Tristan cleared his throat at Isolde’s side, pulling her hand tighter to his side. “We shall ensure that my new duchess is given ample time to settle into her role, Your Majesty.”
Victoria shot Isolde what could only be described as a disappointed look. “We certainly hope so.”
Forty minutes later, Isolde was still fuming—panicking? worrying?—over the Duchess of Andover’s comments.
Never once had Isolde supposed that becoming the Duchess of Kendall would force her to cease scientific studies. The very idea was absurd. As long as she behaved with decorum, who should care if she attended the occasional lecture on current advancements in steam locomotion? Surely, the eyes of thetonwould not always be watching. Or would her choices forever be grounds for debate?
What was she to do?
She and Tristan were now seated with the rest of the guests, listening as Ethan spoke from the dais at one end of the room. Allie sat on Tristan’s opposite side, eyes staring raptly at her husband on the stage.
Tristan remained stoic and entirely Kendall-like—spine rigid and unbending. However, a trace of Tristan showed when he reached for Isolde’s hand where it rested in her lap and gently pried open her clenched fist.Relax, his touch said. Isolde glanced up at him, and he rewarded her with a soft look, the sort that curled her toes in her silk stockings. She nearly sighed and sank her head against his shoulder in gratitude before remembering that noblemen and their ladies did not indulge in displays of affection in public.
Her name on Ethan’s lips jerked her attention back to the poet.
“ . . . Iseult of legend. The poem, in the form of a dramatic monologue, details the final chapter of Iseult’s relationship with Sir Tristan,” Ethan was saying in his magnetic Scottish brogue. “As ye likely already know, the legend of Sir Tristan and Princess Iseult has echoes of King Arthur, Guinevere, and Sir Lancelot. But for the few who may not know the tale, I’ll give a wee summary. The story begins with Sir Tristan fetching the fair Princess Iseult of Ireland who is betrothed to his uncle and mentor, King Mark of Cornwall. However, on the long journey back to Cornwall, Sir Tristan and Princess Iseult accidentally ingest a love potion that compels them to fall in love with each other. They know their affections to be false, but unable to resist the pull of their attachment, they succumb to their baser impulses.”
Tristan’s fingers squeezed around her own. Isolde knew that he viewed his initial attraction to her as a form of madness—unable to stem the relentless pull to adore her.
She would be forever grateful that he came to his senses and stopped resisting.
Ethan continued, “As ye can imagine, chaos ensues. King Mark is incensed, and Sir Tristan and Princess Iseult are vilified for their scandalous behavior. Eventually, the love potion wears off and the lovers are set free. They each marry another and find some semblance of happiness. But years on, Sir Tristan is gravely wounded. As often happens in these tales, only Iseult’s presence and her link to the magical love potion can save him. My poem begins at the moment that Iseult receives word of Tristan’s injuries—her dramatic monologue is in response to the messenger’s summons. Ladies and gentlemen, I give youIseult of Ireland.”
Applause burst through the room.
Ethan grinned and held up a silencing hand. Clearing his throat, he clasped his hands behind his back and began reciting:
“Must I once more venture into madness?
You cry, ‘He is dying!’ and ‘Come in haste!’
But has it not been sufficient? The scope
Of my suff’ring? The folly of my heart?
Here, I am at peace with husband and child
And redemption beside me, my heart devoted
to another now. What care I if my
potion-magicked lover perish?”
Ethan continued. As usual, the poem shone with the brilliant luster of his wit and sharp insights.
Isolde saw much of her own current dilemma reflected in her namesake’s words on Ethan’s lips. She, too, had been at peace with her place in the world. Years ago, she had turned her back on Polite Society and created a life outside of it—one not dictated by tradition or custom, but of her own choosing.
But now, she was called to re-enter the world of her birth. How was she to manage it? How could she fit her square personality and interests into the round hole thetondemanded she be?
Isolde had adored her time at Broadhurst—interacting with other scientific-minded women, studying engineering and maths, consistently broadening her thoughts and abilities. It had been the definition of a dream realized.
Well, that was until Mr. Stephen Jarvis appeared on the scene. The youngest son of Lord Jarvis, he had relentlessly pursued her. Taken with his good looks and charm, Isolde had been flattered and more than willing to permit him to dance and flirt and, on more than one occasion, kiss her. She had even pestered her father into investing with Jarvis.
Unfortunately, the affair had detonated in spectacular fashion. First, she had discovered that Jarvis, the blackguard, was already married, his doting wife rusticating at home in Bristol. Then, Isolde learned that Jarvis was a fraudster and was using her father’s reputation to swindle investors. Thankfully, Jarvis had been arrested, brought to trial, and convicted of his wrongdoings—receiving transportation for his behavior.
Miraculously, her indiscretions with Jarvis had never come to light. Isolde had demanded he return her letters and then burned their correspondence, reducing the information they contained to smoke and ash. No one outside of Jarvis himself and her parents knew the depth of her indiscretion. Well . . . and Tristan. He had unfortunately read the letters before she had burned them. But that chapter was behind her now.
Like Iseult of Legend, Isolde had experienced a sort of love-stricken madness with Jarvis. But she had thankfully come to her senses and broken off with the man.
