I don’t want you, she had said.
And as Tavish excused himself for bed, he understood—perhaps better than he ever—precisely why. Because, despite being her husband, he wasn’t sure he knew her in any real way.
The next morningdawned bright and cheery as if the elements wished to apologize for the dreary weather of the day before.
The morning post arrived, and Isla spent an hour propped againsther headboard, reviewing the letters that had arrived from Malton Hill—one each from Mrs. Sumsion and Mrs. White, as well as a long missive from Mr. Cranston, Isla’s steward.
Her heart sank as she read his words about one of her tenant farmers:
Mr. Tippets passed away unexpectedly on Friday last. It is a dreadful business, as you can well imagine. Poor Mrs. Tippets is beside herself with grief and worry. She knows she cannot pay their rent nor work the farmland alone, not with four small children underfoot. I cannot bear to evict them, knowing they will end up in the poor house or worse. I am sure you feel the same. What course of action would you like to take?
Isla let the letter flutter to the counterpane.
Mr. Cranston asked an excellent question—whatdidshe wish to do in this instance?
Situations like this were what made being mistress of Malton Hill so challenging, and yet, rewarding. Here, her actions dramatically affected people’s lives.
In this instance, of course, Isla wouldn’t cast Mrs. Tippets and her children out on their ears. But neither could she let them live rent-free on her property indefinitely. What would be an equitable yet compassionate solution?
Isla spent far too long pondering options, reaching no conclusions, before dressing for the day.
Consequently, she was the last to arrive in the breakfast room, the rest of the party already dining on toast soldiers and coddled eggs.
The gentlemen lurched to their feet with murmured greetings. Colonel Archer even took a half step toward her, as if he would see to her care, but Gray hastened to pull out a chair with a solemn, “Good morning, sister,” before turning to prepare her a plate from the sideboard.
It was her brother’s typical behavior toward her—polite and solicitous, particularly in company. Think what you would about Gray—and Isla had certainly thought plenty over the years—his manners were always impeccable. Only a Balfour sent him lashing out in fury.
Speaking of which . ..
Captain Balfour sat directly across from her. He appeared just as intimidating and stoic today, his coat brushed with military precision. Sunlight tangled in the strands of gold in his auburn hair, setting them to shimmer.
Their eyes briefly met before Isla looked away. But not before she saw the vexation there.
Captain Balfour was in a sour mood.
She disliked that his moods were still known to her. He had been discomfited yesterday as the ladies asked questions about the soldiers’ experiences. Something about the set of his shoulders let her know that Captain Ross and Colonel Archer had omitted important details. Probablyallthe important details. Did she even wish to understand the horrors Captain Balfour had suffered over the years?
Of course, this morning, the ladies immediately returned to the topic of war.
“You cannot imagine, Colonel Archer, the tremblings we ladies experienced yesterday as you described the role of the Rifles in Wellington’s army.” Miss Crowley clasped her hands under her chin.
“Yes,” Miss Anne Forsyth added, looking at her cousin. “I cannot fathom how your aim with the rifle can be so true, Edward. It boggles the mind, the distances you spoke of and the Rifles’ accuracy across them. How is such a thing even possible?”
Gracious. The ladies should endeavor to be more circumspect in their ogling. Isla barely stopped an eye roll as she pushed her own eggs around her plate. Given her letter this morning, she felt the differences between herself and the other young ladies keenly. Miss Forsyth had clearly never debated the fate of a kindly widow and four fatherless children.
“You must have more faith in me, Anne. In all of us.” Colonel Archer waved a hand to indicate his fellow officers. “It was a bit of a lark at times to see who could shoot the farthest with the greatest accuracy.”
Isla frowned. “But surely war is not such a game, sir. You practiced accuracy in order to—” She halted. “Or, rather, I cannot imagine . . .”
She trailed off, unable to complete either thought in company. Helplessly, her gaze tangled with that of Captain Balfour across the table. She read the truth there, turbulent and churning.
Yes, the men had certainly seen horrors, just as Isla witnessed hardship and suffering at Malton Hill. Such was the nature of life.
The room fell into silence. Gray shifted at Isla’s side, but said nothing.
Colonel Archer, amiable as ever, stepped into the conversational void.
“Sometimes, a bit of sport was just the thing we soldiers needed,” he said before turning to Captain Ross. “Do you remember the time Balfour shot a playing card out of Lieutenant Wilson’s hand at two hundred paces? It was the most incredible—”
