Her Grace in Disgrace (The Widows of Woburn Place) (5 page)

“I
am not sure I know what paella is, Mrs. Kitchen.”

“It
be a Spanish dish that Mrs. Aiken, that is, Her Grace learned me to cook. It’s
got prawns and mussels and rice. And a lovely spice called Saffron. The
mistress loved her spices. Now don’t get me wrong. She enjoyed my English
dishes well enough. Not a fussy one was Lady Warwick. I don’t usually hold with
furriners, but my mistress was as good as any Englishwoman.”

“You
got a boy, Miss?” came a voice from a few inches below Isobel as she walked
from the staircase to the dining room. The voice emanated from the rather
grubby little boy, Jem, who looked up at her with hope in his eyes.

“I
am afraid not, Jem.”

“I
was afeared of that. The master and mistress let me play with Reggie when I
didn’t have to work. We had heaps of fun. They were good uns were the master and
mistress, Reggie too for being just a mite.” Jem sighed, sadly shaking his
head, impressing upon Isobel that she had really let him down.

She
was a sad disappointment to everyone it seemed, especially to herself. She was
confused and lonely, despite her good-natured aunt and wondered if she had any
hope for happiness.

But
Isobel did try to make the best of it. After all, the house on Woburn Place was
not a thatched roof cottage in the hinterlands. But it was also not Wren House.
She daily battled with herself to be content with her lot. The closest she
could come was resignation. Lady Whitcomb, on the other hand rhapsodized about
their new living arrangement.

“It
is so comfortable, my dear. And well appointed. I find myself wandering into
the water closet just to toy with the mechanism. And the servants, Isobel, why
it is heavenly not bumping into a footman or maid every time I turn around.
Yes, yes. It is quite to my liking here.”

Isobel
smiled fondly at her aunt. If only she could have half the cheery disposition
of the older woman. Dear Aunt Maude always looked for the silver lining. Her
late husband, Lord Whitcomb, had been a sore trial to the woman. But she never
complained, though she had endured twenty three years of the man’s infidelity
and neglect. Not to mention the heartbreak of three miscarriages.

A
sennight after their removal to Woburn Place, Isobel and her aunt were sitting
at the dining room table, breaking their fast, when Renfrew entered with the
post on a silver tray. The post! Renfrew placed the tray on the table with a
flourish, a pleased smile lighting his interesting face. He knew the ladies had
been disappointed at the dearth of correspondence and was pleased to present
the first letter in two days. Isobel’s excitement, however, was brief.
It is
probably just another note from Drew,
she thought and smiled wryly
remembering the note he had sent, along with flowers, the day after their less
than cordial reunion.

My
Dear Izzy,

What
can I say? I am mortified at my abhorrent behavior toward you yesterday. In the
past six years I have done so much praying and soul searching on the matter
that I thought, I truly thought, that I had forgiven you. It seems I have not.
After all you had been through that day and I chose to reenact the Inquisition
with you. It is unforgivable. Nonetheless, I am hoping that you will forgive
me.

The
vicar in me cannot help but quote scripture to stress my fervent hope that you
will indeed take pity on me and accept the olive branch I extend toward you.

 “Take heed to yourselves: If thy brother trespass against thee,
rebuke him; and if he repent,
forgive
 him.” Taken from the Gospel
according to Luke, the 17
^th
chapter and 3
^rd
verse.

“So that contrariwise ye
ought rather to
forgive
him, and comfort him, lest perhaps such a one
should be swallowed up with overmuch sorrow.” Taken from the Second Book of
Corinthians, the 2
^nd
chapter and 7
^th
verse.

And
indeed I would be swallowed up with sorrow if I thought you could not forgive
me. My dear friend, when I should have comforted you, I lashed out. When I
should have let you pour out your sorrows to me, I questioned you as if you
were a common criminal.

Again,
I am so sorry for my actions and most of my words of yesterday. My only hope is
that you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I leave you with a final
scripture to encourage you to do so.

“
But if ye do not 
forgive
, neither
will your Father which is in heaven 
forgive
 your trespasses.”
Mark 11:26.

Your
humble servant and friend,

Drew

Ps:
It was wonderful to see a glimpse of the real Isobel yesterday. It reminded me
of our constant brangling as children.

Pps:
Did you finish off the Wedgewood after I left?

Isobel
had read the first few paragraphs and reluctantly felt the anger toward Drew
melting away. Drat him! He would have to ruin it with the barely veiled
biblical threat. And the postscript! The real Isobel indeed.

Her
missive back to him had been much shorter.

Lord
Saybrooke,

Though
it pains me to employ your methods, I feel compelled to mimic you and quote
scripture to my own end.

“
Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall
not be condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.” Excerpt from
the Gospel according to Luke, the 7
^th
chapter and 34
^th
verse.

Sincerely,

Miss Isobel Kennilworth, spinster

Ps: I had not realized that there is a counterfeit Isobel
Kennilworth prowling the streets of London. Please give her my regards if you
chance to meet her again.

Pps: The Wedgewood is merely short one teacup.

Saybrooke’s return communication was even shorter.

My esteemed Miss Kennilworth,

You have not said if I am forgiven.

Waiting expectantly,

Saybrooke

Isobel’s attention returned to the single letter that rested on
the tray. She noticed Renfrew hovering, watching her with ill-concealed
interest. She dismissed him and he left grudgingly, but obediently. Isobel
could not suppress a smile as she reached for the solitary envelope that lay on
the tray by her elbow, thinking of her final message to Saybrooke.

Saybrooke,

Nor have you.

I. Kennilworth

Isobel fingered the fine vellum as she looked at the exquisite
writing. It was not from Drew, but Henrietta Fotheringay, Lady Mercer, who had
not been in town of late due to the recent birth of her second child. Isobel
took the silver letter opener and slit open the letter. Lady Whitcomb looked up
from the newspaper and, noticing the letter, beamed.

“Isobel, darling, did you receive correspondence?” Lady Whitcomb
asked full of anticipation. “It is not another nasty letter from Imogen, is
it?”

“No, Aunt Maude. I believe my sister-in-law said everything she
needed to say in the last one.”

“It is hateful, Isobel, your own brother banning you from your
home! If it was not for you and your sacrificial marriage to Warwick, he would
not have a home!” Aunt Maude was appalled.

“Oh, I doubt Geoffrey has a say in the matter. If it were up to
him, he would let me come and go as I pleased. He would never notice me, but he
would allow me to come. He cares only for The Glen, which understandably
rankles with Imogen. Frankly, I am grateful that he has not squandered the
money I secured by marrying Reginald, but put it into improving the land. No,
this is Imogen’s doing. A sister-in-law embroiled in scandal will seriously
affect her consequence.” Isobel allowed herself a sardonic smile at the social
climbing aspirations of her sister-in-law.

“Her consequence, bah!” snorted Lady Whitcomb with contempt.

Isobel smiled and began to read her letter. Impatient to know who
it was from, Lady Whitcomb spoke again. “Oh, is it just another impertinent note
from Saybrooke?”

“No, Aunt, it is not from Saybrooke,” answered Isobel, a different
sort of smile creeping over her impassive face. She gave her inquisitive aunt
an abbreviated version of the letter. “It is from Henrietta, Lady Mercer. She
gave birth to her second son, whom she has dubbed “the spare” a few months ago,
and Lord Mercer has forbidden her to come to London. All of this, of course, I
knew. She, however, is bored to tears. Henrietta, being Henrietta, has decided
to bring London to her in Hertfordshire. She has invited me to a house party.”

“Does she know of your… situation?”

“Indeed she does. Listen to this,” said Isobel, her smile widening
to a grin. “Though, I warn you, Henrietta writes as she speaks, with an
overabundance of exclamation marks.” Isobel held up the letter, searched for
the proper spot and began to read.

While “the spare” is a darling boy, I confess to a bout of ennui,
abandoned as I am out here in the country. And since I am cut off from all
manner of gaiety, Mercer has promised me a house party! I had not thought to
invite you, due to Warwick’s recent death, until I heard the news from London!
And what news! My dearest Isobel! What infamy! I knew Warwick was mean-spirited,
but this! My dear, having heard the news, I was frantic to do something to help
you. Though Mercer is dreadfully averse to anything that smacks of scandal, I
used my feminine wiles and convinced him to include you. And so you shall come
and once all is said and done, you will begin anew as the much sought after
Miss Isobel Kennilworth!

“Oh, Isobel! This is just the thing! You will go with head held
high and will show to the world that you are well and happy. Shortly the
invitations will be streaming in again. You will be accepted back into the
bosom of Polite Society! God bless Lady Mercer.”

“I thought you cared nothing for the opinion of the
ton
.”

“For myself, I do not. But, you are still young, my dear. And so
lovely. You can still marry and find happiness.” Lady Whitcomb smiled and
sighed wistfully.

“Dear Aunt Maude, after all you have been through with your
despicable Lord Whitcomb and what Warwick has done to me, you still can place
the hope for my happiness in marriage?”

Lady Whitcomb shrugged. “Marry for love this time, Isobel, and all
will be well.”

Isobel looked at her in astonishment. “What of your new found
enlightenment from the work of Mary Wollstonecraft?”

“She found love, she married.” Lady Whitcomb said in a slightly
defensive tone. “To be an independent woman, one need not give up on love. I
have always dreamed of a union where one could be oneself, without pretense,
and still be loved and esteemed by one’s mate. Just think of it, Isobel. A true
partnership based on love and mutual respect!”

A very unladylike snort was Isobel’s only response. Lady Whitcomb
felt it would be best to change the subject.

“So, when do you leave for Hertfordshire? And for how long will
you be gone?”

“The house party is to last a week and begins in three days’ time.
Henrietta, however, has requested that I come the day before so that I can
properly make a fuss over ‘the Spare’ and ‘lay bare my soul’. Those are her
words. She also hopes I will be able to stay on for a few days at the end.”

“Will there be a large crowd? I know Adelphi can house a multitude
of people.”

“Henrietta did not say, but I think the group will be quite large.
There is to be a ball at weeks end.”

“A ball! How wonderful!” sighed Lady Whitcomb dreamily.

Isobel looked at her aunt’s wistful expression and felt a pang of
guilt.

“And what of you, Aunt Maude? Would you care to come? I know our
life has been quite flat since we have moved to Bloomsbury. If I were to write
to Henrietta and ask if you could join us…” began Isobel.

“Nonsense. I am quite content here. I have to work on my article
and I have a few invitations to tea.”

“So, your old cronies have not forsaken you?”

Lady Whitcomb laughed as she said, “Well, they are willing to
overlook my proximity to scandal in order to be the recipients of a first-hand
account replete with all the salacious details.”

Isobel smiled ruefully and rose from the table, taking up the
letter. “I must consult with Manning about what to bring. You are sure you will
be alright here alone?”

“Alone? There is a house full of servants to keep me company. Mrs.
Riggs, Mrs. Kitchen, and I have been playing Whist at night…for penny stakes of
course. Mrs. Kitchen is on a winning streak and I must stay and win back my
money.”

Isobel laughed and pretended to be shocked. “Gambling? In my own
home? And with the servants. I am mortified.” She went to her aunt and put her
hand on the older woman’s shoulder, squeezing it gently.