Isolde had hoped fervently that the rain would make Lord Raisin cry off.
She was to be disappointed.
It had rained at breakfast, having rained all night, and the rain seemed set to continue all day.
And yet, here was the wretched man, beaming up at her from the hallway, water dripping from his many-caped driving coat onto the floor.
“Lord Raisin,” Isolde managed, “I didn’t expect you. Is it not too wet for Kew Gardens?”
“Not at all, not at all! I have brought the curricle, you see. It has a hooded top, and we’ll be quite dry, I tell you, quite dry!”
Isolde wondered whether to point out that he was soaking wet, indicating that the curricle did not provide quite as much protection as he promised. She descended the rest of the stairs, standing awkwardly in the hallway. The drip-drip-drip of Lord Raisin’s wet coat echoed louder than she could have thought possible.
Beatrice rescued them. The drawing-room door inched open, and the lady peered out.
“Oh, Lord Raisin, here you are! Why don’t you step in…” she trailed off, gaze dropping to the growing pool of water around his feet. “Oh. Perhaps not.”
“Mama, is it not too wet for Kew Gardens?” she tried desperately.
Beatrice wavered, glancing briefly at Lord Raisin’s damp clothes, and then to the pattering of rain on the window outside.
She swallowed hard. “Well, I’m not sure…”
“You are not composed of sugar, Lady Isolde," Lord Raisin chuckled, his voice light and teasing. "Surely, you shall notdissolve in the rain. Unless..." He leaned a fraction nearer, an expression of playful mischief illuminating his features, "...unless, perchance, you are indeed fashioned from sugar and other such delectable confections.”
Isolde cringed. “Mama?”
Beatrice drew in a breath, venturing out of the doorway altogether. She avoided Isolde’s eye, a sure sign that her verdict was not going to be a good one.
“I think that the rain is getting a little lighter,” she said, voice forced and breezy. “Go on, Isolde, some fresh air will do you good and a maid will accompany you as chaperone”
Isolde glared at her mother. Beatrice stared back, smiling innocently.
“What luck I have!” Lord Raisin beamed, actually clapping his hands together. “I shall let you get dressed for our outing, Lady Isolde, and we shall be off!”
Isolde, who was already dressed for the outing, went stamping back upstairs.
“Don’t be long, dear,” Beatrice called up after her, sounding vaguely desperate. “If you take too long, the rain will set in again.”
To highlight her words, a gale rocked against the house, rattling the windows. Groaning aloud, Isolde put her head down and ran faster up the stairs.
She would need her heavy-duty bonnet, and thickest coat.
And boots. Good ones.
***
The rain lashed down, dripping from the roof of the curricle, and directly onto Isolde’s lap.
She huddled down further into her thick cloak, hands shoved deep in her gloves.
“Not too bad at all, eh, Lady Isolde?” Lord Raisin shoutedabove the buffeting wind, narrowly manoeuvring the vehicle around a tight bend. “Pity we can’t see much.”
That was an understatement. The rain formed a grey haze in the distance, blurring the scenery and purplish hills. There was, of course, no prospect of getting out and looking at anything, certainly no walking around. The dirt path was mostly mud by now, rutted and dimpled by the few vehicles willing to risk the rain. Huge puddles gaped across their way, and more than once the curricle lurched so violently that Isolde was sure that she would be thrown out.
“I am rather cold, sir,” she managed at last, clutching onto the side of the curricle for dear life. “Do you think we could head for home, perhaps?”
Lord Raisin shot her an annoyed look. “Very well, very well! I’d say it’s bracing more than anything. But if you are cold, Lady Isolde, we shall return.”
