Her Grace in Disgrace (The Widows of Woburn Place) (10 page)

“You are drunk!”

“Not yet. Come back in half
an hour and I should be properly jug-bitten by then.”

“I shall get my book and then
leave you to it,” said Isobel, lighting a branch of candles to better see the
selection of books. Turning her back to Saybrooke she scanned the multitude of
leather spines and gold tooled titles without really seeing them.

“What has happened to you,
Izzy?” Saybrooke’s voice was just behind her.

She turned to face him. “I
beg your pardon,” Isobel spoke in her most icy tone.

“Where is that Izzy I knew?
And loved.” Saybrooke stood close to her now and Isobel could smell the port on
his breath.

“She is long gone, Drew. She
was forced to grow up,” Isobel said shakily. He could still bewitch her. He
need not even touch her physically to affect her.

“I miss her.” Saybrooke brushed
Isobel’s cheek with his fingertips. She shuddered and lifted her face to be
kissed. Saybrooke complied. Their kiss was tentative at first, and then
deepened, both of them expressing their yearning denied so long.

Isobel was lost for quite
some time, but the image of a smiling Westcott broke the spell. She pulled out
of the kiss and Saybrooke’s embrace.

“I do  not know what came
over me. I beg your pardon, Lord Saybrooke, I lost my head.” Isobel’s confusion
and embarrassment stained her face red.

“Ah, so icy Izzy has
returned. You have so many conflicting natures it is hard to know which one
will surface at any given moment.” Saybrooke was annoyed and frustrated.

“I am who I am, Saybrooke. I
am tired of hearing you talk about the ‘old Izzy’ and the ‘new Izzy’ as if I am
some sort of changeling,” Isobel barked the words, her anger growing.

“Ah, but who are you? One
minute you are a stone cold maiden, with all the warmth of a marble statue and
the next you are a tittering school girl with not an ounce of discretion making
eyes at Westcott as if he is a gift from God. Neither of these guises even remotely
resembles the passionate Isobel Kennilworth that I remember, the Isobel who
surfaced briefly as she smashed shepherdesses and hurled a tea cup at my head.”

“You point your finger at me?
Who are you to judge? You stood there pronouncing judgment on a harmless little
play and then abruptly, and rudely if I might add, left the room to drink your
host’s port and get completely foxed! The Andrew Stafford I knew would never
have been so callous and ill-mannered. Nor would he have drunk to excess.”

“I am simply trying to
fulfill my duty as a peer, to live up to my new position in life. You have
heard the saying, ‘drunk as a lord’?” Saybrooke said making a weak attempt at
as jest.

Isobel said nothing for a
moment, her eyes blazing in the dim light of the candles. She glared at her old
friend, her former beloved, who had become a stranger.

Saybrooke spoke again, almost
as if to himself. “I know and accept that people change, but I have always
believed that one’s true nature, the one that God ordained and created within
the mother’s womb, that nature should remain essentially the same.”

“Do not spout philosophy at
me. It is late, or early rather. I cannot bear it,” Isobel said wearily.

“But we used to be
philosophers. We would sit in trees and philosophize, dangle our feet in the
lake and philosophize.” Saybrooke smiled at the memory.

“And then the realities of
life invaded our carefree world and we were forced to conform to the rigors of
the society we live in,” Isobel countered.

“See now, you are a
philosopher!” Saybrooke joked.

“I did not say I was not,
merely that I did not care to philosophize at two o’clock in the morning.”

Saybrooke continued to smile.
“Do you remember when you were ten and I was fourteen? You saw the Thompson
brothers tormenting a stray cat. You strode up to them like an avenging fury
and the two of them were on the ground in the blink of an eye before I could
even lift a finger to help.”

Isobel gave a short laugh,
remembering the little hoyden she had been. Saybrooke continued. “You proceeded
to scoop up the cat, which was none too pleased, and ride with the writhing,
hissing animal all the way home. Your arms and hands were covered in scratches,
nor did your neck or face escape unscathed. But you nursed that mangy cat back
to health single-handedly. No one else was allowed to care for the scraggly
feline, not that anyone else felt compelled to do so. At some point he ceased
scratching you and became your loyal subject.”

“Whiskers. I remember. And I
would do the same today if I encountered such abuse, short of beating the
miscreants within an inch of their lives.”

“Would you?” questioned
Saybrooke. Seeing the fiery glint returning to Isobel’s eyes he continued. “You
would most certainly take him home, but the creature would promptly be handed over
to a footman to care for.”

Isobel began to protest, but
the truth of his words stopped her. She went on the offensive instead. “I was a
young girl with very little to do. I had a surfeit of time on my hands. Now, I
have responsibilities, a busy life.”

Saybrooke laughed without
mirth. “Responsibilities? Deciding what dress to wear to the next ball? The
irksome burden of having to go on visits, sipping tea and gossiping about the
visitors who have just taken their leave? Making sheep’s eyes at members of the
opposite sex and in general giving in to the pressures of a dissipated
society?”

“Are you speaking of me, or
of yourself?” At Saybrooke’s answering glare, she continued, keeping her voice
neutral. “My goodness, such righteous pronouncements. Your views were never so
extreme, even during your ‘religious awakening’.”

“We shared that awakening,
Izzy. What happened?” Saybrooke asked sadly.

“I believe we have already
covered that. Life changes us. Even you, Saybrooke. I recall, quite clearly,
that back then you were not a self-righteous prig.”

“And you were not a
calculating, self-indulgent vixen,” Saybrooke said in measured tones.

Isobel’s palm, connecting
with Saybrooke’s cheek, made a loud smack in the quiet room. Isobel, shaking
with rage, dropped her hand, her eyes never leaving his. Saybrooke returned her
gaze, his eyes full of regret and misery.

“It seems we cannot reconcile
who we are with who we were. I will have to rethink my theory.” Saybrooke said
to cover the silence.

“I think it would be best for
us not to speak to each other unless absolutely necessary. We do not seem to be
able to do so without ill effects,” Isobel stated in a subdued voice.

“I think that wise,” he
agreed.

“Goodnight, Lord Saybrooke.”

“Goodnight, Miss
Kennilworth.”

Without another look in his
direction, and also without a book, Isobel left the room. She went quickly to
her room and cried herself to sleep. Saybrooke returned to the armchair by the
dying fire and resumed his sampling of the port.

The dawn of the new day was
almost imperceptible, for fog lay thick on the ground; a gray mist enveloped
the countryside. There was a distinct dullness in the air. Lady Joanna,
however, was full of youthful enthusiasm. As the acting troupe slowly gathered
in the dining room to break their fast and gather strength for the coming day,
Lady Joanna chattered and effervesced about the approaching production of what
she called “The House Party”. As soon as she heard the title, a very subdued
Isobel knew what was coming.

“I have got a script for everyone.
Miss Parrish was kind enough to come to my room last night and help me
rearrange a few parts to fit our actors and then copy out six copies. She has
lovely handwriting. Well, shall we get started?”

By eleven o’clock, the actors
had all gathered in the Yellow Room, the site of the performance, as well as
the rehearsal. Miss Parrish handed out scripts. It was instantly obvious who
had copied which of the scripts. Those who had Miss Parrish’s version admired her
clear, elegant copperplate. Those, including Isobel, who received Lady Joanna’s
copies, had to expend a great deal of effort just to decipher the barely
legible scribble.

Lady Joanna took great
pleasure in assigning the parts and Isobel was delighted to find that, indeed,
her love interest in this play was Lord Westcott. She peeked ahead before they
began to read aloud and blushed when she saw that she and the lord were to
share an embrace. Well, thought Isobel, we shall see about that. It was one
thing to steal an embrace on a veranda or in a darkened garden or even in a
library, but it was another to do so for an audience.

The props and costumes had
already been seen to and Lady Joanna had already spoken with Lady Mercer, who
had said she could spare only one maid and one footman to help with the play due
to the preparations for the ball the following night. Lady Joanna assured her
that a maid and a footman would do splendidly.

The rehearsal went remarkably
well, even though Miss Hyde-Price in the guise of Lady Prunilla was not happy
that she had to share a love interest with Miss Parrish’s character, Lady
Charity. Captain Danvers was pleased to be the much sought after beau, though
his character, Lieutenant Pine, yearned for Lady Edgerton’s character, Mrs.
Vane, who in turn pined for Lord Westcott’s character, Lord Dash. Lord Dash,
however, had an all-consuming passion for Isobel’s character, Miss Sweet, who
was unhappily engaged to Mr. Collins character, Sir Guy. Sir Guy, however, was
not a steadfast fiancé and took every opportunity to flirt with Lady Joanna’s
character, Miss Fitz. Miss Fitz did not return Sir Guy’s regard, but only had
eyes for Mr. Valiant, Lord Pelton. Miss Fitz and Mr. Valiant were forbidden to
marry due to Mr. Valliant’s lack of pedigree and funds. It did not take the
actors and actresses long to realize that Lady Joanna’s satire, replete with its
tangled romances and misplaced affections resembled their own party all too closely.
Lady Joanna took few pains to disguise the true identity of the characters. Miss
Hyde-Price, however, failed to see herself in the selfish little horror she
portrayed, for she was blissfully unaware of her true nature and saw herself in
a much kinder light than did anyone else who observed her behavior.

Evening came and the play was
performed. Even the disapproving Stoughton’s deigned to attend. The hardworking
actors were gratified by the laughter and horrified gasps of the audience at
the appropriate places. Lady Mercer thankfully had a sense of humor and seemed
to thoroughly enjoy watching a much exaggerated version of her house party
being acted out before her eyes. The rest of the audience, save Lord Saybrooke,
followed their hostess’ lead and a few of them even gave a chortle or two of
their own accord. Lord Saybrooke was careful not to scowl or appear offended by
some of the warm sentiments displayed in the performance. And though Isobel had
convinced Lady Joanna to change the embrace to a soulful handclasp, much to
Lord Westcott’s chagrin, Lord Saybrooke had all he could do to remain passively
in his seat.

All in all, however, the play
was a success. The amateur players congratulated each other and the audience
praised their efforts. Lady Joanna looked radiant and basked in the
compliments. “Oh, thank you,” she said in an unfamiliar breathy voice to Lord
Pelton, who had praised her ingenuity and hard work. “I had the most wonderful
time; it hardly seemed like work at all. If I were not a lady, I would most
certainly aspire to a career on the stage”

 Isobel had enjoyed herself
as well, mostly due to the company of Lord Westcott. She had no such thespian
aspirations. Her inclinations were directed toward a much more domestic course.

Tea and brandy were served in
the Museum Room following the performance and the group wandered en masse in
that direction. When Lord Saybrooke appeared to veer off in the direction of
the library, Miss Hyde-Price scurried to his side, sliding her arm through his.

“Lord Saybrooke, you cannot
mean to go off to that musty old library! After all my…our hard work, you must come
and celebrate with us,” insisted Miss Hyde-Price in her most syrupy voice with
just a hint of steel.

“While I appreciated the
clever performance, I have promised Mr. Parrish that I would search out a
particular reference that escaped us both today during our discussion of
epistemology.” Lord Saybrooke feigned regret.

Miss Hyde-Price’s regret was
completely unfeigned and her pout nearly persuaded him to comply with her
wishes. However, Miss Hyde-Price had unexpected help from another quarter.

“Good gracious, Saybrooke,
you need not find it tonight. Tomorrow will be soon enough,” laughed Mr.
Parrish good naturedly.

A chagrined Lord Saybrooke
looked at Miss Hyde-Price’s face, ebullient in victory, and succumbed to the
inevitable, escorting her into the Museum Room.

Isobel and Lord Westcott sat
on the sofa, Isobel sipping her tea and Lord Westcott, his brandy. They laughed
and talked in hushed tones as if no one else in the world existed. Or so it
seemed to Saybrooke as he half-listened to Miss Hyde-Price’s exhaustive
description of Lady Cowper’s ball that had taken place almost a fortnight ago.