42. Chapter 42

Chapter 42

"Time, as it grows old, teaches all things." Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound "I’m going with you," Lady Filipa said, holding the mirror so Isabel could apply rouge to her face. "You can’t face the Catholic ladies alone."

When Isabel inspected the results, her shoulders sagged. The two red circles above her cheeks made her pallor more noticeable.

Isabel put the makeup away. "No. It would taint you if you stood by me now. I won’t allow you to be ruined."

Even with all the windows closed, a chillness pervaded her bedchamber. The chests lined up to cart her belongings made the once cheerful space gloomy.

Philipa lowered the mirror to the dressing table and smoothed her lavender gown. Dressed in mourning tones and with her hair pulled up unmercifully from her circular face, she seemed older than her twenty-two years. Was it Isabel’s fault she had matured before her time? Her impossible demands of morality? And all for what?

Philipa bit her lip. "If I had gone with you, I would’ve prevented you from—"

"Falling in love?" Isabel doubted. Henrique and her were like torero and toro, racing on the opposite sides of an arena. The impact had been fated. And if she was honest with herself, she didn’t regret meeting him and being privy to his brilliance and outrageous humor. She could not regret allowing him to see her without her carapace. And she couldn’t regret the memories of the tower. No, those she would keep to warm her during the long, cold winters in Bavaria.

Sighing, Philipa leaned closer, and a new light appeared in her caramel eyes. "Do you think you might forget him?"

"I don’t know." So far, she had failed miserably.

She had tried to forget him when she was angry. She tried to forget him when she was sad. She tried when despondent, when irritable, when frustrated, when irrational... She didn’t try it when happy... The occasion didn’t present itself. Since she left the tower, happiness had been elusive.

With the suaveness of a raging bull, he had hacked a place inside her chest. The cavity was only furnished by his presence. In fact, it was only lit, aired, perfumed, adorned, and filled with laughter when he was near. When he was far, it was empty. And the emptiness hurt.

"It is time." Anne Daun glided inside, a confident smile lighting up her face.

Isabel embraced her friend. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Anne nodded. "My husband’s reputation is enough to scare even the most prudish matron, dear. I won’t leave your side."

Isabel nodded, her throat clogged with tears. Together, they moved to the morning room. Midway, she paused, her stomach churning.

She should have canceled the Catholic Ladies’ gathering. Her ears burned, and she feared she was not strong enough to face the disapproval lined in their eyes.

Anne pressed her hand and gave her a firm nod.

When the footman opened the door, the conversation skittered to a halt. The gloomy day made the blue silk covering the walls a sickly gray. The candelabra was unlit, casting spider-like shadows over the assembly. At least the fear that the women would not appear had been unfounded. The room was crowded.

All her other fears were genuine. The ladies had dressed in black, with mantillas hiding their hair. Murmured disapproval rose in waves and circled the room.

The austerity would have pleased Isabel before. Now, more than the shame at their resentful stares, she felt sorry. Sorry for making it fashionable to reside inside a carapace. Never realizing the carapace brought no protection, no contentment, just a self-inflicted restriction that strangled happiness and true freedom. All her life, she had wanted to be an example for women, and now that she knew the kind of role model she wished to be, she had become a pariah. Mothers would turn her story into a cautionary tale, forcing young ladies further into their carapaces.

Their agenda for the meeting was to increase the orphanage’s funding. Still, when the Duchess of Beira rose, requesting permission to speak, Isabel knew the reprimands would start and cringed at the disgust written on the older woman’s harsh features.

Before the duchess could utter the first disparaging comment, the door opened. All seats were occupied. Who might it be?

Luis entered the room, his marshal’s uniform gleaming as if illuminated by an inner light. The crowd hushed.

He was so handsome when he wanted to be, so regal. He strode across the room and stood behind Isabel. The doors were flung open, and several courtiers, diplomats, and ministers thronged the space. Even the queen and her Italian retinue came. The women tittered in their seats as if they needed to go to the water closet, sighs of admiration bursting from their parted lips.

A heavy hand, her brother’s hand, settled over her shoulder. It was all she could do not to crumble. Slowly, she realized what he came to do, and she sagged against the chair, glad for the layers of whalebone and stiff cloth holding her upright.

His voice rose in the most pleasant bass, and he spoke strong words like ’mistake, above reproach, vouch for her reputation, our very own hero’. If it all sounded a little farcical, she guessed it was only to her practiced ears. The ladies in the room sighed and glanced at her at all the appropriate pauses.

Luis’ peeked at the door. She looked in the same direction, and there she saw him. Just a flash, but he was there. Henrique. Her heart halted for five seconds and then squished painfully. She didn’t expect to see him again, and there he was, more handsome than Zeus.

The king stopped speaking. The room burst into applause. In a trance, Isabel allowed her brother to pull her to her feet.

Isabel pressed his hand. "Thank you."

He kissed her cheek and bowed, then moved back graciously. The Duchess of Beira hugged her, and a queue of courtiers awaited to congratulate her.

She had come full circle from a persona non grata to a national hero, yet she could not muster the will to care. All that mattered was reaching the brooding male at the fringes of the salon.

Isabel went to her toes and started to make way among the crush of people, absently nodding and smiling. When she finally arrived at the door, he was no longer there.