“Yet you were the one riding with him when he came to Maudite Castle.” Isabeau gives me an odd look. “You never appeared close as a child, not the way he was with Rylan, but he tracked your every step even then.”
“He cared in his way.” It is as much of a truth as I can share.
Seeing my unwillingness to talk about him, Isabeau seems to follow my unspoken request and drifts into small talk as guests arrive and join our conversation. When the guests steer toward talk of my father, she redirects them with elegance or false boorishness. I am grateful for it.
By the time we are seated, she is at my side like a permanent guardian. Guiltily, I am happy for her intercession. I do not yet feel like I am the earl.
The first course is served, and I marvel at the bounty in front of us. Cold soups, haricot beans, asparagus, chicken, and mutton. Mother looks around the table, as if taking a count of the guests who came first to offer their regards. Rylan wears a bemused smile as Sir Barnett gesticulates wildly with a soup spoon. Whatever story he tells about Father looks entertaining.
The Viscountess Campbell, seated on the other side of Isabeau, asks, “And how is Her Grace, your mother?”
Isabeau’s voice is dry. “Her husband recently passed, so she isalsomourning.”
“Dreadful business, mourning. Black doesn’t suit my complexion.” The Viscountess Campbell sips her drink. “Your mother looks lovely in every color and pattern.”
“She issad,” Isabeau clarifies. “She loved my father.”
“I do suppose that complicates matters. Never marry someone who causes that. It mires you.” The viscountess makes ahmm-ing noise. “Please give her my regards. I could not travel to the funeral meal at the castle.”
“There wasn’t one,” Isabeau bites out.
As the viscountess turns back to her other conversational companion, Isabeau grips her spoon tightly. Her gaze is fixed on her soup as if it has insulted her. This time, I must be her protector.
Under the table, I gently take Isabeau’s other hand and squeeze it. “She means no harm.”
Isabeau entwines our fingers and holds on. Her voice is soft enough that I have to lean in to hear her say, “They were in love. All these years. Mother is ... not always easy to love, but he adored her.”
“My father was a hard man, but he was the softest of ... He was ... He and my mother had the sort of love that drove her,” I offer softly. “I understand more than I can say.”
Isabeau peers at me intently. “Doyou? I have no siblings. My trusted confidante has passed. I must now shelter my mother, and Imustwed.”
“Every member of the peerage must consider those things. The fact that we have a voice in our matrimony is the rarest of gifts.” I try to pull my hand away. “I, too, have inherited a title with weight I cannot fathom.”
I know that she will think I mean “earl,” but I cannot speak the whole truth. Not yet. In some way, perhaps her burden is weighty. The duke was too generous with his money, too happy to make wagers, and I suspect that if not for the crown supplementing his accounts, Maudite’s estate would be in dereliction. That burden I do not share.
For a moment Isabeau looks painfully pensive, and then she blurts out, “Her Grace has insisted that I bear a child. That we find a man to ...”
“Isabeau! No!”
“There’s a madness about her on the matter. Marriage is not enough. She insists that I must carry an heir for the title.”
“Could you take in a foundling? Surely there are—”
“I suggested as much. She hurled a decanter at me.” Isabeau takes a steadying breath. “I am at a loss, Gabrielle. She will acquiesce to my plan to marry a woman, but she is adamant that I also carry a ‘child of the Maudite blood.’ From the moment Father died, she has been pressuring me. She claims I can satisfy my curse if I do so.”
The second course is brought to the table. Prawns, lobster au gratin, mutton pie, French beans, mushrooms in cream, damson tart, and almond tart.
“Your curse demands being impregnated?” I fear that my doubts are too deep to say the words calmly, but it is a ludicrous claim. “I know curses are as rare as hen’s teeth since the Queens’ Treaty, but that one seems odd. Is she ... in need of rest? Grief can be difficult for gentle constitutions.”
“My mother? Gentle?” Isabeau gives me a look of admonishment. Then she seems to think about where and why we are here. “I apologize. I should not be burdening you with my troubles in your time of grief.”
Once the dinner guests begin filling their plates, I whisper back to her, “We are friends. You may speak freely.”
“She insists a dire fate will befall me if I fail,” Isabeau confesses.
“Don’t all mothers think it’s a dire fate to lack a child? Or perhaps she is speaking from her own loneliness now that her beloved is gone?”
Isabeau offers a weak smile. “How are you faring? Is there anything I can do to ease your grief or ...”
