Tonight, she would be weak.
Tonight, she would dream of yesterday.
Chapter 25
A breakfast that began at four of the clock. Whether in Spain or England, it was the aristocratic way. And, in all honesty, Isabel couldn’t help thinking it a delightful concept.
To break one’s fast this late in the day was an indulgence known only to those of the highest tiers of society. But today, at Gardencourt, all were welcome to enjoy a taste of aristocratic life.
In the conservatory, surrounded by orange, lemon, and lime trees recently denuded of their fruit for all manner of treats—lemon tarts, lemon cakes with strawberries and cream, lime punch, orange pudding—Isabel stood beside the Duchess, greeting villagers, exchanging pleasantries about the beauty of the weather—a cooling breeze holding off the summer heat—and encouraging all to enjoy themselves, which the large quantity of rum in the lime punch rather encouraged. Cook had even sung a rhyme while she stirred:
One of sour
Two of sweet
Three of strong
Four of weak
Truly, Gardencourt was at its finest. The townsfolk dressed in their Sunday best on a Saturday. Children racing across the verdant field on the other side of the ha-ha, Lord Exeter’s wild gaggle of boys leading the fray in a merry chase, big brother Hugh in tow. The town elders, along with the Duke and Lord Exeter, enjoying a light tea at tables set beneath the oaks beyond the terrace. Just a few steps from the conservatory splayed the large white tent where the dance would take place later along with an informal supper.
Earlier, Isabel had spotted Lucy and Miss Radclyffe overseeing those preparations and consulting with the string quartet brought in from London about the music list. Lively fiddle tunes were an absolute must, as the villagers, and the Duchess in particular, expected informal country dances. Lucy, however, had other dances in mind. Well, one dance—the waltz—which the musicians agreed to insert into the rotation every fourth song, Lucy had happily informed Isabel, who suspected a bit of additional coin was involved.
It was a jubilant day with every member of the Bretagne family doing his or her part. Even Lady Exeter was greeting visitors who couldn’t help being awe-struck by a lady of her elevation stooping so low as to offer them a good day, for she couldn’t help making one feel so.
All the Bretagnes save one.
Percy.
“Now, Isabel,” said the Duchess once a large group of women had moved along, ooo-ing and aah-ing over the exotic plants of the conservatory, “if you have half a brain in that pretty head of yours—and I believe you do—you will call this gathering the First Annual Citrus Day Breakfast and Dance and establish it as a yearly event for the village.”
“That is a splendid idea,” Isabel replied, voice carefully neutral. A splendid idea for a different future mistress of Gardencourt Manor. A true one.
The Duchess gave Isabel a magnanimous nod. “I am pleased to have given you the idea. Now, pray tell, where is that husband of yours?”
Isabel attempted a light laugh that soared with all the lift of a deflated air balloon. “Oh, you know Percy. He is at the stable, showing the men the future of Gardencourt’s racing stock.” How naturally the lies flowed from her mouth these days. Her view of herself as an honest person might have to change.
“That boy is horse mad, always has been.” The Duchess released the length of pearls she’d been twining round her fingers. “I suggest you go and find your husband. Then explain to him that it is his God-given duty as a scandalous and dashing man to give our female villagers a thrill by showing his handsome face.” It was clear the Duchess’s suggestion was, in fact, a command.
Isabel took her leave of the ladies and entered the happy tide of the festivities, a gaiety to which she was immune. Since last night, a numbing shell had hardened around her, allowing no emotions to penetrate. For if she let herself feel, it wouldn’t be joy she experienced. Quite the opposite, in fact.
’Twas better to feel nothing.
In the distance, she spotted Tilly and Nell, dressed in their remade finery, garlands in their hair, strolling arm in arm across the close-cropped lawn, four would-be swains at their heels, each vying for a pretty smile and an encouraging word. While Nell appeared overwhelmed by the attention, the same couldn’t be said for Tilly, who understood the power of a saucy smile and a bold rejoinder over a young man. Or five young men, as the case now was.
Isabel continued her scan of the grounds and discovered no trace of Eva. The old Eva wouldn’t have missed these festivities for the world, but the new Eva was different, more measured in her choices. The new Eva worried Isabel, for she couldn’t feel that Eva was truly being herself, save one glimmer of hope: Eva was with her son. Eva had, at last, formed a bond with Ariel, and Isabel’s heart, which felt achy, bruised, and sore, experienced a swell of happiness for this one bit of good.
The feeling lasted but a moment, for her feet continued moving toward the stable, toward him.
Although she was doing the Duchess’s bidding now, there would be a time today—in five minutes or five hours—when she would be serving Montfort. She’d seen him, sitting beneath a sprawling oak with the other men, looking like the most English Englishman who ever walked the earth, red-faced with jollity, secure in the position of wealth and privilege the accident of birth had afforded him in life.
Montfort, however, hadn’t yet given her the scantest bit of his attention. She was nothing to him until it was time to move her pawn on the board.
Isabel’s gaze caught on the thin form of a serving girl, weaving through the festivities, bent on one task or another. Dressed in the same garb as every other servant, there was no reason for Isabel’s eye to follow the girl, except that she felt the compulsion. There was something familiar . . .
It struck her: the servant was the woman from that first night, from the carriage. Hortense, Percy’s friend. Well, friend might be stretching the matter. Associate seemed more appropriate. Hortense knew Percy was the Savior of St. Giles and had assisted him. The fact that she was here—today—meant she could have been here . . . last night.
It could explain Percy’s coldness. Perhaps Hortense had uncovered information in London . . . Information about Isabel. An echo of last night’s chill traced through her.
The fact that Hortense was here today meant more: she and Percy were anticipating action.
Isabel should run to Montfort and tell him, but she wouldn’t. With Hortense here, Percy might have a fighting chance against Montfort. Although it went against her interests, her spirits experienced a slight lift.