Chapter 14

Chapter 14

The chamber Iseabal had been given was lovely, but not as lavishly decorated as the public rooms of Brandidge Hall.

Directly opposite the four-poster bed swathed in yellow silk was the focal point of the room, a large mullioned window stretching from floor to ceiling.

Iseabal stood staring out at the view of rolling hills and lush green grass. There was nothing about the vista before her that was out of place. No sheep marred the thick meadows; the trees were large and majestic. A faint haze appeared in the distance as if God Himself had placed a foggy blanket over England so that she might sleep secure.

She didn't belong here, a feeling accentuated by the torpid descent of twilight. In Scotland, night came with a protest, wild slashes of orange and red appearing against the darkening sky as if the sun feared it would never come again.

In Scotland, vows were made and honored.

Turning away from the window, Iseabal walked back to the bed. The first time in a week she would have a solitary place in which to sleep, unburdened by the presence of another. For the first time in a week, Alisdair would not be forced to sleep on the floor.

Her hand slid over the counterpane, noting the fine quality of the fabric. A great deal of expense had gone into making the residents of Brandidge Hall comfortable. Not like her own home, in which repairs were grudgingly made and sparingly done.

The maid had spread her clothing on the bed, as if she had a selection from which to choose. Undressing, Iseabal gently folded each garment and placed it back in her trunk.

After washing, she dressed again, this time in a petticoat of tan with a pale blue ribbon hem. Topping it were her blue jacket and a necklace of stones graduated in color and in size, strung together with a thin gold wire. She had found the necklace among the ruins of Gilmuir and considered it her greatest treasure.

Her fingers trailed from stone to stone, each one of them in a shade of blue from the color of Scotland's skies to the exact tint of the MacRae's eyes.

Glancing at herself quickly in the mirror, Iseabal noted the paleness of her cheeks. Her eyes looked too large for her face, and her lips almost bloodless.

A knock on the door was an imperious summons to dinner.

There was no footman on the other side of the door to escort her downstairs. Nor was it Alisdair standing there. Instead, the Countess of Sherbourne tapped at the bottom of the door impatiently with the tip of her cane.

Iseabal stood back and watched as Patricia entered, along with five servants, each bearing an object of clothing or a small chest.

"We've come to ready you for dinner, my dear," she said, smiling brightly. Her glance surveyed Iseabal, leaving her with the feeling that the countess disapproved of her attire.

Patricia sat on one of the chairs beside the large window, tapping her cane in a wordless signal. Two maids came forward, each intent on unfastening an article of Iseabal's clothing.

She brushed them away, and they glanced back at Patricia, who nodded in another signal, this one, evidently, to continue.

Iseabal stepped back against the wall, trapped between the armoire and the bed table, hands crossed over her chest.

"Your attire is quite lovely," Patricia said, "but not appropriate for the bride of the Earl of Sherbourne, my dear."

Iseabal stared at the older woman, uncertain as to what to say.

For a moment Patricia studied her, then raised the tip of her cane. Evidently, Iseabal thought almost frantically, each of her gestures was part of some secret language.

A woman of middle years came forward, a stack of clothing folded over one arm.

"The green one, I think, Jenny," Patricia said.

The garments were placed on the bed and again the two maids approached her. When one of the maids began to pull up her petticoat, Iseabal slapped her hand away and jerked the garment out of her reach.

"No," she said. "I appreciate your kindness, but I truly wish to wear my own clothing."

Again that silent nod. The door opened, and the maids slipped out of the room, leaving Patricia and Iseabal alone.

"Did I misunderstand, Iseabal?" Patricia asked, her voice taking on a cool tone. "Do you truly wish your marriage to be dissolved?"

"No," Iseabal admitted quietly.

"Then why have you done nothing to convince Alisdair otherwise? Pride is a foolish emotion, Iseabal. I spent a great many years being miserable, my dear. I was married to a man I desperately loved, yet was afraid to tell him so. Or," she said reflectively, "to demand the same of him."

Patricia smiled at Iseabal's silence. "Do you deny you feel affection for my grandson?"

What she felt was stronger than yearning, deeper than curiosity, yet Iseabal couldn't define it exactly. Perhaps it was affection, or something more.

"It is not a question of pride," she replied quietly. "Alisdair wants this annulment. He feels forced into our marriage."

"Was he?" Patricia asked, her gaze never leaving Iseabal's face.

"Yes," Iseabal answered simply. "He wanted Gilmuir; my father wanted a fortune."

Patricia's eyebrows rose. "And what did you want?"

"Does that matter?" Iseabal asked, unexpectedly amused. "My wishes are not capable of swaying either man."

"A man's pride is a brittle thing, my dear," Patricia said gently. "It breaks rather than bends. I am not surprised that Alisdair got his feathers ruffled at being forced to marry."

Iseabal doubted it was as simple a matter as his pride.

Patricia made an impatient sound. "Sometimes people are mismatched and refuse to admit it, or they're perfect for each other and cannot recognize that fact." She tapped her cane on the floor as if to accentuate her point.

Then she glanced over at Iseabal, her eyes twinkling. "There are simply times when a woman must take a man's hand and lead him where she wishes. Get his attention, at least."

"I don't know what you mean," Iseabal said truthfully.

"I know you don't, my dear. But if you'll call the others inside, we'll show you," Patricia said, waving toward the door.

Over the next hour, Iseabal was prodded and pushed, her hair curled into absurd ringlets that were pinned at the crown of her head in an elaborate style. But the greatest indignity, Iseabal thought, was when her clothing was stripped from her as if they were rags and tossed to the bed, replaced by a garment from the countess's closet.

"I will agree it is not the latest fashion, my dear," Patricia said as Iseabal stared, dismayed, at the dipping bodice. "But it reveals a woman's figure."

The dress was of a deep emerald shade, the skirt draping in large swags over an underskirt of a lighter shade of green. But what material was used in the skirt was startlingly lacking above the waist.

The bodice of the dress fit tightly, leaving no room for her stays.

"What is that?" Patricia asked, pointing to her wrapping.

"A bandage," Iseabal answered, telling the other woman of her fall into the foundations.

"Very well," Patricia said, frowning, "I suppose it will have to remain. But your shift ruins the lines of the dress."

"I'll be naked," Iseabal said, beginning to panic. She couldn't appear at dinner with only the wrapping between the dress and her skin.

Patricia ignored her.

A tall, narrow-faced woman approached Iseabal, jerked down on the bodice until the tops of her breasts appeared like two round eggs sitting on a nest. She stared at herself in horror.

"I think we'll leave her hair unpowdered," Patricia said, waving away another woman bearing a box of powder and a paper cone. "But perhaps the smallest tint of rouge to her cheeks and her lips would not be amiss."

Iseabal shook her head, but her protest was disregarded.

Stepping forward, a maid opened the small mahogany chest she held, revealing a selection of jewels sparkling in the candlelight.

Wide-eyed, Iseabal turned to her hostess. "I can't wear any of these," she protested.

Patricia nodded. "Perhaps you're right, my dear. Your bosom will serve as a point of interest."

Finally she was done and being turned in the direction of a pier glass. Startled, Iseabal gazed at the woman reflected there.

Not Iseabal Drummond, modest and neat, but another female with ivory skin and an overflowing bosom even now turning pink with embarrassment. Her coloring seemed too vivid against the emerald fabric, her lips red, her eyes too deep a green.

And her hair. What had they done to her hair? Riotous curls were tucked into a torturous style, held aloft by pins that gouged her scalp. Even the slippers she wore, sewn around her feet by one maid as another burned her hair into place with smoldering tongs, seemed too tight and uncomfortable to wear.

The room fell silent as they waited for her reaction. No doubt they expected rapturous delight and overflowing thanks, Iseabal thought, unable to look away from the spectacle of herself.

"I'm without words," she said, speaking candidly. But it seemed to please them, because she was suddenly overwhelmed by the chatter of six women, all of whom were congratulating themselves on the success of her transformation.

She wanted herself back. Not the Iseabal who had stood before her father biting back words, nor the one who had silently married a stranger. Nor did she want to be the woman she had been on the voyage here. Instead, she wished for the girl who escaped from Fernleigh when she could, who conspired with a stable boy for freedom. The Iseabal who explored Gilmuir and dreamed of past glories, or of creating a masterpiece from stone.

Not this woman, laced and curled and painted to resemble someone else. Her hair was stiff with pomade, her face felt dry and powdery, but the Countess of Sherbourne smiled at her in approval.

"Let us go down to dinner, my dear," Patricia urged.

One last, disbelieving look toward the mirror made Iseabal recognize one simple truth. She had never been good enough for anyone. Not for her father, not for the Countess of Sherbourne, and certainly not for Alisdair MacRae.

There in the mirror stood a caricature, neither the woman she wanted to be nor the silent and acquiescent person she'd always shown the world.

Iseabal had never been as miserable as she felt at this moment. Or as angry.