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“Not in those skirts, young lady. You know the rules.” He twisted to the governess who trailed her charge. Or, at least, he tried to as Lady Bronwen had snaked her arm so firmly around his it would take pliers to remove her. “Are you enjoying the picnic, Miss Beaujeu?”
“It has been pleasant, Your Grace.”
Lady Bronwen’s fingers tapped.
“Truly, Uncle, you saved me from a fate worse than boredom as it was Moral Instruction for Young Ladies, Volume IV by a Mr Perkins today. As if he would know. Being a man and all.”
Rhys failed to prevent his grin but his governess pinched her brow as though in pain. And was she counting to herself in French?
“Well,” he drawled, “I apologise, Miss Beaujeu, for leading you both into…immoral instruction.”
She glared. “Mr Perkins has an entire chapter devoted to avoiding that. Now, come, Mari, let us compare what we can find here with The Flora and Fauna of Stone Walls. Edition V.”
Isabelle wantedto wipe that cavalier smirk from the duke’s features with a…with a…
Well, she wasn’t sure with what.
But he’d acted so glib over her moral instruction book.
“Miss Beaujeu, I cannot keep up!”
She halted her gallop. “Forgive me, Mari. Your uncle can be most teasing at times.”
“Only with you, Miss Beaujeu.” She cast Isabelle a sidelong green gaze. “With everyone else, he is serious and frowny all the time.”
“Oh…” Isabelle coughed and continued around to the inland side of the vast tower where further fortification remnants lay strewn – lintel stones and slate rubble. “We shall inspect the walls for lichen and spiders. When you find something interesting, let me know.”
“Er. Lovely. Given the choice, I might have preferred Moral Instruction for Young Ladies, Volume IV by Mr Perkins.” Nevertheless, off she pottered, poking at the low remains of foundation walls with a gloved finger.
Isabelle grinned. The girl was irrepressible but as long as she learned all the necessities of a lady’s life, was kind and loving, then Isabelle would never seek to dampen her charge’s spirit. Some poor gentleman in her future, though, would be led a merry dance.
Pausing to marvel at the magnificent inland view, Isabelle inhaled deeply of the clean blustery air, so different to London with its smoke-imbued fog.
Hills stretched to the distant mountains – emerald with pasture, amber with dying ferns, black-pearl with exposed slate, and amethyst with the haze of heather.
A bejewelled land.
When living here in Wales, one likely accepted the seasons of rain in order to experience this pureness, to admire such rugged lushness.
Chatter drifted, so she shaded her eyes and squinted up to a gaggle of bonnets peering from the first-floor stairs of the tower, giggles emanating as a gust of wind stole Captain Brecken’s hat.
Had she ever been that carefree? Before the age of sixteen, she supposed, although even then, the days had been tinged with loss and the past, and she’d understood full well her dependence on the largesse of her guardian.
Swivelling with a sigh, she continued around the tower and scrutinised the walls for any interesting ferns, noted a maidenhair spleenwort which she might ask Mari to press for study.
A minuscule entrance in the thick wall appeared so she stopped and squinted into the gloom.
Some kind of old storeroom, and on the far side, hanging from a whittled stick thrust betwixt the slate, was a bunched piece of tattered material. Despite the meagre light entering from behind her, Isabelle noted a faded pattern upon it, so she hunched her shoulders and wandered in, the walls so thick and the entrance so narrow it felt like a tunnel, before she stepped into the small room.
Dust danced from its resting place as she pulled the musty cloth wide and let her eyes adjust.
A rust-red dragon spat fire upon what looked to be an ancient flag, and smiling, Isabelle traced its curled tongue with a finger. Doubtless another depiction of that legend regarding the first Earl of Llanedwyn and his beast of a soulmate.
She recalled her friend Miss Culpepper’s letter of dire warnings on the mysterious Aberdare household.
None of which had held any truth.
To be sure, the duke had a brooding nature at times, but Isabelle had also witnessed him laugh and treat Mari with affectionate respect.
