“Well? Did you get it?” Henry said.
“Eventually. Where is she?”
“Gone. She left the day after you, heading north. Corland, probably. You will not go after her tonight, surely? It is only an hour until dinner and—”
Ian exhaled slowly. Gone! How like Izzy! She could never stay in one place for long.
He gave Henry half a smile. “Not today, no. If she has the best part of a week’s lead on me, a few more hours are neither here nor there. Let us go inside, Henry. I am parched. So much dust on the roads! Ale in the library, Eastwood, right away.”
The servants, well used to Izzy’s sudden starts, waited by the carriage in case Ian chose to leap back inside and drive off in instant pursuit. However, he gave the order to unload the luggage, and went inside with Henry. Casting his hat and gloves towards a loitering footman, he entered the library, which hadbeen restored to its usual immaculate self. Only the terrestrial globe was missing, presumably away being repaired.
“So tell me what happened, Henry.”
“She stayed in her room after you left, writing a massive letter to Lady Rennington… to her mother. Lord, Ian, what are we supposed to call her now? What about Izzy?”
“Legally, everyone reverts to his or her birth name, without honorifics. Izzy is Miss Isabel Atherton. Her mother would be… what was her maiden name? Miss Caroline Horncastle. But since both ladies will be remarried very soon, it would be best to continue to call them Lady Farramont and Lady Rennington. As for the rest of the family… Lord Birtwell is plain Mr Walter Atherton now. He is the worst affected, I should say. One day he is heir to an earldom and vast estates, with a courtesy viscountcy, and the next minute he has nothing, and no possibility of reinstatement. Poor fellow!”
There was silence as the two men contemplated the awful fate of the former heir to Lord Rennington.
“Who is the heir now? Rennington’s younger brother, I suppose.”
Ian nodded. “George. He has two… no, three sons. I wonder how they are taking their sudden elevation? Well, I shall find out when I reach Corland.”
“There are letters for Izzy,” Henry said. “Two from Josie, one from Olivia, one from the Lady Alice, one from Her Grace of Lochmaben and one from Lady Tarvin.”
“Nothing from her mother?”
“No. That worries me, I must admit.”
Eastwood came in just then with the ale, cool from the cellar. Ian drank a glass thirstily, and then refilled, drinking that too. “All this travelling in the summer is the very devil, Henry,” he said gloomily. “This will be the second time in a month I have gone haring up to Corland for Izzy, and the last time she had leftbefore I even got there. Let us hope history does not repeat itself. At what hour did she leave here?”
“Oh… you know Izzy. Late. She spent the morning with the girls, as she usually does when she is going away, then she left in the middle of the afternoon.”
“So, at the speed she likes to travel, and bearing in mind that she will not travel on the Sabbath, she may not have reached Corland until yesterday, perhaps. I can cover the distance in two days if I leave early tomorrow.”
Henry gave a shake of his head. “Do you never grow tired of chasing after her, cousin?”
“Not in the least,” Ian said, and he smiled. “Never was a woman more worth chasing.”
***
Izzy arrived at Corland Castle in a fine drizzle. She disregarded it, striding across the bridge to the entrance while Samuel, her footman, rushed about after her, trying to unfurl an umbrella. The castle was not a medieval affair, but a modern version, designed to look imposingly solid and impregnable from the outside, while providing every comfort within. Izzy had once thought it the finest house in England, or certainly in the North Riding, but five years as mistress of Stonywell had changed her opinion markedly. She now thought Corland squat and unwelcoming, with its austere walls, corner towers and fake battlements and dry moat, a house pretending to be a fortress. Stonywell, by contrast, was all elegance, from its high portico to its domed saloon and delicate rooftop balustrades and statuary.
Today she barely noticed her surroundings, for her rage still simmered inside her. It had sustained her through the long journey north, and now it burned a little brighter at the prospect of confronting her father with his perfidy. How could he notcheck the chaplain’s credentials? His own brother-in-law, even, for Arthur Nicholson had married the Lady Alice Atherton. And that brought another spurt of anger, forshestill had her title! So did her father, but all his children and even his wife were nothing now. How could he allow his family to be so cruelly disgraced, as they must surely be, in the eyes of the world?
The butler hastened forward to greet her. “Lady Farramont! Welcome back to Corland, my lady. Your father will be so pleased to have you home.”
Would he, indeed? She doubted that. “Thank you, Simpson. Is my mother at home just now?”
“No, my lady. Her ladyship is not in residence at present.”
“Not in residence?” she said sharply, pausing in the act of unfastening her bonnet. “What do you mean,not in residence?Where has she gone?”
“To Lady Tarvin at Harfield Priory, my lady.”
“Why? Is there some great crisis going on there? A greater crisis than here, that is to say?”
“I am not privy to her ladyship’s reasons, my lady. Ah, here is his lordship now,” he added with an air of relief.
