The drawing room door opened to admit Charlotte’s mother, Lady Wyndham, carrying a silver tray laden with tea things and sympathy written across her kind face. “I thought you girls might need refreshment,” she said gently, setting the tray on the low table between them. “And perhaps some fortification for the visitors we’ll be receiving shortly.”
Isadora’s stomach sank. “Visitors?”
“Lady Windsor sent word she’ll be calling this morning, along with Mrs. Hartwell and Lady Fairfax.” Lady Wyndham poured tea with practiced grace that spoke of decades managing social niceties. “I suspect they’ve come to offer support, though knowing Lady Fairfax, she’ll be fishing for details to share at her next dinner party.”
The prospect of facing society’s vultures made Isadora want to flee back to her chambers and hide under covers until they gave up and left. But running would only confirm every scandalous story, make her appear weak when she needed to project strength she didn’t feel.
“I’ll receive them,” she heard herself say, accepted the teacup Lady Wyndham offered with hands that wanted to tremble but refused the weakness. “Thank you for the warning.”
Lady Wyndham squeezed her shoulder with maternal warmth Isadora’s own mother had never provided. “You’re stronger than you know, my dear. And you have friends who will stand with you through this ugliness.”
The visitors arrived precisely at eleven, descending on Charlotte’s drawing room with sympathetic noises and sharp questions barely concealed behind social niceties. Lady Pemberton brought flowers and thinly veiled judgment. Mrs. Hartwell offered condolences that felt like accusations. Even Lady Fairfax made the journey from Yorkshire—ostensibly to provide support, but her eyes gleamed with curiosity suggesting she’d be dining out on whatever details she managed to extract.
“How dreadful for you, my dear,” Lady Fairfax cooed over tea, voice dripping false sympathy while her gaze catalogued every detail of Isadora’s appearance—the shadows beneath her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands, the careful control that couldn’t quite hide devastation underneath. “To discover after the wedding what sort of man you’d married. Though I must say, there were warnings aplenty. Everyone knew about the duel, about his temperament, about that poor girl he’s taken in. One can hardly be surprised when a dangerous man behaves dangerously.”
Isadora’s fingers tightened on her teacup hard enough that delicate china threatened to crack. “His Grace has always been perfectly proper in my presence.”
A lie, but she wouldn’t give these vultures the satisfaction of confirming their suspicions, wouldn’t feed gossip that would follow her for years regardless of what truth she offered.
“Of course, of course.” Lady Fairfax’s smile suggested complete disbelief beneath the polite agreement. “Though one does wonder why you fled Rothwell Abbey in the middle of the night if everything was so proper between you. Surely if the marriage was satisfactory, a new bride would want to remain with her husband, especially with Christmas approaching and all the festive celebrations.”
The barb landed precisely where intended. Isadora felt it strike deep but refused to show reaction that would only encourage further prodding.
“I needed time with my dear friend Lady Charlotte,” she said, keeping her voice carefully neutral despite anger simmering underneath. “The transition to married life can be quite overwhelming, as I’m sure you understand from your own experience. Sometimes a woman requires companionship of her own sex during adjustment periods.”
“Oh, naturally.” But Lady Fairfax’s expression suggested she understood nothing of the sort, was already mentally composing the version of this conversation she’d share with other society matrons over tea and scandal. “Though the timing is rather unfortunate, what with all the whispers circulating about His Grace and that tragic duel. People will talk, you know. They always do when circumstances appear suspicious.”
They talked for another excruciating hour, each visitor extracting whatever morsels of information they could while offering sympathy that felt more like accusation. When they finally departed—satisfied with whatever gossip they’d managed to gather—Isadora retreated to her chambers and collapsed on the bed fully dressed, staring at the ceiling while tears she’d been holding back finally spilled.
She’d become exactly what her father had always warned against—a woman who’d made emotional choices rather than practical ones, who’d believed love might conquer cold pragmatism, who’d trusted her heart instead of her head and now paid the price for such foolishness.
A soft knock interrupted her misery. “Isadora?” Charlotte’s voice carried through the door, gentle with concern. “May I come in?”
“Yes.”
Charlotte entered carrying another tea tray because apparently tea solved everything in her world, settled on the bed beside Isadora with determination. “Well, that was thoroughly awful. Lady Fairfax is even more insufferable than I remembered.”
Despite everything, Isadora felt her lips twitch slightly. “She means well.”
“She means to gossip, which is entirely different.” Charlotte poured tea with practiced ease, pressed a cup into Isadora’s hands with gentle insistence. “But they’re gone now, and you survived with your dignity intact, which is more than most women manage under such circumstances.”
Isadora sat up enough to drink without spilling, welcomed the warmth spreading through her chest even though it couldn’t touch the cold deeper inside. “I received a letter from Mrs. Crawford this morning. Before the visitors arrived.”
She’d almost forgotten about it in the chaos, the letter from Rothwell Abbey that had arrived with the morning post and sat unopened on her writing desk because reading it felt like reopening wounds barely beginning to scab over.
“What did she say?” Charlotte asked carefully, as though sensing the answer might cause pain.
“That Lillian has taken my departure very hard. Barely eats, refuses her lessons, spends hours weeping in the gardens where we used to walk together.” Isadora’s voice cracked despite her best efforts. “Mrs. Hale is apparently at her wit’s end trying to manage her, and the girl asks constantly when I’ll return.”
The image of Lillian weeping tore at her heart worse than Edmund’s rejection, made guilt join the grief already threatening to drown her. The girl had already lost so much—her parents, her anonymity, any chance at normal childhood. And now Isadora had abandoned her too, proved herself just another adult who promised protection but delivered only disappointment.
“And Edmund?” Charlotte’s question emerged cautious.
“Mrs. Crawford says he prowls the house like a caged beast. Doesn’t sleep—she hears him pacing in his study until dawn. Doesn’t eat properly. Won’t go near the drawing room where I used to play pianoforte.” Isadora swallowed against the tightness in her throat. “Yesterday she found him standing in the rose garden, just staring at the beds I’d begun to tend. He stood there for nearly an hour in the cold before finally returning inside.”
She shouldn’t care. She shouldn’t let his suffering matter when he’d caused all of this through his own stubborn refusal to feel anything real. But the image of Edmund standing alone in frozen gardens, staring at flowers that wouldn’t bloom until spring, made her chest ache despite every logical reason to feel nothing but anger.
“The entire household is in mourning,” Isadora continued, pulling the letter from her pocket where she’d tucked it earlier, unfolding it to read Mrs. Crawford’s careful script. “She says it’s as though the life I brought to Rothwell Abbey departed with me, leaving only shadows and silence. That they miss me terribly. All of them. That the house feels hollow without my presence.”
