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Lady Gwen nodded but no one else in the room so much as twitched a finger, and so with a swift curtsey, Isabelle shuffled for the door, briefly feeling as though her back were an archery target.
Once the door was closed, however, she twisted and brought her ear against it.
“Oh, I cannot bear it,” cried Mari. “Miss Beaujeu is so woebegone and distressed. She said my Uncle Rhys was most high-handed with her last night. I believe she would return to London, if she could, as just like the sharpened sword of Damocles, this terrible matter hangs over her. Poor, poor Miss Beaujeu.” She heaved a breath. “And she has an ailing sister, you know, who can no longer manage her work scrubbing steps at the orphanage.”
Isabelle winced. One should never overegg the pudding, so to speak.
“But why can’t she return?” asked Mrs Craddock.
“She…” Mari’s voice lowered and Isabelle was forced to press her ear closer. “She has no money for the journey or for lodgings in London. Uncle was ever so stingy with the wages.”
“She could sell that fake silver bottle,” snarled Lady Bronwen. “Someone might give her tuppence.”
A lupine growl now emanated but Isabelle smiled and twisted away. She made for the entrance hall to be handed her pelisse, bonnet and gloves by an awaiting Mrs Pugh, who patted her shoulder and opened the door.
The chill east wind tussled Isabelle’s ribbons as she crossed the forecourt, blown twigs catching in her petticoats. She ambled into the parterre, promenaded past a nippy Neptune, and then sauntered through the gate in the hedge and onto the scythed path leading to the sea.
Along the cliffs, the Castell y Ddraig tower soared above all else, a battered monument to a bloodied past, and she swivelled and strolled towards it.
Her hem swiftly became weighted by the sodden grass and moisture even inveigled through her boots to her stockinged toes, but she stomped on, relishing the wind on her face after the dankness of the prison yesterday.
Without the guests clambering all over it, the Castell y Ddraig tower appeared forlornly decayed, and the lush ivy which scrambled its way across the stone only added to the air of neglect, little by little pushing out pinning stones and dislodging mortar.
Isabelle circled the structure, shuddering at the sight of the now doorless storeroom and poking her head through the gate to the stairwell.
She made herself comfortable leaning against the slate tower, facing out to sea.
A hint of pure winter swirled in the air today, cautioning perhaps that the season would be hard, and the waves crashed with a fury in rhythm with the wind, a pulsing energy that infected Isabelle with its immense power and life.
Three gulls hovered and then dipped into the waters as the sun leisurely descended and a far-off silhouette of a boat ruptured the flat horizon.
After some while watching the sea declare its rule over the land of man, she harrumphed, for it seemed no one had come to–
From the corner of her eye, she noted a figure upon the cliff path headed in the tower’s direction, and Isabelle leaned back against the rough stone.
Of course this figure could be taking some fresh air also, to escape the stifling atmosphere of the drawing room.
She waited. Watched as a cloud lengthened.
“Miss Beaujeu.”
Isabelle twisted to briefly curtsey. “Good afternoon. Do you enjoy walking also?”
“No,” came the curt reply.
“Bird watching, perhaps?”
“Never.” Returning the monocle to his eye, Lord Powell perused her. He was relatively tall, blotting the faint sun at his back.
“Fauna?”
With a snort, he tapped his boot with his walking stick. “I know not whether that little act in the drawing room was genuine or a ruse to procure funds, but either way…” He reached a hand inside his jacket.
A crumpled note was thrust at her.
Isabelle took it between her fingers.
Peered at it.
