Fallen (8 page)

Feeling rather magnanimous with that decision, he was surprised to see Izzy looking at him with impatience. Casting about for the source of her irritation, he realized she had just asked him a question.

"Pardon me, my dear. I was woolgathering."

"Julian, I shall be leaving in several months. What will I do with the mare?"

"Elizabeth," he corrected.

"Isadora," she shot back, frowning.

He laughed. "The mare, Izzy. I named her after you. Elizabeth."

"Oh, dear. Don't say it."

"Quite right." He smiled angelically. "Lizzie."

Izzy looked at him fondly. Dear Julian. He liked to make her laugh, she knew. She was more than happy to oblige.

"I wonder," he pondered aloud, as if to himself, "whatever happened to all those hideous yellow flowers?"

"It wasn't the same without Sheldon," she answered, coming to stand with him. "I could wallow in their ugliness when they were my protection from him. But then he left, and they were merely awful."

"You don't mean… ?" He gave her a look of mock horror.

Nodding, she assumed a fiendish expression and drew her forefinger across her throat.

Laughing, he took her hand and escorted her from the lush, steamy environment of the hothouse into the cool spring air.

"Feed me my tea, Izzy, and send me on my way. I have still some things to arrange before the Waverlys' ball."

Izzy's heart sank. She had managed to forget about the ball for a few hours. She had no idea what she was going to do. She had spent all last evening going through Millie's old gowns, but the only ones close to her size were from her cousin's schoolroom days. After seeing herself in the childish dresses, Izzy had decided that her black gown would at least be the raiment of an adult, albeit an elderly one. Perhaps she might be able to soften it a bit with some lace or ribbon trimming. She sighed. At least it was new.

She made cheerful chatter with Julian during their tea, detailing some of her more creative vengeance against Sheldon, but her joy in the afternoon was gone. When he left, she stayed on the steps until the last flip of Tristan's tail had disappeared down the tree-lined street.

"Oh, miss, come see!"

Izzy looked up from her menus. Betty bounced before her, eyes wide with excitement.

Izzy rarely saw Hildegard's maid, since the girl's workload almost equaled her own. All the money Hildegard saved by using her servants hard, she spent on her own wardrobe and Millie's. Betty had her hands full caring for all the gowns and accessories those two women owned.

Izzy looked down at her work and sighed. "Will it keep, Betty? I am almost finished here."

"Not a bit of it, miss!" Betty's smile widened. "You must come along right now."

Betty grabbed her by the hand and pulled her from the tiny room. Izzy cast a last despairing look at her paper-strewn desk and followed Betty through the kitchen. They didn't stop until they reached Hildegard's sitting room.

The room looked like an explosion in Ali Baba's cave. Everywhere Izzy looked, there were piles of silks and satins, pearls and velvet. Gowns were draped over chairs and couches, hat boxes stood stacked eye-high in the corner, and shimmering gloves in all lengths and shades lay strewn like glamorous open hands offering her the kingdom.

Amidst it all stood Hildegard, her puce gown clashing hideously with the jewel colors surrounding her. Her eyes met Izzy's and they were black with rage.

"Cousin? Are you not pleased with your gowns?" Izzy couldn't care less about Hildegard's bad mood, but the whole household would suffer if it went on for too long.

"No, I am not at all pleased with
my
gowns. My gowns have been delayed, although they were ordered months in advance. My gowns lie unfinished in Madam Fontenot's boutique, because other women, very rich women, very thoughtless women, ordered theirs last and demanded them first. These are not my gowns, Izzy Temple. These are yours!"

Izzy blinked. Of course they weren't her gowns, or anything like. Except that particular shade of blue had always caught her fancy, and she had once upon a time dreamed of elegant gloves just like those…

Julian.

Izzy lost her breath at the enormity of the gift.

Hildegard's eyes narrowed suspiciously and Izzy caught herself. She must not give away their plan. Certainly the future bride of a wealthy lord might accept such bounty.

She couldn't deny a twinge of disappointment at this realization. It was not a gift at all. She enacted a role, that was all, and the role required a certain costume. It was Julian's play. He was merely dressing her to best perform her part.

"Well, you needn't think you'll leave this carnival trash in my rooms," Hildegard spat. "Get it out of my sight, every speck of it."

Izzy nodded. She and Betty carefully gathered sumptuous armloads and carried them away.

"Isn't it somethin', miss? Did you see the green one? Like a dream it is. They all are, every one."

Even bundled in Izzy's arms and draped over her shoulders, the lush fabrics made themselves known to her skin. Stroking a cheek down one silken skirt, Izzy was reminded of her mother and the beautiful things she used to wear.

There was no space in Izzy's tiny bedchamber, so they decided to use one of the unoccupied servant's rooms nearby. After an hour of sorting and storing the lovely things, Izzy came across a note in one of the hatboxes.

"Just a few things to get you started, my dear. I hope all is to your taste. Lady Bottomly kindly offered her suggestions as to style, but you must feel free to send it all back for new if you like.

I look forward to seeing your transformation tomorrow night."

There was nothing more, just a masculine scrawl of a signature below.

Transformation. Tomorrow night. The ball.

«
^
»

The next morning, Izzy woke feeling ill from the tension within her. After little sleep, she rose at an embarrassingly late hour. Unsteady from exhaustion and her growing uneasiness, she dressed in an old black frock and shambled down to the kitchen for a cup of tea.

It was surprising to spot Hildegard's husband Melvin at breakfast with the family. She saw him so rarely that she often forgot his existence for days at a time. She suspected Hildegard did, as well. His position with a member of Parliament had been purchased with his father-in-law's influence, and he spent most of his time there, often staying over at his respectable but hardly fashionable club.

Melvin Marchwell was not an unkind man, but he was not particularly kind either. Izzy's arrival in his house at the tender age of twelve had occasioned a brief "Welcome, my dear," and as far as she could recall, he had never directly addressed her since.

She never broke her fast with the family, rising early as she did, so she was surprised when Hildegard waved her genially into the room.

"Izzy, dear, do join us. We were just discussing tonight's event. Tell me, which of those lovely gowns are you planning on wearing tonight?"

That was a change of temper. Izzy eyed her cousin warily. What could Hildegard be up to? "I have yet to decide. Why do you ask?"

"Well, since Millie will, of course, be wearing white, I thought it might be a rather fetching sight if her ribbons matched your gown. Family colors, as it were."

Ah. The Marchwells were planning to crash the ball uninvited. They no doubt imagined that Izzy's ties to Dearingham would prevent comment. Well, perhaps they were correct, but it angered her to be used thus.

It did explain Melvin's presence, however. He would provide necessary, albeit minimal, escort for Hildegard and Millie, since he would probably spend his evening at the many gaming tables provided.

There was no help for it. Nothing but forcible restraint would stop Hildegard from venturing forth tonight. Still, Izzy refused to have to endure them more than necessary.

"I will be sure to have Spears arrange a carriage, then. Perhaps a large coach-and-four?" She smiled innocently at Hildegard's reddening complexion. Any carriage fine enough to appear at the ball would cost a pretty penny for rental.

"Well, I had hoped to spend a little more time with his lordship. We will all be family soon, after all." Hildegard's smile took on a feral edge. "And I need to thank him for his kind assistance during our past domestic shortage."

Angling for a free ride to the ball. Not to mention the splendor of arriving in a vehicle wearing the ducal crest. "Oh, no, Hildegard. I could never ask you and Millie to crush your gowns in Julian's tiny carriage." Truthfully, she had no idea if his conveyance would transport them all but she doubted he had any intention of carting the cousins about. She cast a look over at Millie.

"Are you looking forward to tonight, Millie? I am told it will be quite a crush." She must find out what that meant. It did sound so appalling. She almost missed the girl's reply as the banked fear within her began to glow once more.

"I assume you'll allow Lord Blackworth to introduce me to some of his friends? Do you think Lord Stretton will be present?" asked Millie dreamily.

"He has said as much, and I know Celia… Lady Bottomly will attend."

"Oh pooh, Izzy. I do not know how you can bear her. Simply being near her puts one in her shadow. And she's frightfully high in the instep. Sarah Cherrymore said she complimented Lady Bottomly's gown once and the woman looked right through her with barely a thank-you."

"Sarah doesn't know her at all. Really, Millie, you shouldn't repeat gossip. One might think you believe everything you are told."

"Well!" Millie's expression was so very Hildegard-esque that Izzy had difficulty leaving the table before being overcome with unstrung laughter.

Making her escape through the kitchen, she ventured outside for some soothing time alone in the gardens. As she paced along the brick path lined with waking perennials, she thought wistfully of the sweet child Millie had been.

Starved for affection, young Izzy had lavished all the love in her heart on pretty little Millie. She could remember a tiny blonde head leaning trustingly on her shoulder as she read a book of fairy tales, and small grubby hands clutching fistfuls of flowering weeds presented as gifts.

Stormy nights had brought Millie scrambling into Izzy's bed, and the mornings after had provided much giggling and whispered conspiracy as the child had been whisked secretly back to her own room. She could recall being "dear Ithy," and the stickiness of a child's precious kiss.

Millie had been daughter, sister, and playmate to a lonely twelve-year-old.

Eventually, age and Hildegard's disapproval had come between them. Izzy's expanding duties had left little time to play, and Sheldon's presence in the schoolroom had squelched any intimacy where they might have escaped Hildegard's influence. Millie had begun parroting her mother's criticism, and Izzy had been deeply hurt.

Now, she restlessly prowled the emerging gardens. Although she saw many tasks that needed doing, she could not seem to concentrate on them. The coming night's mortification weighed on her, making her feel as if her pride faced the gallows of society's judgment.

She had to smile at the dark drama of that thought. Deciding an hour of mulch raking was precisely what was needed, she entered the warm stable to fetch her rake. Passing by the horses, she stopped to visit Lizzie.

"Sorry, dear one. No apple today. Just a heavy heart, and you cannot relieve me of that."

"Will you be ridin' today, my lady?"

Izzy jumped. "Oh! Hello, Timothy. No, I do not feel much like it today." Truly, she was afraid if she rode away right now, she might never return. However tempting the thought, she had made a commitment to Julian. Straightening away from her horse, she gave Timothy a stern look. "Did we not discuss this 'my lady' business already, Timothy?"

"Yes, miss. But I'm thinkin' you better get used to hearin' it, same as I better get used to sayin' it." He grinned at her with insouciant charm.

Giving him a glare of mock anger only made his crooked grin wider. Izzy laughed despite her mood. Dear Timothy. The stable was a new haven, like her garden, now that Timothy and Lizzie were in residence. The stablehand never failed to make her laugh, and Lizzie's uncomplicated affection soothed her soul. Izzy left with her rake, her mood lightened.

Hildegard had not liked feeding a servant she could not put to work, but Izzy had only to mention Julian's probable opinion of a household that could not manage to support one lone stablehand. That quickly stifled her protest.

Timothy had proven to be quite a smash with Cook for his appreciative appetite, and Betty, Hildegard's maid, had quickly fallen for his sturdy appeal.

Timothy had nothing but disdain for "tha auld sow," as he called Hildegard, and Izzy was often forced to hide her smiles and chide him for his disrespect. He only pursed his lips at her and teased her into laughter yet again.

As she raked the winter mulch from her returning perennials, she fell back into brooding over the ball.

She had a lovely gown. She had a very attractive escort. She had a friend awaiting her there. She even had the support, if one could call it that, of family.

Why, then, was she dreading it so? Why the cold, hard lump of fear in her middle? It was only a large gathering of some of the most important and wealthy people in England. It was only a court of judgment on looks, fashion, and behavior, with sudden deadly annihilation for those found guilty of trespass.

And she had no doubt she would be. A trespasser. A poseur. An imposter.

She suddenly wished Julian would not be there. Of course, if he was not, neither would she be. Yet to have him see her miserable failure tonight seemed the worst of all.

He was the first person in years to listen to her, laugh with her. She loved his eyes when he was with her, the way he truly looked at her, truly
saw
her. It had been years since anyone had bothered to see her. She did not want that look in his eyes to fade, to be replaced by scorn or indifference.