Chapter Seven

Pride and Prejudice was not captivating Isolde as it had before. Oh, the writing was just as fascinating as always, the characters unchanged, but her mind was whirling too hard to allow her to think of anything on the pages.

Isolde had decided to read in the drawing room, instead of the library, in hopes of spending more time with James. She was disappointed, however – James had gone out somewhere or other, enjoying the freedom that gentlemen took for granted.

And so, Isolde was alone. The peace and quiet was just starting to settle into her bones, and the antics of Elizabeth Bennet were beginning to entrance her again when the door banged open, making her jump.

"There you are, Izzy," Beatrice announced, striding into the room. She smoothed out her bodice, a sure sign that she was out of sorts. "I looked for you everywhere, and here you are now, hiding on the window seat.

"Hardly hiding, Mama," Isolde remarked. "What is it?"

Beatrice hesitated, nibbling on her lower lip. "I have reason to expect a visitor today."

"Oh?" Isolde's attention was already wavering, drifting back to her book.

"For you, in fact. A gentleman."

Isolde closed her book with a snap, louder than she'd intended. Beatrice narrowed her eyes but did not speak.

"I don't want to meet with any gentlemen, Mama."

"It's Lord Raisin."

"Of course it is," Isolde muttered. "I don't want to see him, Mama."

Beatrice's jaw tightened. "It's a little late for that. His carriage is already coming down the street."

"Then tell him I'm not at home, or indisposed, or…"

"Enough of this nonsense, Isolde," Beatrice interrupted. She crossed the room, plucking the closed book out of Isolde's hands, and sat beside her. "Your father and I have indulged you long enough."

Isolde bit her lip, looking away. "What is that meant to mean?"

"It means that you have known nothing but love and kindness, and you are entirely oblivious to the way the world works."

"Are you sure? Are you sure I am so sheltered, Mama?"

Beatrice looked away abruptly. The day outside was grey and rainy, lazy drops making their way down the glass. Isolde could hear the distant clatter of carriage wheels on wet cobbles, no doubt heralding the arrival of the unwanted guest.

"I am not speaking of my sister," Beatrice said quietly. "I am speaking of friends I knew in the past, who chose to remain single or became spinsters out of no fault of their own. Women who lived lonely lives, regretting their choices or the way their lives worked out. I have seen their misery, and I do not, do not want that for you. You won't end up poor, like some of my unfortunate friends, but what will you do when your Papa and I are gone? When James marries, and fills his house with children? This will always be your home, but it may not always feel like you home."

Isolde swallowed hard. "Are you saying, Mama, that a woman cannot be happy unless she has a husband and children?"

"Of course I am not saying that. I am saying that the world we live in is designed to force women into matrimony and motherhood, and the penalty for defying these rules is serious indeed. The law does not favour the rights of women, my darling girl. Just because your Papa and James treat you as an equal does not mean that you can expect the same treatment from the rest of the world."

Isolde broke away, pacing across the room. "Do you think I don't know this, Mama?"

"I think you do not understand. The majority of your father's money is attached to the estate – you will get none of it, besides your dowry. I don't want you to feel left behind, my darling girl."

Isolde squeezed her eyes closed. She'd known, of course, that James would have to marry, but his bride was always faceless and generally pleasant, nobody to really notice. But that woman would be the Duchess of Belbrooke. What if she didn't want Isolde there? What if Isolde felt as though she were intruding? James would never throw her out, of course he wouldn't, but what fate lay in store of her? Would she have to go to the Dower House with her mother? Would she be an embarrassment of the family, the unmarried sister, the old aunt who was once a beautiful success.

Stop.

"I cannot force myself to marry a man I don't care for," Isolde said at last. Downstairs, the heavy doorknocker rapped several times.

"I know," Beatrice sighed. "But learning to care for a man takes times, my dear. You will see Lord Raisin today, and you will be civil. Do you hear me?"

Isolde knew her mother well enough to know when to argue and when to keep silent. She pressed her lips together, and nodded.

There was just enough time to arrange themselves on the chairs in front of the fire – Beatrice directed Isolde towards the two-seater sofa, leaving half of it spare for Lord Raisin himself – before there was a knock at the door, and a footman peered in.

"Lord George Raisin, your Grace."

The man in question stepped in, beaming. Isolde forced a tight smile.

"Lord Raisin, what a pleasure," Beatrice said, rising to her feet. "Take a seat here, beside Isolde. I'll ring for tea directly."

Isolde might have known that her mother would not be helpful.

Beatrice sat in an armchair by the fire, apparently diligently occupied in her embroidery. That left Isolde with the sole occupation of entertaining Lord Raisin.

"I might as well say," he began, helping himself to another biscuit, "that I read that scandalous article about Viscount Henley and yourself. Do not worry, I give it no credence at all."

Isolde smiled weakly. "Thank you," she murmured. "It was not true."

"You are far too sensible a lady to chase after such a shocking rake, I think. The writer of that gossip column ought to be imprisoned for treason."

Isolde privately thought that an imprisonment was a little harsh, but kept her opinions to herself.

"I believe you are attending a garden party at the Camden estate this evening, is that so?"

She swallowed, glancing over at Beatrice. Her mother pointedly did not meet her eye.

"I hadn't been told," Isolde began, but Beatrice hastily interjected.

"Yes, darling, tonight, at five o'clock. We shall see the sun setting, no doubt."

"No doubt," Isolde echoed. So, this was how things would go now. She was going to be tricked and manipulated into social events. Lovely.

"Lady Wrenwood does host such remarkable events," George sighed, shaking his head. "I was quite desolated not to receive an invite. I suppose you've heard of the latest scandal in the Camden household? Lord Auric Wrenwood is said to be…"

"We're understandably distrustful of gossip at the moment, Lord Raisin," Beatrice interrupted neatly, not glancing up from her embroidery. "Since the scandal sheets print such lies about us, we must distrust any gossip we hear."

That was a little harsh, in Isolde's opinion, but she had already heard enough about Lord Wrenwood. He was said to be a violent man, a cruel husband and a worse father.

Something clicked in her mind, a connection amongst the endless members of the Ton.

"Lord Wrenwood is Viscount Henley's father, isn't it?" Isolde heard herself say.

George looked deeply displeased. "Well, yes, but I'm not sure why you would like to discuss that man after what has happened."

Isolde resisted the urge to point out that nothing had happened, but George was already launching into another subject, pointedly asking Isolde's opinion on the matter.

She was obliged to answer, and the hands on the clock crawled round until exactly fifteen minutes had gone past. Almost to the second, Lord Raisin rose, smoothing down his waistcoat and flashing a self-indulgent smile.

"Since we shall not see each other tonight, Lady Isolde, perhaps I could request the pleasure of your company in Kew Gardens, perhaps in three days' time?"

Heavens, no, were the first words that popped into Isolde's head. She opened her mouth, ready to make a polite demurral, but then noticed Beatrice's expression.

It was a warning, pure and simple.

Isolde bit the tip of her tongue.

"Very well, Lord Raisin," she managed. Not the most gracious of acceptances, but it was an acceptance, nonetheless. The anxiety drained from Beatrice's face, and she gave an approving smile.

George beamed and bowed low over her hand.

"Until then, Lady Isolde. Your Grace, good day."

And then he was gone, humming under his breath as he bustled out.

Isolde stayed silent until the door had closed behind him. She longed to go to the window, to watch him leave, but he might see her at the window and draw his own conclusions.

"He is not a bad man, you know," Beatrice said quietly. "There are men in the world like Lord Auric Wrenwood, but George would not give you a life like that."

"I'm not saying he is a bad man, only…"

"He's pursued you through several Seasons. Does he not deserve a chance?"

Isolde turned her back. "Persistence is not love, Mama. One can't earn a person."

"The Marriage Mart would disagree. If you marry Lord Raisin, you'll be safe and happy forever. Safe, happy, and respectable."

"But at what cost?"

Beatrice bit off the end of her thread, holding up her embroidery for inspection.

"One could say the same about insisting on staying single. Isolde, as your mother, I must insist that you accept Lord Raisin's attentions. Your Papa and I won't force you to marry, but the time has come to think seriously about your prospects, do you hear?"

"I hear, Mama."

"And you are going to Lady Wrenwood's party tonight."

A prickle went down Isolde's spine. "Won't Viscount Henley be there?"

"It's possible," Beatrice acknowledged. "Lord Wrenwood will likely not be in attendance – he's known to avoid these things – but he is the viscount's father, and Lady Wrenwood is his stepmother. But you are going, all the same. Show the Ton you have nothing to be ashamed of."

She said it in a way that brooked no argument, so Isolde didn't even bother.

*********

The Camden estate was certainly an impressive one. Isolde hung out of the carriage window in a distinctly unladylike fashion, watching the scenery flash by.

"Isolde, settle down," Beatrice scolded, adjusting her shawl. Richard slumped in the corner of the carriage, looking miserable, and James sat beside him.

There was an air of tension in the carriage. It would be the first time Isolde had gone into Society after that wretched scandal sheet.

Perhaps it won't be that bad, she thought, climbing out of the carriage, perhaps nobody really read it, or gave it any credit.

Then a gaggle of debutantes passed by, clutching glasses of weak punch, and all gasped in unison. They pressed silk-gloved fingers to their mouths, eyes wide, glancing at each other. On cue, a portly matron appeared – the mother of one of the girls, no doubt – and hustled them away, shooting a hard look in Isolde's direction.

"Oh, dear," Beatrice sighed. "Isolde, you must weather this."

"I know, Mama, I know."

They made their way around the side of the house, following a wide, smoothly paved pathway, opening out into a large, neatly fenced garden. It was a well-manicured place, with delicate flower beds and waist-high hedge mazes, gravel paths weaving through the shrubs and bushes. A circular courtyard stood in front of the French doors, with tables and chairs set out, and footmen waiting by the side of the house with trays of drinks and refreshments.

People were scattered all over the garden, clustered together in little knots, talking and laughing and drinking champagne.

When eyes turned towards Isolde, the smiles faded. In some cases, however, the smiles widened, and were hidden behind hands. She kept her head high and her chin tilted up, trying not to listen to the whispers springing up behind her.

They stepped onto the paved area, the four of them standing close together, and a little pocket of space opened up around them. A lump rose to Isolde's throat.

It's like I have a contagious disease, she thought, an ache lodging behind her eyes.

At that moment, Lady Wrenwood saw them, and hurried their way.

"Your Graces!" She greeted, all smiles. "And Lord James, and Lady Isolde! Welcome, welcome."

Lady Wrenwood was an elegant woman of middle years, a well-liked, genial woman who was considered remarkably kind and pleasant despite her dragon of a husband. She shook hands with them all and leaned forward to whisper in Isolde's ear.

"I read that article about you, Lady Isolde, and I was thoroughly shocked. Nobody of sense would give it credit, of course, but there are always some fools that believe everything they read."

The ache in Isolde's head got worse. She forced a smile. "Thank you, Lady Wrenwood."

The woman gave her a reassuring smile. "I won't have any comments made about my guests in my own home, Lady Isolde. If there is any impertinence, let me know immediately."

Isolde managed to keep her face serene. Lady Wrenwood wouldn't allow anyone to be unkind to Isolde during the party, but she couldn't force people to speak to her.

"We'll stay with you all afternoon," Beatrice whispered, once their hostess had moved away.

"No, Mama. I'll be fine."

Frankly, the idea of being flanked by her family while everybody else whispered was sickening to Isolde. She would much rather be by herself. Then the whispers would only be for her.

"I'll be fine," Isolde repeated, and then spotted a familiar face in the corner. Her heart leapt. "Look, there's Viola. I shall take my leave to converse with her."

Before Beatrice could protest, Isolde hurried across a raked gravel path to a cluster of rosebuds by the bordering wall. Sure enough, Viola stood there alone, inspecting a half-blown pink bloom.

"Are you permitted to talk to me, after my scandal?" Isolde remarked, standing next to her friend.

Viola smiled wryly. "If anything, my mother secretly admires you for making a play for the Viscount."

"I am not making a play for him."

Viola shrugged. "It hardly matters. All of Society thinks that you are, so you might as well try."

Isolde's cheeks burned. "How many times must I say it? I'm content to be single."

"People change, Isolde. The window for women closes rapidly, you know. In a year or two you'll be considered ineligible for all but the oldest bachelors, and what if you change your mind about marriage then?"

"Oh, what if, what if. I grow weary of such musings. I shall not jeopardize my happiness on a gentleman who may prove to be akin to… to… to Lord Wrenwood," she whispered, her voice descending to a near hush.

Viola bit her lip. "Lady Wrenwood went into her marriage with her eyes open. By all accounts, she needed a rich man to settle her late husband's debts, and she got one. And she got the consequences that came with it." She sniffed, turning away from the roses. "We all must face the consequences of our actions."

Isolde frowned. "What are you talking about? Has something upset you?"

"No, no, not at all. I hear that Lord Raisin called on you today. How did that go?"

Isolde opened her mouth, intending to ask where Viola had heard that, but decided against it.

"Mama wants me to marry him, I think," she muttered. "I can't."

Viola sighed. "You ought to think about your future, you know."

"Ugh. That's what Mama said. I don't want to marry, Viola, and nobody will change my mind on that matter."

They walked together, following the downward slope of the garden towards the house. Laughter and chatter rose up around them. A few snide looks were thrown Isolde's way, and the whispers reappeared. She clenched her jaw and tried her best to ignore it. There would be whispers, at least until some new scandal happened for everybody to talk about.

Not that Isolde's dance with Viscount Henley was a scandal. It was just a dance, and if everybody had been concerned with minding their own businesses and talking to their own friends, instead of imputing motives to the Viscount and her, then perhaps…

"Oh, lord," Viola breathed, stopping dead and grabbing Isolde's arm. "He is here, after all."

Isolde opened her mouth to ask who he was, but the words died on her lips.

A tall, masculine figure strolled out of the open French doors, glistening Hessians making no sound on the well-swept courtyard.

Viscount Henley paused, hand on one hip, and surveyed the gathering. He was wearing a pale green suit with a shockingly blasé cravat, not exactly suitable for a garden party.

He did not appear to care. His gaze raked through the crowd, missing nothing. Isolde shrank back, even though she was fairly sure she was too far away from the courtyard for him to see her properly. And there was a statue in the way.

"I shouldn't have come," Isolde groaned. "If I speak to him, everybody will talk about it. If I don't speak to him, everybody will draw conclusions about that, too. I just want this whole thing to die."

"Well, it won't die, not yet, at least. And you can't stay up here all evening," Viola pointed out pragmatically. "Come, let's go down together."