“I would rather stand, thank you,” she said.
Mr. Harwood chuckled further. “Oh yes, just as I remember. You always had a spark about you, Miss Whitmore. A light in the darkness, needed in these hard times.” His beady eyes roamed her body as if with hunger, and Isolde shuddered.
“Father, what is going on?”
“It is best if you sit for this, Isolde,” her father sighed, looking frailer than ever.
“As I said, I would rather stand.”
“What if I lead by example?” Mr. Harwood groaned as he sat back down, and the seat groaned with him. “I was just speaking with your father, Isolde, telling him of how impressed I have always been with his gumption… his never-say-die attitude, that no matter how hard things are, he has kept his parish kicking along as if the sun shines upon him always.”
“And I was telling Mr. Harwood that you, Isolde, are the reason for that.”
“I…” She licked her lips as her mouth turned dry. “I do what I must, Father. We all do. No more, no less.”
“And she is modest,” Mr. Harwood said happily. “Not to mention…” His eyes roamed her again. “… beautiful. Oh yes, exactly as I remember. Perhaps more so, now that she has become a woman.”
When Isolde had first been told that Mr. Harwood had come to see her father, she worried that it was on account of her father’s troubles. He was the vicar of their parish. It had fallen into destitution these last few years, and things had become so bad that every day was a struggle to keep their heads above water.
Isolde did what she could, of course. While money was scarce, love and sacrifice were not. They opened their doors every day, welcoming the poor and the wealthy alike, always there to offer their services because that was what mattered most. They fed the poor, helped to clothe the homeless youths who lived across the estate, and Isolde even hosted educational lessons for those who wanted them.
Alas, good intentions could only do so much, and there were few about who would waste their money donating to a parish that was on the brink of despair. Money had been borrowed, was now owed, and every single day that passed was one closer to what Isolde suspected might be the end of them.
Isolde’s initial fear was that Mr. Harwood had come here to close their doors himself… only now, as she considered the situation further, she was taken by the sudden suspicion that he had an ulterior motive. One that, to be honest, struck fear into her unlike anything she had ever felt before.
“As I was explaining to your father,” Mr. Harwood began. “Times are hard here, as you are more than aware. It is a shame, as I know the good work you do. Alas, we live in a world where profits are what rule the day, and good intentions do little to put food on the table.”
“There is no shame in helping others,” Isolde said, still from across the room. “Nor do I regret anything that we have done. We might not have much, but we have that.”
“I could not agree more,” Mr. Harwood said as if he believed it. “Truly, I want this parish to continue in its work. I, more than anyone, have my finger on the pulse of the tenants that live across this estate, and not a bad word can be said against you or your father. You are loved, Miss Whitmore. Truly.”
“Perhaps tell that to the duke,” Isolde said before she could stop herself.
Mr. Harwood grimaced and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Yes, well, His Grace is…” He cleared his throat. “He has other concerns that extend beyond a single parish. If he could help more, I am sure that he would.”
Isolde scoffed before she could help herself.
“Isolde,” her father warned her. “Now is not the time.”
The parish that Isolde’s father ran was located on the edges of Blackthorne Estate, meaning that it fell under the tenancy of the Duke of Blackthorne. Isolde had met the duke only once in her life, two years ago now, when her father had started to become sick. It was also when their parish had begun struggling to keep its doors open.
In a moment of utter desperation, paired with a sense of hope that there were still good men in this world, Isolde had gone to see the duke personally and begged him for financial assistance so that he might save their parish from damnation.
She had heard the duke was a cold, calculating businessman who was cruel when he had to be, wicked when he wanted to be, and not the type who would waste a breath to puff out a fire if he could not see how it might benefit him. But Isolde, ever the idealist, refused to believe such things.
That was until she met the man, at which point he had mocked her, laughed at her request, and then kicked her to the gutter while announcing that he would not lift so much as a finger to help.
Sometimes, sadly, the rumors are true… and some men are simply beyond saving.
“I am not here to discuss His Grace.” Mr. Harwood cleared his throat. “I am here to discuss how I might help your parish.” He looked pointedly at her. “You do wish for help, yes? To save this fine establishment, as I know you have worked so hard to save it.”
“Oh.” Isolde blinked, her flutter of hope tempered because she sensed that this would not be a simple act of kindness. “I do…”
“Wonderful,” Mr. Harwood said with a generous smile. “As I was explaining to your father, while it might not look it, I am getting on in my years. And as busy and eligible as I am, I have found that these later years have grown cold and lonely.”
Isolde’s stomach clenched with warning…
“I thus have a proposal that I am sure you will find most appealing.” He made sure to look right at her. “I would like to offer you the chance to marry me, Miss Whitmore. Be my wife, and in so doing, I will see personally that all your financial problems are solved. This parish will thrive, your congregation will grow, and if I may be so bold…” He laughed and patted his belly. “Dare I say, your life will improve significantly in ways you can nay imagine.”
