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"Is something troubling you, Lady Duskwood?" the Duke of Thrushmore asked. The laughs continued, and Isobel watched with fiery curiosity. The ingrate was handsome; strikingly so. He bore not the thick beard so characteristic of men; instead, he was clean-shaven, save a smattering of rakish stubble across his chiseled chin. He cared little for the disgusted looks thrown his way - and Isobel's was not the only one. Her fury turned to a stewing curiosity. She found herself unable to pull her eyes away from the man as he swallowed a whole heavy gulp of alcohol into his mouth. She scoffed in displeasure at the sight; she couldn't believe a man of nobility, a gentleman, would do such a thing. The Duke's eyes followed hers, catching sight of the man with the wine.
"Oh. Yes, well, I can't
honestly say that every one of us is a gentleman," Lord Miller haughtily commented. "Some among us give in to such banal desires. But I can assure you, if you spend an evening with me, Lady Duskwood, we'll certainly not spend it swallowing merlot in a graveyard," the lord commented, trying to sound pleasing.
Instead, utterly disgusted at the whole charade, Isobel sighed. She picked her gown from the floor and in a huff made her way towards the gates of the small graveyard.
"I've not the time or inclination at this moment, Lord Miller. Please, allow me to mourn," she said in a fury, not listening for his reply. It certainly came, no doubt saccharine and rehearsed. As so much of this new life that burdened her could be - a facade atop lives of indulgent decadence and disgust. She stormed towards the front gates of Upton Manor, seeking refuge from the world.
CHAPTER TWO
Isobel opened the door to the sprawling chapel, nestled on the far end of the familial Duskwood Manor; all of it belonged to her now. The halls, the doors - much of it felt foreign to her, another world; Isobel had spent the better part of the last four years abroad, trying to handle family business - and trying to find a suitable husband, as was expected of the young girl. She'd settled back into the Duskwood estate only months before her father fell ill, and so much had changed since then.
Isobel sighed, carrying herself through the old chapel; what had once been a triumphant place of worship lay dusty and disused, cobwebs clung in sprawling sheets across every corner. A marble baptismal font sat wretched with dirt and dust; years past, a housekeeper had pulled white cloths across what had once been brilliant marble statues of cherubs, saints; Jesus Christ and even the Virgin Mary, themselves, lay beneath dust-swabbed cloth. She dragged her finger, gloved in black, across one of the pews, which she recalled from her childhood shining so brilliantly in the late afternoon sun, shining through the windows high on the walls. Now, their gloss dulled, coated in thick layers of dust, it reflected the same dead emptiness Isobel felt in every spacious room of the halls of the estate. The sun crept through those same windows, muddled by the clinging sheets of dirt and smudges collecting on the panes of glass; even the red carpet running along the chapel floor, which had once been so brilliant and vivid a tone, lay grayed by years of collected grime.
Isobel followed a pair of footsteps trudged through the messy rug - the only signs of human activity in this entire chapel in who knew how long. At the end of the rug, at the heart of the chapel stood Gudheim, the elderly organ player from down in Upton, collecting his sheets of music anxiously, muttering quietly to himself. Until her steps carried her across a creaky wooden floorboard, Gudheim had not noticed the presence of Lady Duskwood; her arrival brought a jump of surprise to the old man; he stood tall and thin, bony beneath a ragged suit that hung over his malnourished form. He offered a mostly-toothless smile, his eyes sunken and wary with age. Everything had decayed in the years Lady Duskwood spent away from the estate - even the people. She had remembered Gudheim as a jolly, strong man, always a sharp dresser.
"Isobel!" he chimed in his distinctly Germanic accent, his words lifting; his voice hoarse. He coughed and wheezed loudly. Isobel sighed. Gudheim had always had such a pleasant singing voice, in her youth. "I was so enthused when you requested I play the old organ again. It is only regrettable it comes in such sad times," he lamented. Many would struggle to understand his English through the marred and uneven German accent, but Isobel grew up listening to the old man; she could decipher it easy enough. "Oh, how I missed the organ. It plays as beautiful as ever. We in the village, we missed hearing it, too."
"You missed hearing it?" Isobel's voice caught in her throat. "Have religious services here in the estate gone quiet, of late? I had assumed father had stopped holding them due to his ill health."
"Oh, no, not in years," Gudheim shook his head. "Your father was... well, over the years, he began to... retreat. Retreat, yes, back in to the estate. He no longer came down from the hill to share bread with us, or drink... at the pub. Then, some years back, after you had left, he stopped holding service." Isobel noticed the changes in her father when she returned, but she had assumed it stemmed only from his illness.
"Why do you suppose that is?" Isobel asked, trying to be cheery. "I know he always loved Ms. Brackwell's delicious bread, and the stout that Porter served at the pub."
"Oh, it could have been a great many things. Stress, stress sat upon Lord Reginald's shoulders," Gudheim recalled with sorrow in his tone. "He could never speak to us of it, as he would wear only smiles to the people of Upton. But, the dam to the river broke, and the estate lost a great many servants... and when Mr. Steward's children fell seriously ill, your father, he paid for doctors from across England to help. The people of the village, we grew needy, and your dear father... I think, the bandit attacks, they worried him too," Gudheim recalled.
"Bandits? In this day and age?" Isobel scoffed in disbelief. "Bandits plagued my father?"
"In the last two years, or thereabouts. He spoke often of them. They fancy themselves heroes, of some sort, but he worried their heroics would end," Gudheim recalled. "The Merry Bandits, they called themselves. They strike on wealthy caravans, noble drivers... and," he lowered his voice, "I'm not too proud to say, it's mighty kind, what they did, feeding the whole village when your father couldn't afford to."
"They fed—" Isobel cleared her throat, the confusion in her rising; her nerves on edge. "They fed the village, because... father couldn't?"
"Oh, dearest Isobel, he did try," Gudheim reassured her, sorrow filling the hoarse old man's throat deeply. "Your father tried so hard, but a hard winter and a shortage of grains across northern England made it hard. He did not fancy accepting help from criminals, and nor did we. Upton is our home, after all. We would rather not invite roustabouts," Gudheim snarled.
"I had believed, the... family coffers, that we'd have no trouble protecting the people of Upton should a shortage come," Isobel said, her voice faint. What had happened, she wondered, in those interim years? What state had the manor and her father fallen in to?
"Oh, I'm..." Gudheim cleared his throat nervously. "I'm certain, that the lord, he did everything..."
"Gudheim," Isobel asked starkly, her voice frail, "are you being paid for playing the music today? Have you spoken to Deaton?" Gudheim glanced to the floor, expression reserved.
"Lady Duskwood, I would expect no such thing. Your father, he was a good man, he deserved to be consigned to Heaven appropriately."
"But father would always pay you, no matter what, and you know that," Isobel insisted.
"I'm not..." Gudheim stammered.
"Lady Isobel?" the heavy doors to the chapel swung open; in the doorway stood a slight man in a suit that had seen better years. A thick beard at his chin, unkempt, and his voice a shrill squeak, Isobel recognized the short steward as Deaton, her father's trusted assistant and trustee - and now, the executor of her father's estate. Her young eyes fell on him, wracked in confusion.
"Deaton, I'm glad you're here," she said, her voice shivering; she tried to sound as authoritative as she could, using her new position as Lady of the hall, but it scarcely fit her. "Have we not disbursed some sort of payment to Gudheim for playing his music? He helped to make the day better, and deserves something for it."
"Mr. Gudheim is already deeply in debt to the estate," Deaton observed with a razor-eyed glare. "And in the matter of debts, we have much to discuss about the nature of your father's business, Lady Duskwood. Please, if we could—"
"Gudheim has been a loyal client and friend to this family since I was a little girl, Deaton," Lady Duskwood insisted. Her voice cracked and shook as she tried to boom at the trustee. "As I'm now the executor of this estate, I demand an accounting made of his debts so that we might relieve him of that particular burden." Deaton's snakelike glare turned to Isobel instead; she always hated that look. Deaton's stern, businesslike demeanor had always startled the poor girl.
"Lady Duskwood, if we are to forgive everyone in Upton who owes us a debt, we may very well not have a single shilling, parcel of land or title to our name by nightfall," Deaton growled cuttingly. "And we will need every shilling we can, in fact, get our hand on, to sort out financial matters. Now, please, follow me," Deaton beckoned her into the hall. She shook weakly; what had father done? What had he gotten the village in to?
"We... we will discuss this sometime soon, okay, Gudheim?" she spoke softly to the organist, who nodded in a gesture of silent thanks. Carrying her gown with her Isobel rushed along the dusty carpet, kicking up a small cloud of the stuff at her feet as she ran into the hall. She remembered this hall, too - a grand hall, with a grander staircase, which in her youth had always basked in afternoon light streaming through the foyer's grand, stained-glass windows. One window had been broken; a sheet wafted in the wind over where it had once been. The other, most likely, had been sold, replaced by a cheap pane of misshapen glass that let a draft flow through the room. Shadows now clung to every corner, keeping Duskwood Manor in a state of decaying disrepair.
