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Chapter Seventeen
“We grow attached to the people with whom we reside.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
Fedrwch chwi gael gwely i ni heno?– Can you get us a bed for tonight?
The Welsh Language for English Travellers, 1815 sailed across the schoolroom desk and landed face down.
Isabelle solely wished to request a fresh set of towels, and although the upper maid spoke perfect English, it would have been pleasant to learn some more Welsh. Instead, the book had evoked wicked images of the duke’s pressing muscular torso.
There’d been similar occurrences all morning.
She’d planned lessons, the ebony ink eliciting the exotic dusk of the duke’s eyes; her shawl had slid against her nape, evoking the tips of his caressing fingers; she’d stared to the mirror – the rosiness to her throat retelling of his stubbled cheek and nibbling lips.
She growled and stomped to the window. The rain had ceased at dawn, an easterly wind chasing the clouds away to reveal an autumnal day of soft warmth, and one could almost view the moisture ascending from the lush grass.
The Scandalous Mr Cadwalader had accompanied Mari into the village to purchase a few fripperies, so Isabelle had spent the last hours cataloguing the schoolbooks into alphabetical order. Then re-cataloguing them by subject matter.
Some may suggest she was avoiding the duke and his worshipful brides.
They’d be entirely correct.
Perhaps a breath of fresh air at the cliffs was called for, and she could request fresh towels on the way, so she tugged her gown collar up, plonked a bonnet on, and then packed a satchel with her book and spyglass in order to peruse the plants and seabirds of this rugged Welsh coast.
Guests were passing the day at leisure as tomorrow morn, they were to visit the steepest street in the isles, to which fortunately herself and Mari had not been invited. By night, the guests were to enjoy, in Lady Elen’s words, ‘An Evening of Unparalleled Melodic Delight to Include the Performance of a Famed Personage’, to which, unfortunately, herself and Mari had been invited.
But first there was this evening’s formal dinner to negotiate.
Isabelle darted past the games room where Lord Powell, Mr Pritchard and Captain Brecken sat at a table, smoke billowing and cards strewn. The captain rubbed his chin and grimaced. Doubtless he’d be penniless by the end of this house party.
Heading to the entrance hall, she noticed Miss Pritchard reclining in the drawing room with her slippers perched upon the mother-of-pearl inlaid Ottoman trunk, La Belle Assemblée on her lap while a tremulous Miss Brecken was in discussion with Lady Elen on the window seat, so Isabelle tiptoed past the door and–
“Oh, Miss Beaujeu,” called Lady Elen. “Have you a moment?”
Levelling her expression to agreeable, Isabelle twisted and popped her head in. “Yes, my lady?”
“Could you just cross to the duke’s study and fetch a sheet of paper for me. You should find plenty in the tray upon his desk. Miss Brecken and I are forming a list for the order of entertainment tomorrow evening.” She cocked her head. “You may be required to play pianoforte in accompaniment. I trust you are competent.”
Pfff!Lest we forget, Monsieur Turenne had pronounced her touch upon the keys akin to an angel’s flutter of wings in blessed heaven.
Isabelle scrunched her nose. Perhaps that wasn’t a compliment after all? Perchance she played over softly?
Nevertheless, she maintained her eyes demure, smoothed her bodice to presentable, nodded and hastened to the study.
Her hand…dithered over the handle, so she knocked, just in case. No answer and so she twisted it to peep in.
All was as last night – the decanters of brandy, the stacked books on the mantel, the low fire still glowing. And the panelled wall she’d been pressed up against.
Clearing her throat, she forced her eyes away and wandered for the desk to locate the tray with its bundles of paper. She peeled off two and–
An ink-splattered sheet seized her eye, covered in scrawls and smudges, and she tilted her head to better view it.
It appeared to be…a poem?
Love came to me that dawn,
