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Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Reflect well upon the subject you mention. Never introduce one that can be disagreeable to the feelings of those around you.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
Never having been a fiendish fugitive from the law before, Isabelle felt rather fidgety as she sat upon the chaise in the drawing room awaiting afternoon tea.
The young ladies and various chaperones were dotted upon sofas and chairs, but when Isabelle had first made her entrance with Mari at her side, more than a few confused glances had been thrown her way, along with one or two scowls.
No one had actually dared to question her re-appearance, however, the duke’s behest overruling all.
Isabelle sighed.
Then sighed once more.
It was all part of the plan, of course, to rumple her brow, nibble her lip and carry out the other small betrayals of distress that she had been instructed to feign.
Morgan entered with the tea trolley but even that failed to rouse the gentlemen from the newspapers or the young ladies from their studious needlework.
Miss Vaughn bemoaned a further knot in her skein; Miss Brecken’s eyes were a watery-red, her sampler akin to a bloodied conflict between thumb and needle; Lady Bronwen ventured barbed glances towards Isabelle whilst embroidering a scene from the Battle of Agincourt; and Miss Craddock was… In fact, Miss Craddock appeared to be reading La Belle Assemblée behind her embroidery sampler.
Aside Isabelle on the dark-green sofa sat her charge reading Moral Instruction for Young Ladies, Volume IV by Mr Perkins, a whisper of words emanating from her lips.
The only other sound was the nib of Lady Elen’s quill as she scratched out invitations for another house party at Christmas.
Isabelle let out a further puff of breath and grimaced, wringing her hands.
Though in truth, beneath that feigned surface of agitated seas was a calm pool of contentment.
Rhys loved her.
And even if she repeated it in French or Welsh, it still sounded somewhat unreal – the imaginings of a fevered governess for her handsome master.
As a man, Rhys was creative and wild, yet the demands of his titles had forged a duke of discipline and order. Perhaps the same could be claimed of herself, her true nature, she could admit, rather tempestuous, but life had forced her to calm the eddy and hide it beneath still, grey waters.
Lord Powell shook his newspaper and tutted while a surprisingly adept Mrs Craddock was trouncing Lady Nesta at chess.
One could almost view the guests’ thoughts arising and coalescing into a tangible layer of suspicion that hovered over the room like a dragon’s breath.
Isabelle abruptly stood. “I…” She chewed her lip again. “If you will excuse me. I need…” She placed a hand to her brow.
“Are you well, Miss Beaujeu?” asked Mrs Craddock with concern.
“Rather light-headed, ’tis all.”
“Light-fingered, more like,” muttered Lady Bronwen.
Mari cast that lupine glare and the lady paled.
Isabelle cleared her throat. “If you will excuse me, I just need some fresh air.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Lady Gwen, rising from the sofa. “I could do with–”
“But Lady Gwen,” bewailed Mari, “I have so many questions on this moral instruction.”
“I’d be most grateful, my lady,” ventured Isabelle, “if you could attend to my charge?”
