“I’ve never been able to work out what’s so wrong about that.”
“Are you kidding? Gentlemen don’t want clever wives, especially not wives clever enough to make them feel stupid. Ooh, stop talking, they’re coming back.”
The conversation ceased abruptly, and an instant later Isolde heard her mother’s footsteps on the thick carpet.
“That’s that, then,” she said briskly. “Lord Raisin is coming for dinner tonight, Isolde, and I’ll thank you to be as civil as you can to him.”
Isolde knew now that the women on the other side of the curtain could hear them as clearly as they could hear her, and her face reddened.
“Mama, I don’t intend to marry Lord Raisin. Truly, I don’t.”
Beatrice pressed her lips together. Abruptly, she grabbed her daughter’s arm, pulling her down to whisper in her ear.
“Your reputation can’t take much more. Between your reading, and your book clubs, and your determined spinsterhood, you’re beginning to look like a laughingstock. I know you believe that nothing will ever change, that you’re safe, but let me assure you that you are not. A woman’s reputation is fragile, and just see what your life is like if you ruin it. Now, once again, I will tell you to think seriously about Lord Raisin’s suit. You are not guaranteed to get another one like it.”
Only silence came from the other side of the velvet curtain, but Isolde knew they were listening, hanging on to every word. She felt ill.
“Mama, please.”
“Pray, no more pleas or conditions. The matter is resolved.Now, what colour ribbon did we decide on again? I really can’t remember.”
“White,” Isolde answered automatically, staring at her reflection until her familiar face blurred.
***
“What excellent boiled potatoes, your Grace,” Lord Raisin said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “Delicious.”
Isolde choked back a laugh, turning it into a cough. Whoever said that the Lady Author’s scenes and characters were caricatures of real life had clearly never experienced real life.
“Are you quite alright, Isolde?” Beatrice asked, shooting her a warning look. “Not choking, are you?”
“No, Mama,” Isolde said meekly, putting all thoughts of Mr. Collins at the Bennets’ dinner table from her mind. “Where is James tonight, by the way?”
“Oh, goodness only knows,” Beatrice said, shooting a resigned look at her husband. “Some new club, I think. He certainly seems to be keen to catch up on everything he has missed.”
“Your brother recently returned from a Grand Tour, I understand?” Lord Raisin enquired, taking a long sip of his wine.
“Yes, indeed. We missed him very much.”
“I recall my Grand Tour. There was a particular event in… Paris, I think… or was it Italy? Venice? Perhaps…”
He began listing the places he’d visited, in mind-numbing detail, and Isolde stopped listening. She ate mechanically, clearing her plate, and drank more wine that she would generally take with dinner. It hardly seemed to matter, how much or how little she ate and drank. Nobody was looking at her.
Actually, that was not quite true. Lord Raisin was not looking at her, wrapped up as he was in his stories, but bothRichard and Beatrice kept shooting quick, hopeful glances at Isolde.
The conversation she’d had with her mother at the modiste’s came back in all its humiliating glory. She hadn’t bothered to tell Beatrice about the eavesdropping assistants. She’d only make a fuss, and the knowledge couldn’t exactly be purged from the women’s minds. No doubt the whole place had been told about the event even before Isolde had left the building, and no doubt the story had gone further than that.
She glanced at Lord Raisin, who shot her a quick condescending smile.
“Now, Rome – which is, of course, the capital of Italy, Lady Isolde – was quite a remarkable place. There was one gentleman I met…”
She bit back a caustic remark. The huge dining room seemed to be pushing down on her, the ceiling descending and the walls closing in, and her parents’ hopeful stares bored into her skin, making her itch.
She raised a hand, summoning a footman. Lord Raisin’s story faltered, and he looked almost aghast at the interruption.
“More wine, please,” Isolde said.
Chapter Fifteen
