Chapter Fourteen

"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself last night," Beatrice said, "but you really must concentrate on the matter at hand, Isolde. Books and literature are fine pursuits for anyone, lady or gentleman, but there are more serious things to think about. Now," she held up two pieces of ribbon. "Which do you think? The white, or the pale pink?"

Isolde eyed the ribbons. "Neither. They'll both get dirty too quickly. The ribbon is for my hem, after all."

"Well, do you intend to go tramping through ankle-deep mud?" Beatrice retorted, disgruntled. "We'll take the white, thank you, miss."

Isolde bit back a sigh. "If you'd already decided, why did you bother asking me?"

"Oh, hush. You can wear this dress for Vauxhall."

"White is certainly a bad choice, then."

Beatrice wasn't listening. She moved off to talk to the modiste – a woman who introduced herself as Mademoiselle Vert, whose strong French accent kept slipping, and who Isolde would bet her fortune had never even been to Paris.

Not that it mattered. The woman made excellent dresses and was a popular London modiste for a reason. Beatrice had decided that Isolde needed a new dress, and so a new dress she would have.

With her mother distracted over various bolts of fabric, Isolde had a moment or two for herself. She was standing on the pedestal before the mirror, ready to have countless fabrics, ribbons, hunks of thread, and pieces of lace held up to gauge its effect on her complexion and colouring. And then there were the measurements, the arguments over style and cut, and the usual tug-of-war argument over a frothy, frilly dress (Beatrice's choice), and something more simple and practical (Isolde's choice). It would take hours.

Isolde's mind, however, was not on her new dress. She kept replaying the events of last night's literary salon in her mind.

As always, the meeting had stretched on into the night, the hours slipping away like minutes. Most of the company took turns to stand and address the others on the virtues of their chosen book. There were discussions, games, and even a few lectures. At times, there would be long periods of silence, during which they would browse the shelves, fetch more tea, or just read the books they'd brought.

It was delightfully peaceful, thrillingly loud, and perfectly controversial.

As soon as the literary evenings were over, Isolde found herself looking forward to the next one, and downcast that she would have to wait a little longer.

The viscount had been… well, she wasn't sure how to describe him.

Her worries about him embarrassing her after she'd vouched for him seemed almost laughable now. He'd been a delight. He'd stood up and talked about Pride and Prejudice, making the others laugh. His insights were good, clever, and real.

He'd even coaxed a smile out of serious Lord Bell, who'd gone around anxiously checking on the candles and fire all night, terrified of a blaze.

Maria had invited both the viscount and Lady Wrenwood for the next salon on their own merit and made no secret of expressing to Isolde how greatly she had admired the pair of them.

All of this left Isolde feeling… well, odd.

Sitting next to the viscount hadn't been the ordeal she'd half-expected. He was jovial and friendly, talkative and intelligent. Seeing how her friends reacted to him and liked him so much made Isolde feel that maybe – just maybe – she'd been wrong about his rakish ways.

A man who appreciated the Lady Author of Pride and Prejudice couldn't be all bad, could he?

Abruptly, Beatrice was at her side.

"Lord Raisin is outside," she said, a touch breathlessly. "I must warn you, Isolde, I intend to invite him for dinner tonight."

"Mama, no! Please."

"I won't hear it," she insisted. "He's a good man, and you ought to give him a proper chance. Wait here."

Before Isolde could say a word more, Beatrice was gone, scuttling out of the fitting room and leaving Isolde alone.

Not alone, actually. In the newfound silence, she could hear two of the modiste's assistants talking in low voices behind a red velvet curtain.

"That's her, is it not?"

"Shh! She'll hear."

Isolde considered coughing, or saying something, or simply moving away, so that the two women would know their conversation was not private.

Before she could do anything, the first woman spoke again.

"Oh, don't worry about it, ladies never hear a thing going on around them when there's ribbons and lace to look at. It's her, the Ice Queen. The woman the gossip columns are going mad over."

Isolde stiffened, breath catching in her throat.

"Pretty, isn't she?"

"Pretty enough, but not young enough," the first woman muttered. The clear sound of sharp scissors through silk filled the air. Isolde's hands fisted in the material of her skirts.

"I heard she's out to catch an earl."

"Nah, it's that viscount, the one with the bad reputation."

"Do you think they'll make a match of it?"

"I doubt it. She's too old and supposed to be a regular bluestocking."

"I've never been able to work out what's so wrong about that."

"Are you kidding? Gentlemen don't want clever wives, especially not wives clever enough to make them feel stupid. Ooh, stop talking, they're coming back."

The conversation ceased abruptly, and an instant later Isolde heard her mother's footsteps on the thick carpet.

"That's that, then," she said briskly. "Lord Raisin is coming for dinner tonight, Isolde, and I'll thank you to be as civil as you can to him."

Isolde knew now that the women on the other side of the curtain could hear them as clearly as they could hear her, and her face reddened.

"Mama, I don't intend to marry Lord Raisin. Truly, I don't."

Beatrice pressed her lips together. Abruptly, she grabbed her daughter's arm, pulling her down to whisper in her ear.

"Your reputation can't take much more. Between your reading, and your book clubs, and your determined spinsterhood, you're beginning to look like a laughingstock. I know you believe that nothing will ever change, that you're safe, but let me assure you that you are not. A woman's reputation is fragile, and just see what your life is like if you ruin it. Now, once again, I will tell you to think seriously about Lord Raisin's suit. You are not guaranteed to get another one like it."

Only silence came from the other side of the velvet curtain, but Isolde knew they were listening, hanging on to every word. She felt ill.

"Mama, please."

"Pray, no more pleas or conditions. The matter is resolved. Now, what colour ribbon did we decide on again? I really can't remember."

"White," Isolde answered automatically, staring at her reflection until her familiar face blurred.

***

"What excellent boiled potatoes, your Grace," Lord Raisin said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "Delicious."

Isolde choked back a laugh, turning it into a cough. Whoever said that the Lady Author's scenes and characters were caricatures of real life had clearly never experienced real life.

"Are you quite alright, Isolde?" Beatrice asked, shooting her a warning look. "Not choking, are you?"

"No, Mama," Isolde said meekly, putting all thoughts of Mr. Collins at the Bennets' dinner table from her mind. "Where is James tonight, by the way?"

"Oh, goodness only knows," Beatrice said, shooting a resigned look at her husband. "Some new club, I think. He certainly seems to be keen to catch up on everything he has missed."

"Your brother recently returned from a Grand Tour, I understand?" Lord Raisin enquired, taking a long sip of his wine.

"Yes, indeed. We missed him very much."

"I recall my Grand Tour. There was a particular event in… Paris, I think… or was it Italy? Venice? Perhaps…"

He began listing the places he'd visited, in mind-numbing detail, and Isolde stopped listening. She ate mechanically, clearing her plate, and drank more wine that she would generally take with dinner. It hardly seemed to matter, how much or how little she ate and drank. Nobody was looking at her.

Actually, that was not quite true. Lord Raisin was not looking at her, wrapped up as he was in his stories, but both Richard and Beatrice kept shooting quick, hopeful glances at Isolde.

The conversation she'd had with her mother at the modiste's came back in all its humiliating glory. She hadn't bothered to tell Beatrice about the eavesdropping assistants. She'd only make a fuss, and the knowledge couldn't exactly be purged from the women's minds. No doubt the whole place had been told about the event even before Isolde had left the building, and no doubt the story had gone further than that.

She glanced at Lord Raisin, who shot her a quick condescending smile.

"Now, Rome – which is, of course, the capital of Italy, Lady Isolde – was quite a remarkable place. There was one gentleman I met…"

She bit back a caustic remark. The huge dining room seemed to be pushing down on her, the ceiling descending and the walls closing in, and her parents' hopeful stares bored into her skin, making her itch.

She raised a hand, summoning a footman. Lord Raisin's story faltered, and he looked almost aghast at the interruption.

"More wine, please," Isolde said.