“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 darlinggirl. 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.”
