thirty-two
Isabella couldn’t summon much enthusiasm about the imminent journey, and she didn’t understand why.
Travelling and seeing the Mediterranean Sea and its flora had always been one of her dreams. It was summer, and the weather had to be lovely on Mytos. Yet an endless fatigue weighed her down, sucking her enthusiasm. Lawson had efficiently packed everything, stashing light-coloured gowns, parasols, and pretty large hats while Isabella finished a letter for Patrick. She’d postponed writing to him for too long, but he had the right to know what had happened. Although she didn’t want Patrick to say anything to Anthony. That was her duty.
Her parents were drowning her in letters although they didn’t know the truth. Only that she’d been sick. They’d wanted to return to London, but she’d persuaded them not to. She loved them, but they could be exhausting, and she was leaving, anyway.
Lawson served her a cup of tea. “Everything is ready, madam.”
“Except my mood. Why do I feel so tired all the time?”
“Because you think too much about what happened. The duke is right. Fresh air and sunlight will do you good.”
There was a knock on the door. “Your Grace, Lady Helen is here.”
Not even her sister’s visits had helped her feel better. Besides, like her parents, Helen didn’t know the whole truth. Only that a disease had caused Isabella to stay in bed for a while. Time had changed since the Dowager had married, but miscarriages were still little understood.
Helen walked in, stunning in a tight blue gown that exalted her curves. Her cheeks were full and rosy, and her hair shone with a glossy hue. She seemed taller and stronger than usual, even happier.
Isabella caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. She looked like the elder sister, aged badly after a bout of cholera.
“I’m so excited for you.” Helen kissed her cheek. “An Ionian island. You must be thrilled.”
She searched for a free chair for Helen, but aside from the stool at her escritoire, the room was crowded with boxes, trunks, and opened suitcases. “We can have tea in the sitting room.”
“Do not worry. Don’t stand on ceremony for me. We can have tea here.” Helen sat at the escritoire in a froth of fabric.
Lawson bowed before leaving.
“How are you and the duke?” Helen asked, tugging at her gloves.
“I’m all right. He’s wonderful. He does everything he can to make me happy.”
“It doesn’t seem to work. You’re awfully pale.”
“You look lovely.”
Helen laughed, a deep, throaty laugh Isabella didn’t remember having ever heard. “I’m so glad I didn’t go to Boston. Since Mother left—” Her laughter died swiftly. “Sorry. How awful of me. I mean…”
She took Helen’s hand. “Don’t apologise for being happy.”
Lawson returned. “I’m sorry to trouble you, madam, but Mrs. Stamell wants to know what Cook should prepare for tonight’s dinner instead of the salmon. She couldn’t find fresh fish at the market.”
“Excuse me for a moment, Helen.” Isabella left the bedroom.
She wasn’t sure she enjoyed taking care of the menu and the other lady-of-the-house’s duties, not at the moment, but the Dowager had insisted, claiming that keeping the mind engaged was the best remedy for melancholia.
After she talked with Mrs. Stamell and chose to replace the salmon with duck, she had to pause before returning to her bedroom. She was breathless as if she’d climbed over one of the hills in the Lake District. Her body wasn’t used to exercising anymore.
When she entered, Helen jolted, a hand fluttering to her chest. She straightened on the stool. “All done?”
She frowned at her sister’s fidgeting. “Yes, sorry.”
She tried to focus on Helen’s chatter about Gemma Bellincioni, an Italian soprano who had launched a new style of hats, but she simply nodded and sipped her tea.
When Helen left, asking her to write from Mytos, she felt guilty at the relief of finally being alone.
Perhaps going to Mytos was a good idea.
