Her Grace in Disgrace (The Widows of Woburn Place) (24 page)

Isobel
winced at her aunt’s last remark. Was she really unfeeling? Had she sunk so
low? But her aunt was not finished.

“I
know it sounds odd with you and I living in each other’s pockets, but I feel as
if I have lost you. The Isobel I remember was kind, generous, passionate,
impetuous and always full of fun and mischief. I see glimpses of that
remarkable girl from time to time. I live for those brief encounters.” Lady
Whitcomb was crying now, hating confrontation, but convinced this is what
Isobel needed to hear.

Isobel’s
heart and mind were in a whirl of conflicting emotions. She loved her aunt and
knew that kind lady returned her affection, but frustration, anger and despair
all warred within her and she could not keep the bitterness from her voices. “That
girl is lost to us both,” Isobel said, her voice aching with loss. “The past
six years has slowly killed her.”

Lady
Whitcomb, her tears having subsided, sat quietly contemplating her beloved
niece. Her heart ached for her, but pity would not help her heal. “Isobel, do
you remember the excursions you and I would take from time to time when you
were young, before Whitcomb passed? I would come to you when I could no longer
tolerate the man and would whisk you away to one destination or another.”

Isobel’s
eyes softened and she allowed a weak smile. “They are some of my happiest
memories.”

“Mine,
too, my dear. Mine, too.” Lady Whitcomb patted Isobel’s hand. “I remember so
clearly your unquenchable excitement at the prospect of what lay ahead,
whatever our destination. However, from time to time you would stick your head
out of the window and watch the road as it disappeared and you instantly became
ill. Do you remember what I said to you?”

“Never
look back Isobel. You will always feel better if you keep your eyes on what is
ahead,” parroted Isobel. Isobel was not simple-minded. She took her aunt’s
meaning, but could not quite envision what to do with the knowledge.

“Isobel,
you have blamed Saybrooke for abandoning you, your parents for pressuring you.
You have censured Reginald for lying to you and Charles for ruining your chance
with Saybrooke. And you are not wrong, for a great deal of guilt is placed
firmly in their corner, though you must claim some of the blame for yourself.
But, my dear, pointing the finger is a useless occupation. You are sick with
anguish and guilt from staring too long at the road you have already traveled.
You must look ahead.”

“I
beg your pardon if the future seems a bleak prospect to me.”

“That
is because you are focused on the past. You must think where it is you want to
go, who it is you want to become. The world is a very large place, Isobel,
extending far beyond the strictures of the
ton
and the limits of
society. Find a passion for some cause, some purpose.” Isobel’s eyes fell to
her lap, staring at her fidgeting fingers. Lady Whitcomb gently raised Isobel’s
chin with her chubby forefinger so that their eyes met. “Stop wallowing in
self-pity and self-absorption, Isobel. It does not become you.” Lady Whitcomb
released her tender hold on Isobel’s chin.

Despite
her aunt’s gentle tone, the words stung. Isobel sat unmoving, knowing that her
aunt was waiting for a response, but she was too distressed to speak. Even if
she could form the words, what should she say? Perhaps she should thank her
aunt for offering such sage advice? But she did not feel thankful. Or she could
beg her aunt’s forgiveness and vow to mend her ways. But she was not sure that
it was a promise she could keep. Isobel knew her aunt was right, yet she could
not suppress a surge of resentment bubbling up within her. In the end,
reverting to her most frigid voice, she said “I will consider what you have
said Aunt Maude.” She then rose and quietly walked to the door. Before she
could leave, Lady Whitcomb’s voice stopped her.

“What
of Charles?”

Isobel
turned a passive face to her aunt and after a longish pause pronounced, “He can
stay,” and left the room. Lady Whitcomb watched Isobel go, her heart aching.
Had she done the right thing; used the right words? Only time would tell.

The
next morning the entire household was in the doldrums. Renfrew had been able to
overhear most of what had transpired between Isobel and Lady Whitcomb and had
fairly accurately relayed their conversation to the rest of the staff. They
were of the opinion that Lady Whitcomb’s advice had been excellent and was sure
to pull the mistress out of the dismals. However, the mistress of 65 Woburn
place had not been seen since she had left the parlor at midday the previous
day, except by Manning, who had brought her dinner tray, which had returned
virtually untouched, and readied Isobel for bed. When, the clock chimed eleven
o’clock and Miss Kennilworth had still not rung for Manning, uneasiness settled
over the kitchen where they had all gathered to confer.

Mrs.
Kitchen said out loud what they all were thinking. “You should go check on her,
Miss Manning. I have a bad feeling about this.”

“She
told me that I wasn’t to come to her unless she rang for me,” retorted Manning
defensively.

“You
don’t fink she done herself in, do yer?” said young Jem, again voicing the
thoughts of the entire group.

Manning
gasped at hearing her own thoughts expressed aloud in such a blunt, and
ungrammatical, manner. She jumped to her feet and rushed upstairs. The mistress
was not in her bedchamber, but her nightgown lay in a heap on the floor. She
had evidently dressed herself, and in a hurry, it appeared. Manning felt a
panic rise in her. She hurried to inform the others of Isobel’s disappearance.
A quick search of the house proved the mistress to be nowhere about. They
reconvened in the entry and discussed what to do. It was just decided that Mrs.
Riggs should inform Lady Whitcomb that Isobel had vanished, when the very lady
flung open the front door, nattily dressed in her military style riding habit
with roses in her cheeks and a smile on her face. She was a bit taken aback by
finding all her servants, save the groom, standing about in the entry way.

“Good
morning!” she chirped.

“Good
morning, Miss,” they chorused together, surprise and hope visible in their
expressions.

“Is
my aunt closeted away with her scribblings?” asked Isobel a smile playing at
her lips.

“Yes,
Miss,” answered a few of the servants.

“And
Lord Charles?”

Renfrew
alone chose to answer. “He seems to be much better, Miss. He has breakfasted
and is playing Whist with Mr. Griffin.”

“Whist?
Charles? A bit tame for him, I think.” Isobel laughed at the thought.

“I
believe it is the only card game that Mr. Griffin knows, Miss,” added Mrs.
Riggs.

“Ah,
that would explain it. Well, since you are all inexplicably, but conveniently,
here, would one of you tell my aunt that I would like her to join me in the salon
in one hour? Mrs. Kitchen, if it is not too much trouble, I have not yet broken
my fast and would love some coddled eggs and toast. Add some extra food for
Lord Charles. He can always eat. Anna, please bring the tray up to Lord
Charles’ room. Renfrew, perhaps you could warn him that I will be joining him
in a quarter of an hour. Manning, follow me and help me change. I had the devil
of a time getting into my habit on my own this morning.”

The
servants exchanged brief glances and grins. Hope surged in their hearts and
they went off to carry out the mistress’ wishes.

As
Manning brushed out Isobel’s gold-brown hair, Isobel felt optimistic for the
first time since the early days at Adelphi. She hoped that the results of the plan
that she had hatched while galloping Bella through Regent’s Park, would be less
disastrous.

*****

“Are
yer here to play cricket, sir?” asked the small, misshapen boy with eagerness? “We
ain’t seen yer in ever so long.” The boy looked to be about seven years old,
but was in truth almost twelve. Many years of climbing up a chimney had stunted
his growth and caused his back to curve at an odd angle. It had also affected
his eyes sight. Despite his infirmity, he was a lively child and could usually
be seen with a smile.

The
gentleman, whom Robbie had addressed, stood in a classroom, obviously having
interrupted a lesson. Within seconds, following Robbie’s lead, the other former
climbing boys enthusiastically gathered around the visitor, full of
anticipation.

“Cricket,
Robbie? Who has time for such idleness? I shall preach you a sermon,” said the
gentleman in lofty tones. The boys gave a collective groan as they eyed the
gentleman with disappointment. The gentleman laughed.

“You
ninnyhammers fall for it every time! Of course, I am here to play cricket,”
declared the gentleman. This brought cheers from the boys and they encircled
their hero, each trying to grab onto his onto his once pristine frock coat.

“Boys,
boys, give Lord Saybrooke some space.” Reluctantly, the boys dispersed, but
only steps away. “We are so glad you have come,” said Mr. Billings, headmaster
of the Peterborough Home for Climbing Boys, greeted the Viscount warmly. “We
have not seen you in a while.”

It
was not meant to be an admonition, but Saybrooke felt it just the same. He
wanted to make a hundred excuses to say why he had not come in months, but he
knew they would all ring hollow. Instead he turned to the boys. “Will I be
forgiven for my absence if we play cricket and I bring treats from Gunters?
Sadly, it is too warm a day to have ices brought, but I assure you their other
confections are equally delicious.”

This
time a collective cheer went up and the boys danced around the Viscount once
again. “Take your seats, boys. There will be no cricket or treats if you do not
behave with a semblance of decorum.” The boys reluctantly resumed their seats.

 Saybrooke
looked at Billings guiltily. “I hope I have not disturbed their lessons.”

Billings,
an amiable man, but a stern disciplinarian nonetheless, smiled at the only
slightly repentant Lord. “You have indeed, My Lord, but the disturbance is
welcome. We shall make up our history lesson during playtime tomorrow. And they
will groan and complain, forgetting that today’s treat is the reason. But that
is what boys do.”

Two
rousing games of Cricket were duly played, with only a few minor scrapes and bruises,
and only one of those scrapes was suffered by Saybrooke. The treats delivered from
Gunters were completely consumed, not a crumb was left. When it was time to
leave, Lord Saybrooke mounted his horse with chants of gratitude from the boys
and a promise from him that he would return the next week.

Lord
Saybrooke had enjoyed himself immensely at the Peterborough Home for Climbing
Boys, just as he did the next day at the Winterdale Orphanage where he read
story after story to the littlest of the abandoned children with their sticky
fingers and their sunny smiles. The following day at St. Matthews Hospital was
not enjoyable in the true sense of the word, but it gave him a deep
satisfaction and he hoped he brought at least some cheer to the sick and dying
that he visited.

The
next day Wilkes was tying his cravat and grumbling. “Sit still, please, My
Lord, I am almost done. Though why I bother, I don’t know since every day but
Sunday in the last week you have come home looking a sight.”

“I
am sorry Wilkes; I know that I am a sad disappointment to you, but you had best
get accustomed to it, for I am enjoying myself and will most likely come home
today looking like something the proverbial cat dragged in. I am going to the
soup kitchen and I never seem to be able to stay clean while there.”

The
valet groaned and Saybrooke smiled, admitting to himself that he did indeed
derive a great deal of fulfillment and pleasure from extending a helping hand
to those in need, and he had the devil of a time doing it without ending up a
rumpled mess. His smile faded as he admitted something else to himself, though
grudgingly. Despite the satisfaction he enjoyed, it did not drown out the
thoughts of Isobel, the ache for Isobel. And so he resolved to try harder.

*****

Lord
Charles looked up as Isobel sauntered into the room, stunning in a simple, but
elegant plum colored morning gown. His eyes, while appreciating the sight of
her, were wary. She gifted him with a dazzling smile.

“I
hope you are hungry,” she told him as Anna arrived with a food laden tray.

“I
can always eat,” Lord Charles grinned back.

“So
I told Mrs. Kitchen.”

Isobel
sat in the straight back chair by Charles’ bedside. The tray rested on a
smallish table that had been pulled close, making the light meal accessible to
both Isobel and Lord Charles. Isobel tucked in with relish. Charles watched
her, amused, but ate little, despite his earlier assertions. Finally, he voiced
the question that had haunted him throughout his restless night. “Am I
forgiven, then? I truly had decided against the scheme. Any scheme.”

Isobel
purposely hesitated, letting him squirm. Forgiveness was all well and good, but
he should be made to feel a little uncomfortable!