“She has already told my chief musician that she does not require his services.” Isabella fixed her gaze on the distant trees, pretending that this news had not cut her to the core.
Frida came to stand beside her at the window, bringing a scent of fresh air and lavender. “You are no longer mistress here, Bella. Whatever mistakes are made, you must accept them and move on.”
Anger sliced through her. “You can spare me your lecture, Frida. ’Tis clear enough that I am indeed moving on. Not that I had a choice in the matter.” The spiky branches waved in the wind. “Edward and Catherine made no pretense of wanting me to remain at Westchester.”
“You could not tolerate remaining here and watching Catherine take charge of what had once been yours,” Frida replied, her voice calm and reasonable.
I cannot deny it.
Frida touched her arm. “Don’t fight with me, Bella. I am on your side.”
Of all things, Isabella could not countenance sympathy. “There are no sides.” She smoothed her silken skirts, taking familiar pleasure in the feel of the supple material beneath her slender fingers. “Only tasks. And I am so grateful for your assistance.”
She had an urge to link arms with her sister, as she might once have done. But her armor was too unyielding for such a gesture.
Frida stood quietly and gazed at the view, but Isabella could tell her sister’s attention was far from the neat lawns. There was something she wanted to say.
And Isabella didn’t want to hear it.
“You don’t have to do this, you know.”
There it is.
“Do what?” Isabella raised her eyebrows.
“Marry Lord Gaunt. Move to Scotland.” Frida folded her arms and met Isabella’s gaze without flinching. She had never been one to back down from a challenge.
Isabella feigned nonchalance. “You moved to Scotland and seem to like it well enough.”
“But I did not marry a man I did not love.”
“And how fortunate you are in that.” Isabella walked away from her sister, fighting back sudden tears. “You and Esme, both. And Mirrie and Tris, of course. Oft-times, it seems I am the only one of us siblings who lives in the real world.”
Frida stayed still, but followed her across the room with her all-seeing blue eyes.
Eyes that seemed to read the secrets of her soul.
“What do you mean by that?” she asked softly.
“I mean that most people marry for land or coin or title. Preferably all three.” Isabella made a show of straightening a tapestry, aware of Frida’s gaze burning into her back. She spun around and almost winced at the pity shining from her sister’s face. “Let us not discuss this. You will not understand.”
How could Frida hope to understand? Not one member of her family did. Isabella was near trembling with frustration. It took all her practiced poise to appear calm and in control, when deep down she had a strong desire to rip the tapestries from the wall and wail.
“You could return to Wolvesley. Wait a while. There is no need for you to remarry so quickly.”
Isabella answered with a short laugh. “Until my child-bearing years are done, you mean? Or until my looks have faded?”
Frida shook her head sadly. “You cannot force love.”
“I do not attempt to.” Isabella felt as if she was explaining something simple to a child. “I am happy for your good fortune, Frida. But I do not seek something so grand as love. I only wish to be a wife and mother.”
Something that came so easily to others.
Frida’s face creased with regret. “I see I will be unable to convince you.”
“Quite so.” Isabella nodded.
“In that case, why not ride with me to Greenock? ’Tis not far from our home at Kielder. We are set to depart at noon, but can wait until the morrow if you are not yet ready to leave.” Frida dredged up a smile that did not quite banish the sympathy in her eyes.
