Her Grace in Disgrace (The Widows of Woburn Place) (23 page)

“But
to continue, Reginald’s father was beside himself with glee when he received
word of your forced engagement. He was quite sick then and we had hoped to be
able to postpone the wedding, hoping he would die and Reginald could cry off.
But the threats began anew. I began to notice strange men lurking in the
village, trespassing on Hidenwood lands. Reginald quickly sent for me and
Reggie and set us up at Woburn Place to have us near him. The old Duke put
increasing pressure on Reginald to wed you with haste. He continued to put him
off. Three days after a particularly nasty altercation, Reggie and I were
almost killed in front of our home by a runaway cart. As much as it pained Reginald,
he gave in to his father’s demands and married you. He could not risk our
lives.

“And
the rest you know. You married, and since I was with him almost every night of
the next six years, I assume you saw very little of him.”

Isobel
was spurred to speak for the first time in this heartbreaking story. “We did
not…he never…”

“I
know, Miss Kennilworth; he swore he had always been faithful to me and I
believed him. There is just a little more to tell.

“After
his father’s death – how the old devil lived 4 years more is a mystery – Reginald
was prepared to confess all and take the censure, so that we could live openly
as man and wife. He consulted with Mr. Pickens and discovered the seriousness
of a bigamy charge. He knew that he would not serve a sentence or be deported
due to his station, but to save us embarrassment, he put it off, hoping to find
another solution. I assured him, truthfully, that I was quite happy where I
was. But then I was again with child and had a difficult pregnancy. At last, I
gave birth to our daughter Rose.” Lady Warwick’s calm, even narrative subtly
changed. Her voice was thick with emotion and she fought the tears that pooled
in her large, dark eyes. Her words remained matter of fact, but her pain was
palpable. “But the child was not well and died only days after she was born. I
was grief stricken and became very ill. It was a very difficult time. And so
for me he waited, not wishing to add to my grief. Finally, my grief abated,
though it will never go away, but I was better and Reginald again began to
steel himself to confess all. And then he was struck down with the wasting
disease and I refused to let him be subjected to such an ordeal when he was so
sick. While he lay dying, he told me that his only regret in this entire sordid
affair was that he had not come forward sooner and recognized the wife and
child of his heart during his lifetime, that he would not live to see me a
duchess. And so he died in my arms.”

Lady
Warwick had struggled through the last part of the story, barely able to
finish. By the final sentence the tears claimed her, but she did not weep aloud.
Isobel sat stunned, shattered by what her ambitions had cost this young woman. She
thought of Reginald and how he had hated her and finally understood. Her tears
flowed freely as well. After a short span of silence, Lady Warwick stood and
faced Isobel.

“Thank
you for listening. I felt you should know. Lord Charles is quite safe here and
will be well taken care of. Perhaps you should go home and get some rest. It
has been a difficult day.”

Isobel
searched her heart and mind for words to say to this woman whose life she had
ruined. In the end she could only say, “I am so sorry.”

“You
need not be, Miss Kennilworth, it is all in the past.
Dios
knows these
things,” she said, for the first time using a Spanish word.

“But
I ruined your life!” Isobel protested, her guilt consuming her.

“Ruined
my life? No. I have had a wonderful life. We had our sorrows, yes, but we had
each other. I am grateful that I knew love even for such a short time. I fear,
Miss Kennilworth that it is your life that has been damaged, and for that I am
truly sorry.”

Isobel
stared at her, unbelieving. She was sick with grief and disgust at her own
depravity. Lady Warwick pulled the bell cord and within moments Sloane
appeared.

“You
are welcome to come and see Lord Charles whenever you wish. I must go see
Reggie and read him his bedtime stories. It is very late. Thank you again for
listening. Goodnight.” Lady Warwick inclined her head and left the room.

“Goodnight.”
Isobel’s voice was barely discernible as she bid farewell to Lady Warwick’s
retreating back.

Sloane
escorted Isobel to the door and the footman, James, handed her into the Warwick
carriage. Night had descended on the city while she had been at Wren House. Isobel
looked out of the carriage window and regarded the noble houses of Mayfair in
the eerie light of the gaslight lamps that dotted the streets. Soon, they were
in Bloomsbury. The houses became a bit smaller, and not quite so elaborate, but
they retained certain elegance and style. And there was one more distinction
that Bloomsbury boasted. It was home.

Isobel did
not leave her room for three days and allowed no one to enter, save Manning. Lady
Whitcomb was persistent in her efforts to see her niece, but she was
unsuccessful. Lady Joanna and Miss Parrish came to call on two occasions, but
had to be content with Lady Whitcomb’s company. While they enjoyed a lively conversation,
concern for Isobel cast a pall on the otherwise enjoyable visits. Even poor
Bella had been forsaken and pined away in her stall in the mews.

Isobel was
restless cooped up in her bedchamber, but she could not face anyone. She tried
to read, but could not concentrate and so she slept a great deal, and cried. She
had not cried so much in her entire lifetime as she had done over the past few
weeks.

On the
fourth day Isobel heard a commotion coming from downstairs. Her curiosity
piqued, she crawled out of bed and walked to her door, opening it a crack. She listened
closely and heard her Aunt Maude laugh and then a man’s deep chuckle followed. Saybrooke!
Could it be?

“Manning,”
she asked her maid who was straightening her bedchamber. “Who is here?”

“I don’t
know, Miss,” replied Manning. “Shall I find out for you?”

“No. Help me
get dressed. Quickly.”

Isobel
rushed through her toilette and raced down the stairs in an extremely
unladylike fashion. The door to the parlor was open and Isobel could hear her
aunt chattering amiably. She smoothed out her unwrinkled skirt, tucked an
imaginary stray curl back into her newly coiffed hair, pinched her cheeks and
bit her lips to add some color to disguise her pallor and walked with forced
serenity into the parlor.

“Isobel!”
cried Lady Whitcomb with surprise and pleasure.

Isobel did
not greet her aunt, but stood just inside the doorway, her eyes fixed on the
gentleman caller. It was not Saybrooke. Seated in a Bath chair, his broken leg
reclining on an overstuffed ottoman, sat Lord Charles Aiken.

“Charles!
What are you doing here?” Her surprise held no pleasure.

“Lovely to
see you, too, Isobel. When you did not come to cool my fevered brow, I decided
to bring it to you,” joked Lord Charles. The joke fell flat.

“I have been
indisposed,” said Isobel with hauteur. Her disappointment began to fade only to
be replaced by anger. “And while I am glad to see you are on the mend, I hardly
think it wise for you to be jaunting about London making social calls.”

Lady
Whitcomb and Lord Charles exchanged a furtive glance. Lady Whitcomb opened her
mouth to speak when Mrs. Riggs, Renfrew, and Griffin entered.

“Lord
Charles room is ready, Lady Whitcomb. Griffin and Renfrew will carry him to his
bedchamber,” Mrs. Riggs announced.

Lady Whitcomb
watched as Isobel’s face contorted from anger to rage. Thank heaven she was too
well bred to scream in front of the servants. Her voice was calm when she
addressed Mrs. Riggs. “Thank you, Mrs. Riggs. Give us a moment, would you. I
shall ring when Lord Charles is ready to retire.”

Mrs. Riggs
and Griffin left the room. Renfrew remained. “You, too, Renfrew. Off with you!”
Renfrew bowed majestically and exited.

“What is the
meaning of this?” cried Isobel when the door had shut behind Renfrew. “Why did
no one think to consult me on this matter? After all, it is only my house!”

Lady
Whitcomb raised her eyebrows and spoke. “I tried on a number of occasions to do
just that, Isobel. You would not see me.”

Isobel had
the grace to look embarrassed. When she said nothing, Lady Whitcomb continued.
“I did not find out about Charles until late the evening his…accident occurred.
I was working on my article and had told Renfrew not to disturb me. The clunch
took me literally and informed me only after you had already returned from Wren
House. As you know, I tried to see you then, but you pled exhaustion. When you
refused me again the next morning, I decided to go to Wren House and see for
myself.”

“And you
took it upon yourself to invite him here?”

“Now, Isobel,
I was tossed out of my rooms at the Albany for lack of payment. Where could I
go? I could hardly bunk in with Denham and Carter, as I have been doing, in
this condition.” Lord Charles endeavored to look pitiful. Isobel’s features
only hardened. He tried again. “I couldn’t feel comfortable staying on at Wren
House under the circumstances. Not that Lady Warwick was anything but kindly.
It’s just, well. Devil take it, it was humiliating!” Lord Charles proved his
point by blushing.

“It is not
an easy thing to be reminded of your own wickedness by looking into the eyes of
your victim on a daily basis,” agreed Isobel with a troubled look.

“I say,
Isobel, that’s doing it a bit too brown,” protested Lord Charles. “I have come
to realize the foolhardiness of the scheme, but wicked? I meant no one any
harm.”

“That will
not wash, Charles for I said those very words to myself six years ago. I did
not take my actions then to be malicious, but I now see that they were. It is
wicked to relentlessly pursue your own desires without any thought or care of how
it will affect others. It is selfish and it is wicked.”

The normally
ebullient Lord Charles was curiously grave. He was pallid and looked quite
pulled. But Isobel refused to feel pity for him.

“You cannot
stay here,” Isobel decreed mercilessly.

Lord
Charles, already pale, turned ashen. Without consulting Isobel, Lady Whitcomb
rang for Renfrew.

“Isobel,
Lord Charles is looking seriously fatigued. While I understand your objections,
I think it best that we let him rest while you and I discuss this further,”
said Lady Whitcomb with authority.

“There is
nothing to discuss, Aunt” retorted Isobel mulishly.

“I beg to
differ, Niece.” Lady Whitcomb said with finality. Before Isobel could reply,
tartly by her expression, Renfrew and Griffin entered. Lady Whitcomb gave them
their instructions and Griffin gently lowered his master’s leg from the
ottoman.

Lord Charles
turned to Isobel. “I am sorry, Isobel. Truly.”

“Get some
rest, Charles. We will talk later,” was her only answer. Renfrew wheeled the
ailing young Lord from the room.

Isobel eyed
her aunt with disfavor as the door yet again closed behind Renfrew. “Have you
taken over my household, Aunt Maude?” asked Isobel acidly.

“Someone
needed to take the reins while you languished in your bedchamber.” Lady
Whitcomb’s words were harsh, her tone less so.

“I am so sorry,
Aunt Maude” began Isobel, her sarcastic tone belying her words, “that my
suffering is such a burden to you. My life is in shambles!”

“And that is
not all Charles’ fault,” said her aunt without pity.

Isobel
paused and her acerbity died away leaving only sadness. “He proposed, you
know.”

“I do know.
But Charles is not for you.”     

“Not
Charles, Saybrooke.” The life had gone out of Isobel and she sat on the couch,
her legs unable to hold her.

“Oh,” murmured
Lady Whitmore, nonplussed. She walked to Isobel and sat next to her, taking her
hand. “When?”

“Just
seconds before the footman from Wren House came to retrieve me. I had not time
to answer.”

“What would
have been your answer?”

Isobel sat
silently for a long time. Lady Whitcomb sighed, assuming Isobel had retreated
as was her wont.

“Yes,” she
said finally. “I would have said yes. But now there is no chance of his
offering for me again.” The hopelessness in her voice was palpable.

“I am sorry,
my dear.”

“Do not be.
I shall get over it. I have before.” Isobel tossed the words out as if it did
not matter in the least.

“Have
you? I wonder.” Lady Whitcomb eyed her niece speculatively. Isobel was as rigid
as a statue and just as expressive. Lady Whitcomb’s face grew grave as she took
in her niece’s icy calm and tears formed in her eyes.

“Isobel,
I love you as if you were my own daughter. You have always been my delight. I
cannot imagine what my life would have been without you.” A tear slid down Lady
Whitcomb’s cheek. With difficulty Lady Whitcomb went on, “I know these past
years have been so difficult, so fraught with pain. I had hoped that you would
open up to me, to trust me with your feelings. But you have remained so very remote
and sometimes even unfeeling.”