Then, limping slightly, he allowed himself to be guided back into the house, his governess hurrying to keep pace beside him.
Isla squared her shoulders, her eyes narrowing on the Duke. “You were too stern with him. He was only bein’ a child and asking questions. I meant what I said, it was nice to have someone take an interest instead of just starin’ like I am some pariah.”
“How I choose to treat my son is my business,Duchess,” he replied, his tone frigid.
Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode into the house, leaving Isla standing alone amongst the servants on the steps, the cool breeze ruffling her hair.
His dismissive words rang in her head as she remained frozen on the steps. She was shocked by his abruptness, the way he had so easily dismissed both her and his own son. Surely, he had been cold in their few interactions, but she expected more in this moment from the Duke. Moreover, she was rudderless without him in front of the vast manor, unsure of what to do and whom to seek out.
The Duke of Ealdwick was a most curious beast. One moment, he was a fierce, commanding presence, taking her hand; the next, a cold, unfeeling stranger.
I suppose I will have the rest of me life to figure me husband out…
A tall, older woman in a severe black gown and a crisp white apron stepped forward from the line of servants.
“Your Grace,” she said, her voice soft and proper. “I am Mrs. Callahan, the housekeeper. May I show you to your quarters and arrange for a tour of the manor and grounds after you have had time to freshen up?”
Isla tore her gaze from the spot where the Duke had disappeared. “Thank ye, Mrs. Callahan,” she said, her voice a little unsteady. “That would be most kind. Say, Callahan? Are ye from Ireland?”
“My husband’s side, Your Grace. I am as English as Buckingham Palace, and Mr. Callahan’s family moved to England in the late 1500’s.”
Well, there goes that common thread…
As they entered the manor, Isla’s eyes swept over the vast marble foyer, the white walls were adorned with portraits of solemn-faced ancestors and elaborate tapestries, and a grand staircase that seemed to climb to heaven itself. It was a beautiful home to rival any palace. Yet, Isla felt it was more like a museum, as if no one lived there. It made her long for Dalrigh Hall and its worn floors and echoing laughter.
Mrs. Callahan led her up the stairs and down a long corridor on the second floor.
“These are your chambers in the West Wing,” she announced, opening a heavy mahogany door with a gold knob. “They adjoin His Grace’s, with a door in-between.”
The room was a dream. She was instantly taken by the sheer space of it, how vast it was, and filled with elegant, gilded furniture. It was decorated in soft green fabrics, and alpine paintings adorned the walls. There was a large, white marble fireplace on the opposite end of the four-poster bed and a large set of windows with a vanity, settee, and desk.
Yet, for all its comforts, a pervading silence made it feel impersonal, as if one could hear a pin drop. She would need to send to Scotland for portraits of her family and other touches of home to make it her own.
A young woman with a pleasant, unassuming face stood by the hearth. “This is Margie, your lady’s maid,” Mrs. Callahan explained. “She will see to your personal needs. I will of course assist you with manners of the household.”
Margie curtsied deeply, and Isla offered her a small, kind smile. She could not be any more than seventeen years old. Mrs. Callahan gave one last, sweeping glance of the room and a nod before leaving them alone.
“Miss Margie, would ye mind helpin’ me out of this gown? It feels rather restrictive,” Isla said. “The weddin’ ceremony, and then the carriage ride… I am desperate to relax!”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Margie nodded and got to work, her hands efficient as she undid dozens of tiny buttons. As she finally unlaced the stays, Isla took a deep, shuddering breath of relief.
“Thank ye,” she said, stretching her shoulders. “And please, just call me Isla when we are in private.”
Margie’s lips thinned into a fine line, but she did not reply. Instead, she pointed to a door leading to a separate dressing room. “I will draw you a hot bath, your grace. Would you like lavender or pine salts?”
“Aye, pine would be great. I am quite taken with the beauty of the manor this time of year, and cannae wait to see it dusted with snow.”
“It truly is a sight!” Margie said with a small clap of her hands.
“Aye, that is somethin’ to look forward to. Could I also trouble ye for a hot cup of tea?”
“But of course, Your Grace,” Margie said as she set off to procure a cup.
Margie returned with tea and made quick work. Before Isla knew it, she was lowering herself into an oversized teak tub in a lovely bathroom adjoining her room. She savored the steaming water and aromatic salts that soothed her aching bones. She had not realized just how stiff her muscles were, not only from the travel but also from the tension she held inside.
She grabbed a bar of fresh soap from a side table, which also held foreign fineries, such as serums, oils, and powders, that Isla could only imagine uses for. As she ran the bar over her skin, she felt relaxed, washing her body slowly and taking time to savor it. She grabbed a cup of fresh water from a nearby basin and rinsed herself, lowering her body under the water and holding her breath one last time.
