Thetonhad already shown they had no tolerance for her eccentricities. An inability to properly manage her household merely added more fuel to the fire. She fully expected to hear snide comments along the lines of, “What is the point in gaining a university education if the duchess cannot oversee simple household matters?”
Mrs. Wilson had been beside herself over the sugar mishap. Isolde assured the woman she was not to blame. Lady Lavinia had clearly meddled in the kitchen. To avoid future mishaps, Isolde left instructions that she be informed anytime LadyLavinia descended to the servant’s domain in the basement of the house.
Her mother was apoplectic when she learned of Lady Lavinia’s role in the salt debacle.
“You should have Kendall toss her out immediately,” Lady Hadley fumed. “Such meddling is beyond the pale.”
“I cannot prove that Lady Lavinia actually replaced the sugar with salt, Mamma. It is merely my supposition.”
“We both know that Kendall will believe your word.”
“Aye, he will. But if I am to be a proper duchess, I cannot run to him every time I encounter a difficulty. I need to fight my own battles. No one will respect me otherwise.”
Her mother sighed. “I fear I have taught you too well, my dear.”
Isolde managed a wan smile. “Ye have indeed, Mamma, and I love ye dearly for it. I couldn’t survive this hellish month without yourself at my side.”
Lady Hadley wrapped an arm around Isolde’s waist, holding her close. “Your present circumstances would try a saint.”
“I have been burnishing my halo, I assure ye.”
“Perhaps one day, we will laugh at all this.”
“Perhaps,” Isolde agreed, “but not yet. Now, if ye don’t mind, I think I have earned myself a nap.”
Lady Hadley shook her head, kissed Isolde’s cheek, and as she had since Isolde’s earliest memory, wished her sweet dreams.
The jittery agitationwould not let Tristan be. It had a hold on him, tensing his breathing and setting his muscles to bouncing as the energy searched for an outlet.
It was now afternoon, and he still hadn’t heard word from Mrs. Tolman. Should he give it one more day before hiring an investigator? Or post a notice inThe Times? Both?
Regardless, the minutes dragged forward.
Worry over Isolde and Ledger mixed with that same boredom. The emotions nipped at his heels as restlessly as an irritated hound.
Isolde had her first at-home hours today, and so Tristan had made himself scarce—visiting first his cobbler and then inspecting theSS Statesmanstill docked in St. Katherine’s Wharf.
When he returned home, Fredericks reported that Isolde’s at home had been well attended. But Isolde herself remained closeted with Lady Hadley in the small drawing room. He stood outside the door—fingers tapping against his thigh—listening to the murmur of their voices, wanting to knock but knowing he should respect Isolde’s wishes and wait.
Tristan detested this idleness.
Finally, he broke. He ordered Fredericks to prepare a stack of logs and an axe in the small courtyard in the mews to the back of the house and requested the servants make themselves scarce.
Tristan didn’t wish for an audience.
Dressed in trousers, braces, and shirtsleeves, he carefully sharpened the axe before rolling a thick log into the center of the courtyard.
The axe sank into the wood with a satisfying thunk.
Five minutes later, he had established a steady rhythm.
Damn, this felt good. He was going to produce enough firewood to fuel all of Mayfair before he was done.
Chopping and splitting wood was not something a duke generally learned to do. But some of Tristan’s happiest childhood memories had happened with the gamekeeper, Auld Graeme, in the forests of Hawthorn. There, the brusque Scot taught Tristan to tend to wounded animals and chop wood for his keep. The repetitive motion of swinging an axe, the bite of steel into wood, had soothed his battered soul. It was a useful occupation—trees turning from trunks to rounds to splintered quarters ready for the fire.
Tristan had nearly forgotten about those long days with Auld Graeme. That was until Tristan and Isolde had washed ashore on the Isle of Canna, and their week on the isolated island resurrected his childhood pastimes. On the island, chopping wood had been a way to care for his wife, to ensure she was warm and had a fire for cooking.
The man Tristan had been three months ago would choke in shame over his current behavior. Now, he simply didn’t care. He liked chopping wood. He liked caring for his wife. Tristan truly began to wonder if he hadn’t been born into the wrong station in life. He and Isolde should be living in a country cottage, him chopping wood for the bread oven as she kneaded dough.
