Her Grace in Disgrace (The Widows of Woburn Place) (4 page)

Why
Saybrooke could not leave well enough alone, he himself wondered but mere
seconds later. But, his mouth continued on heedlessly. They continued to stand
mere inches away, her face turned up to his defiantly. His next words were
softly spoken, “Was it worth it, Izzy? All the scheming? All the double
dealing? Did it make you happy? Are you happy now?”

Isobel’s
features froze and she took one step back, her chin jutting out in defiance and
her whole body shaking with anger. Just as Isobel was about to ring a peal over
Lord Saybrooke, Lady Whitcomb sputtered awake.

“My
goodness, I must have fallen asleep. I do apologize,” said Lady Whitcomb
looking sleepily from Isobel to Saybrooke. Her eyes widened as she took in the
two combatting figures. But then, suddenly, Isobel smiled and turned to her
Aunt Maude. Four years as marchioness and two as a duchess had not been for
naught. Her words, when they finally came were well measured and even.

“Aunt
Maude, I am so glad you had a little rest. Such a trying day. Lord Saybrooke
was just about to take his leave.” She turned her charming smile on Saybrooke.
“It was so kind of you to come and bring me comfort in my time of need. We
would not dream of detaining you any longer. I am sure you must have other
calls to make today. I will have Sloane show you out.”

Saybrooke
took his cue, bowed toward Lady Whitcomb, then took Isobel’s hand lightly in
his own and kissed the air above it.

“Lady
Whitcomb, a pleasure. Miss Kennilworth, your servant. I know my way out; no
need to ring for Sloane.”

Saybrooke
walked to the door, turned back to the ladies and sketched a final bow, just as
a Wedgewood tea cup sailed over his head.

The
house on Woburn Place was a happy surprise. Though not nearly as impressive,
large or elegant as Wren House, it was a gracious stone house with its own
garden and mews. Isobel had been happy to learn that a coach and team had come
with the house. She hoped she could afford to keep them. The house, all in all,
was better than she had imagined. But no matter how pleasing the house may be,
it did not make up for what Reginald had done to her. She entered the house,
ready to do battle.

Mrs.
Riggs, housekeeper of number 65 Woburn Place was all that was gracious. She
quickly offered to give Isobel and Lady Whitcomb the grand tour before their
trunks arrived with the disgruntled Manning and Lady Whitcomb’s abigail, Philpot.
Manning had not wanted to leave Wren House, but since the new Dowager Duchess
already had a lady’s maid and Manning did not relish being unemployed, she had accompanied
Isobel to Bloomsbury, acting as if she were moving to Moscow.

Isobel
readily agreed to the tour. Lady Whitcomb, ever the egalitarian despite her
birth, got on well with Mrs. Riggs from the start. She and the housekeeper
babbled noisily as they walked, while Isobel took in her new home in virtual
silence.

The
tour began, of course in the entrance hall, with its marble floor and rosewood
paneled walls. Adjacent to the ample, if not spacious entry, was a large,
well-appointed parlor painted a shade of butter yellow and filled with a
mixture of lovely rosewood and mahogany pieces and a variety of sofas and
chairs. Though eclectic in style, it had a pleasing effect.  In addition to the
parlor, the main floor consisted of a good sized dining room with a table that
could seat twelve and a well-stocked book room. Tucked away off of the bookroom
was a Bramah water closet. Isobel, while glad to see the modern convenience,
seethed. She had begged Warwick to install this amenity in Wren House to no
avail. Isobel schooled her features and they moved on to the second floor.
What
did Wren House matter to him?
Isobel thought.
He was never there!

With
pride, Mrs. Riggs presented the second floor suite that held two connecting
bedchambers. One was very masculine, the other exquisitely feminine. Each
bedchamber had its own dressing room and sitting room. The suite even boasted another
Bramah water closet. The final room on the second floor was called the salon
and had been used as the Aiken’s family sitting room, explained Mrs. Riggs.
Isobel looked at the cozy room and her buried anger once again stirred to the
surface as she pictured the happy little family at ease there. She quickly left
the room and allowed Mrs. Riggs and Aunt Maude to prattle on about wall
coverings and morning sun before they once again continued the tour.

The
third floor consisted of four smaller, but ample bedchambers, two of which had
evidently been used as the nursery. Though Mrs. Riggs was quick to name these
rooms, Isobel would have known without her explanation because of the
diminutive size of the furnishings. No other tell-tale signs remained, however.
No abandoned ball hid in a corner, no stray tin soldier lurked in the shadows.
The room, as well as the rest of the house was immaculate and stripped of all
personal effects. The young duke and his mother, Mrs. Riggs had explained, had
travelled to Warwick Park a few days prior, removing all their personal items and
leaving the house on Woburn Place ready for its new mistress.

“Master
Reggie was that excited to see Warwick Park. It will be so quiet around here
without a young one,” Mrs. Riggs sighed.

Lady
Whitcomb, full of curiosity, launched into speech now that the subject had been
breached. “A lively one, is he? I never had children, none that lived. I always
wondered if I could have handled an active young boy. Always moving. And dirty.
Of course, Isobel attracted dirt just as much as any boy…”

Isobel
turned the full force of her gaze on her aunt, which had the desired effect of
stemming her speech. “No matter, Mrs. Riggs, my aunt will manage to fill the
silence.” Isobel missed the hurt look on her aunt’s face as she had forged
ahead of the other two women.

Next
they briefly viewed the fourth floor, where the servants’ quarters were located.
They finished their tour by descending once again to the ground floor and
heading to the back of house, where the kitchen and servants dining area were
located. Isobel, weary both emotionally and physically, thanked Mrs. Riggs for
the tour and retired to her room, where she found Manning unpacking. Both the
sitting room and bedchamber were painted a golden yellow.  The bed boasted a
gold and burgundy damask bedcover with matching bed hangings and draperies. Isobel
sat heavily onto a burgundy velvet settee in the sitting room and thought of
the woman who had occupied this space. It was going to be a long night.

It
took Isobel and Lady Whitcomb less than a fortnight to settle in to their new
home. With her severely depleted income, Isobel was unable to do much
renovating, but she was determined to add her touch to the salon or at least
wipe away any lingering remnants of the Duke of Warwick and his legitimate
family. If she did not change it, she doubted she would ever use it. She finally
settled on a soft gray green color, which she found more to her liking. She
also changed the color of her new bedroom and sitting room from a goldenrod to
a dusky pink and the window and bedcoverings to a more cheerful chintz. But no
amount of paint would cover over Isobel’s mortification.

At
least she was allowed to redecorate, Isobel thought, for the terms of the will
required that she keep the existing staff. They were competent enough from what
she could tell so far, if a little coarser than she was used to, but everything
was different from what she was used to. At Wren House, she had more than two
dozen servants. Here at Woburn Place there were seven. Of course the sparseness
of the staff made it much easier to learn their names. There was Mrs. Riggs, of
course, who was a tiny woman, full of energy and spirit. The cook, oddly enough
named Mrs. Kitchen rivaled Aunt Maude for plumpness and appeared to be only
slightly younger. Helen and Anna were the maids, both barely out of adolescence.
Helen was dark and shy, Anna fair and talkative. Renfrew, young and tall, with
fiery red hair and a pleasingly ugly, freckled face, was the footman, cum butler,
cum man of all work. William held the post of coachman and groom and by the
look of him must have held it for quite some time. That left nine year old Jem,
the pot boy and pet of the household.

Decreased
staff was but one of the indignities Isobel was forced to endure. In the days
since her humiliation word had spread throughout the
ton
. She had received
no visitors, no invitations. She had known that this would happen once the
ton
,
the titled and wealthy arbiters of English society, had heard of her change in
circumstances, of course, but the reality was quite dreadful. The life she had
known was truly gone.

It
had always been Isobel’s habit and pleasure to peruse two or three newspapers during
breakfast. This habit ceased, however, after seeing a caricature in the Tattler
depicting her with a horrified expression on her face as she stared at a will,
a veiled widow in the background. The caption read: “Her Grace in disgrace.”
Another she had seen in the society column in the Post. It read: “Polite Society
will miss the spurned Miss K, as she has lately removed to the wilds of
Bloomsbury.” Isobel knew she was still fodder for the rumor mills and so
studiously avoided the newspapers at breakfast or any other time of day. Lady
Whitcomb on the other hand religiously read the society column at breakfast and
informed Isobel of the latest
on dits
and engagements.

“Lady
Amanda Chisholm is to marry Mr. William Neville. That will be a disaster,”
pronounced Lady Whitcomb decisively. “He is the wrong man for her.”

“Because
he is not titled?” queried Isobel, unable to ignore the gossip as she had
intended to do.

“Good
heavens, no. What on earth has that to do with it?” answered Lady Whitcomb with
a touch of asperity. “He is the wrong man for her, is all. She is a willful
little thing and needs a firm hand, though not too firm mind. Neville is weak.
She’ll lead him on a merry dance and it will end badly.”

“Indeed,”
said Isobel, amused.

“Ah,
now here is a match!” crowed Lady Whitcomb, reading further. “Miss Louisa Wilmot
is engaged to Captain Josiah Trent. They will do quite nicely.”

“Because
she is an heiress and he is the second son of an impoverished Viscount?” proposed
Isobel with a wry grin.

“No,
no, no! Isobel, you do not comprehend. It has nothing to do with money or
position!” Lady Whitcomb exclaimed. “It has to do with temperament.”

Isobel
looked at her aunt with more than a little skepticism.

“You
do not believe me. Think. When have I ever been wrong?” Lady Whitcomb said
confidently.

Isobel
thought back to the score of predictions of marital discord or bliss that her
aunt had made over the years. Various couples came to mind and she raised her
eyebrows.

“Once,”
declared Isobel.

Sure
of her own infallibility, Lady Whitcomb was taken aback. “Which marriage did I wrongly
predict?”

“Yours,”
Isobel offered, immediately wishing she had not said it.

Lady
Whitcomb’s round, pleasant face clouded over briefly, but she soon had her
ready smile in place.

“No,
my dear, I was perfectly correct in my estimation of the outcome of my own
marriage. I knew we would not suit and we did not. I simply had no choice.”

Isobel
had the grace to blush. “I am sorry, Aunt Maude. That was unkind of me.”

“Pish
posh. That is all water under the bridge, my dear. He is gone and I am quite
content with my life.” Isobel grew quiet and concentrated on her toast. Lady
Whitcomb patted Isobel’s hand and went back to reading the newspaper, sharing a
particularly interesting tidbit now and again.

Isobel
knew precisely the moment that her aunt read something about her beloved niece.
Lady Whitcomb, subtlety not her strongest suit, would sneak surreptitious
glances at Isobel and whisper, “Oh, my,” and cluck her tongue.

“Is
there something you would like to share with me, Aunt?” Isobel asked, eyebrows
raised.

Lady
Whitcomb looked flustered. “No. Oh, no dear. There is nothing here, but
scurrilous rumors and innuendo. I care nothing for the opinion of the
ton
.”
And with this she made a great show of tossing the newspaper aside, only to
sneak it up to her room for a more in-depth perusal at a later time.

Not
only did Isobel not want to hear the rumors about “Her Grace in disgrace”, she
wanted to know nothing of the doings of the house’s former master and mistress.
But, it could not be avoided. It seemed to Isobel that every encounter with the
servants brought a story to mind. The loyal retainers consistently referred to the
previous tenants of 65 Woburn Place with reverence and affection.

“Will
you be bringing over a hack from Wren House, Miss?” William put the question to
Isobel while she toured the stable in the Mews the day after her arrival.

“No,
William. I do not own my own horse and doubt I can afford to purchase one.”

“Ah,
that be a pity. Her grace has a fine mare, Sheba. Arabian, she is. And what a
seat the Duchess has, too. Why I never seen a better lady rider in all my
days.”

“Would
you like to try my paella, Miss. Right delicious it is.” Mrs. Kitchen asked
Isobel when consulting about menus.