks he can change my mind. That I'll be forced to change my mind, and by then the only man I will be able to catch will be him.

"Whatever the case, Lady Isolde, you simply cannot walk home in this rain," he said at last. "I beg your pardon for any thoughtless words I might have uttered. Let us forget them, please. Now, please, I am begging. Get back in the carriage."

In the end, it was not Lord Raisin's begging, but a truly massive puddle, stretching right across the paths to the waterlogged grass on either side, that convinced her to abandon her pride and climb back in the carriage.

Or curricle, rather.

Unsurprisingly, Lord Raisin did not speak a word on the way back home. Isolde was not about to break the frosty silence. He had invoked the Ice Queen, and the Ice Queen he would get.

The silence only wavered when they were a handful of streets from home. The paved roads were running with water, the gutters overflowing, spray splashing up from the wheels to dampen Isolde's already soaked skirt.

"Some ladies do not desire marriage because they feel it will bring about a material change for the worse," Lord Raisin said. "I can assure you that, were you to accept my offer, there would be no change."

"Are you making me an offer, sir?"

"Why? So you can categorically turn me down, and avoid me all Season?" he chuckled wryly. "No, thank you. I'm sure you'll forgive the informality to my speech, since you have already made such a display of yourself in the Park. A lesser man would not forgive you for such a humiliation."

"Lord Raisin, we are closer than before. I will get out and walk, if you make me."

He snorted. Clearly, he was less afraid of it now than he was before. Perhaps he thought the shame of letting a lady walk home in the rain would be lessened according to the distance.

"You must think of your future, Lady Isolde."

"Why do people keep telling me that?" she wondered aloud. At long last, they turned into her street.

Almost home.

"Perhaps if everybody is telling you something, you might give it some thought. Or do you believe that you are right, and the rest of the world is wrong?"

The curricle lurched to an ungraceful stop in front of the front steps. Isolde saw the curtain of the front window – the drawing room – twitch. Beatrice had been watching out for her.

Without bothering to give him an answer, Isolde began to climb down. Lord Raisin did not get out and offer to help her down, and she did not expect him too. With the wind and heavy rain, the footmen no doubt had not heard the carriage's approach. Frankly, Isolde thought she did very well, climbing down from the high curricle without falling onto her face.

"Lady Isolde!"

She paused, hand clamped on her bonnet to stop it being wrenched away by the gale, and glanced back up into the curricle. Lord Raisin was not looking at her, instead concentrating entirely on the reins in his hand.

"I am sorry," he said at last. "And I hope that soon, you'll have cause to think better of me."

"So do I," Isolde responded. She turned on her heel and hurried up the steps. The curricle pulled away before she even reached the door.

Beatrice was waiting in the hallway. Her eyes nearly popped out of her head when she saw the state of Isolde.

"Good heavens, Izzy! What happened? You are soaked, and your hem… six inches deep in mud! Your boots may not be saved! And your bonnet… oh, good heavens."

"It was a curricle in the rain," Isolde snapped, yanking at the damp ribbons tying her bonnet under her chin and tossing the thing away. "Of course I'm soaked. He was shockingly rude to me, Mama. He called me the Ice Queen!"

Beatrice bit her lip. "Oh, that was bad of him. But it is commonly said about you, my dear. Awful though it is, we know he must have heard of it."

"Just because he has heard of it, does not mean that he can say it," she mumbled, dropping down onto a chair to pull off her boots. The stockings underneath were so wet she could likely wring them out.

Beatrice stood in front of her, arms folded, foot tap-tap-tapping on the floor.

"I told you, Isolde, you should do your best to encourage Lord Raisin's attentions."

"I seem to recall that you only said I should allow them. I do not want to marry Lord Raisin."

"You may not have a choice!" Beatrice snapped. "Ladies marry, Isolde. I'm sorry you do not like that, but that is the way the world is. If you would take your nose out of a book and look at reality, you would understand."

Isolde put her head down, concentrating on the soaked laces of her boots, which refused to untie. There was a taut silence, then Beatrice leaned down to whisper in her ear.

"You are so determined to avoid the mistakes of your mother, you are going to make entirely new ones, and just as irrevocable."

She turned on her heel and stormed away, leaving Isolde sitting by herself in the hallway, shivering in her wet clothes.