Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor (10 page)

With that, Uncle Charles led her from the room. Other than a nod of farewell, Ashton had not permitted her the opportunity to bid her new acquaintances a proper parting. In silence, they had boarded his waiting coach. Satiné had refused to provide him the explanation for her actions. In truth, she could not define her reasons.

The dark shadows of the coach’s interior spoke of the stark certainty in her uncle’s steely countenance. “I pray all at Chesterfield Manor are well. Even upon the Continent, I heard of the effects of the near famine upon the land.”

Ashton pulled his eyes from the passing street traffic to rest upon her countenance, and Satiné attempted not to squirm. “We have weathered the worst. Mr. Breeson is a fine steward.”

Satiné frowned until she recalled the one-armed man the Earl of Berwick had recommended as a replacement for the elderly Mr. VanDoran, her uncle’s former steward. “That must be a relief,” she said softly. “Have you seen Lord Yardley and my twin?”

“Not for several months. The earl and countess stayed with me when I first returned from the Continent, but with her much anticipated lying in, Cashémere and Lord Yardley returned to their estate. When the weather is more conducive to traveling, I mean to call upon the Wellston twins.”

Satiné said with more bitterness than she intended, “I am certain Cashémere is as
magnificently beautiful
and as
beaming with happiness
as is Velvet.”

“It is what each of us wish for you, Satiné.” The sadness in his tone tugged at her heart: She had always striven to please him–to earn his devotion.

“Lachlan Charters robbed me of that particular opportunity,” she countered acrimoniously.

He expelled a heavy sigh. “Charters robbed you of your freedom, but only for a few days within what is obviously a privileged life. Can you not concentrate on all the other days you were loved and adored? Can you not accept Lord Swenton’s devotion and make a future?”

They had arrived at Briar House, and she was grateful for the delay of her response. Rather than to speak her fears, Satiné had gathered her reticule and gloves to permit an unfamiliar footman to assist her to the curb. Without looking to where her uncle followed, she mounted the main steps to release the knocker. Mr. Horace answered the door immediately, and she stepped into the lighted foyer. “You recall the duchess’s and my uncle?” She gestured to the man behind her.

Mr. Horace bowed properly. “Certainly, Lady Swenton. Welcome to Briar House, Baron.”

“Thank you, Mr. Horace. The duke and duchess mean to remain at the ball until after the supper hour. Lady Swenton and I thought to enjoy a bit of conversation in Thornhill’s absence.”

“Of course, Sir. I will send for tea and some port. Would you care for refreshments, Baron?”

Her uncle’s eyebrow rose in question, and Satiné shook off the offer. “Just the tea and port,” the baron instructed. “I have sent my carriage around to the mews. The duke has extended his hospitality.”

“I will see to appropriate quarters immediately, Sir. Lady Swenton, I believe the green drawing room is available.”

Satiné nodded her understanding and then turned toward the aforementioned room. She certainly had no desire to continue her conversation with her uncle, but she knew Ashton would not relent. The room had a cozy fire to settle the night’s chill; yet, a shiver ran down her spine. “I suppose this will provide us the necessary privacy.” She sat casually in a nearby chair before wrapping a shawl from the back of the chair about her shoulders.

“Are you chilled?”

She admitted, “It is rare that I know warmth.”

Her uncle’s assessing eyes skimmed her body before he frowned. “You are quite thin. Did not the allowance I provided adequately meet your needs?”

“I took ill upon the ship,” she said in hopes of deferring his scrutiny.

His scowl deepened. “Was the sea so rough? In our crossing, you appeared to take well to the rolling motion of the deck.”

Satiné’s mouth twisted as if in pain. “I contracted measles on the second day at sea. Lord Swenton and Miss Neville tended me to keep the captain and the crew from learning of my illness.”

“But you are recovered?” he asked with concern.

“Stronger each day,” she declared, although Satiné knew she exaggerated the truth. It bothered her to tell her uncle a canard.

Uncle Charles closed his eyes in silent relief. “And the boy?”

She had been furious the day she had realized she was with child. For one black moment, Satiné had considered ending her own life. “So Lord Swenton has spoken of my bastard child?”

“Who taught you to speak thusly? Certainly not I!” Uncle Charles said incredulously.

“Pretty words will not change my social status,” she said fiercely.

A reprieve in the form of the tea tray arrived, and both she and her uncle chewed on their thoughts. When the maid disappeared behind a closed door, he said, “Tell me of the boy and of his father.”

“There is not much to tell.” She poured her tea, without cream or sugar. It was a bitter mixture, but the liquid’s warmth felt good as it spread through her veins. “He is a dark haired child of some two months of age.”

An unquestionable restlessness crossed her uncle’s countenance. “I am certain both Velvet and Cashémere could bend my ear with every detail of their babies; yet, I wish to know the child my darling Satiné has borne.”

What could she say? Because she could not bear the rejection of the child’s father, she had purposely avoided the boy. “You shall see for yourself tomorrow. You may praise Rupert, as well as Edward.”

“Will you speak to me of the child’s father?”

“I would rather not,” she said honestly. “He does not know…”

Silence filled the empty space between them. “Lord Swenton has offered you an honorable solution, Satiné.”

Her heart was pounding so hard, she could barely breathe. “Lord Swenton is all that is honorable; yet, I cannot…”

“Cannot what, Satiné? Cannot love Baron Swenton?” A tear formed in her eye’s corner. She could not explain to her uncle how she feared loving anyone. Not even Henrí. And especially not Rupert. “It is not necessary to love the person one marries. Can you respect Lord Swenton?”

Her lower lip trembled, just as it did throughout her childhood when she had displeased her beloved Uncle Charles. She mumbled, “The question should be can Lord Swenton respect me?”

Isolde reluctantly returned to Briar House with the duke and duchess. She had no idea what to expect upon her arrival, and, in truth, she had been hard pressed to leave the company of Sir Carter and his wife, who had invited the baronet’s assistant to join them for the supper hour. Mr. Henderson, the third son of the Earl of Johnseine, was very congenial, but what Isolde had most enjoyed had been the lively conversation. She had appreciated how both Sir Carter and Mr. Henderson sought her opinions on the issues facing the Irish people, especially the administration of prisons, public health, and the extensive poverty plaguing her homeland.

“Hardly proper supper conversation,” she had remarked in self-effacement when she realized she had monopolized the discourse.

“Not at all,” Mr. Henderson assured as he assisted her to her feet. “I found your perspective enlightening.”

Sir Carter added, “As did I. Mr. Henderson and I must speak more often to those who have flooded our English docks. How may we address domestic security if we know nothing of those who seek English ties?”

When she and the Thornhills had been admitted to the duke’s townhouse, Mr. Horace had informed them Baron Ashton and Lady Swenton had retired. “I should call in with the baroness,” she said softly to the duchess. “Often Lady Swenton does not sleep well.”

The duchess nodded her agreement, and Isolde scurried away. The Thornhills had kept their thoughts regarding Baron Ashton’s unexpected appearance to themselves. Unlike the Lowerys, who sought her company, the duke and duchess viewed Isolde as a servant and not privy to their private musings. It was a sobering balance to maintain her position in a world in which Isolde possessed little experience.

Without knocking, she slipped into the baroness’s quarters. Isolde had expected to find her mistress in bed. Instead, Lady Swenton stood unclothed, examining her body before a standing mirror. Remaining half-hidden by the partially opened door, Isolde placed her fist to her mouth to prevent her gasp. She had never seen anyone so thin, even the poorest in her village would have appeared healthy in comparison to the baroness. Lady Swenton’s newest gowns had successfully disguised the girl’s sylphlike appearance.

Tears rushed to Isolde’s eyes. She could do nothing but encourage Lady Swenton not to ignore her health. Quickly she tapped on the door and called softly, “Baroness? Are you awake?” She hid behind the door as if she had not observed her mistress’s investigative inspection in the mirror. “May I bring you something to eat? You missed a delightful supper spread at the ball.” Isolde said a silent prayer for a quick resolution to the Swenton’s separation. Perhaps the baroness would attempt to please her husband: Isolde could not imagine any man finding a woman of so gaunt an appearance appealing.

From the other side of the door, she could hear the baroness scrambling into bed. “Come.”

Isolde eased into the room a second time. “I apologize if I woke you, Lady Swenton.”

“I thank you for thinking of me,” the girl said dutifully.

Isolde ventured, “Might I sneak down to the kitchen and make you some tea and toast. It would be no bother; I know for a fact Thornhill’s cook keeps a pot of water warming on the hearth.”

As Isolde expected, the baroness shook off the offer. “My uncle and I enjoyed tea and port upon our return to Briar House.”

Isolde thought,
Tea, but no cakes or bread and butter
. “Is there anything else you desire before I retire?”

“No. I suspect my uncle shall expect me up early. I shall make a point of joining him in the morning room. We created many beautiful memories while breaking our fasts at Chesterfield Manor.”

Isolde smiled weakly. “I am certain Baron Ashton will enjoy having his niece close once more.”

*

John had hoped he could depart for London by week’s end. The message from Baron Ashton had come as a Godsend, for John knew he could not abandon his estate and his people while they suffered from the recent year without a proper growing season. There was too much to be done to race off after a foolish woman.

The longer he remained from Satiné’s side, the more he realized the mistake he had made. When he returned to London, John planned to speak honestly with Sir Carter and Pennington regarding a means from his predicament. He would not abandon his vows immediately, but he meant to become more aware of his options if Satiné made no concession for the success of their marriage. “Please God,” he said as he climbed into his still empty bed. “Permit Baron Ashton to bring reason to my wife. I do not believe I can continue to fight
with
Lady Swenton. I would much prefer to fight
for
our marriage.”

*

Baron Ashton’s presence had altered the atmosphere of the household for the good. Lady Swenton had regularly gone beyond the ordinary to please her uncle, and it did Isolde’s heart well to observe the return of the amiable girl she had known briefly in Vienna. During outings to museums and afternoon musicales, Ashton and his niece sought each other’s company, chattering on of past acquaintances and family, as if they had never parted.

“Do you recall that day on the high moorland when the mist rose up so quickly we were nearly trapped?” her uncle said in reminiscence.

Lady Swenton smiled easily at the man, and it did Isolde good to observe the small changes in her mistress. “It was magnificent,” the baroness concurred. “It was my tenth birthday, and you had presented me with a new saddle.” Wistfulness filled Lady Swenton’s tone. “The mist reached the horses knees, and it became imperative for us to walk them off the peak for fear they might step over the edge without knowing it.”

“If we had not known the way so well, it would have been a dire situation. I was quite proud of you. You handled yourself magnificently. I recall how you kept saying we were walking in the clouds. For the next couple of years, every time it rained, you wished to return to the peak to relive the moment.”

“It was one of my most favorite days,” Lady Swenton had confessed quietly.

“My most favorite were those times when my dearest girl snuck into my quarters and climbed into my bed to know the comfort of her uncle’s embrace,” Baron Ashton added with an equally pensive expression.

Lady Swenton’s cheeks pinked. “I was a foolish child, one afraid of the characters in a children’s book.”

Ashton said honestly, “If I had any inclination that in children’s books the parents often died, I would have burned every one of them. You had suffered enough with the loss of your parents and then the separation from your sisters. It was I who was foolish not to peruse the book before I read it to you.”

“You offered me the comfort I required. When I was with you, the Troll King and his followers could not reach me. Your bed was so much higher than mine.”

Ashton lovingly patted the back of her hand. “Yes, I recall searching for the trolls under your bed more than once, but you eventually overcame your fears.”

Lady Swenton had looked off as if she searched for something not there. “Not so,” she said simply. “Nanny Phoebe forbid me to disturb your sleep with my presence. She threatened to take a belt to my backside if I did not abandon my fears.”

Ashton sputtered, “If I had known, I would have sent the old bag packing. I would never tolerate anyone raising a hand of violence to you. You should have told me.”

Lady Swenton shrugged, “It is of no significance. Although, even now, when my dreams take a twisted slant, I will admit to the return of the trolls. I am often running and running, attempting to escape them. It is quite humbling to know childhood fears can remain with someone for life.” Isolde considered her mistress’s confession a very telling moment. The baroness’s fears were plentiful.

Thornhill and the duchess often joined the pair, and Ashton would assume the role of the chronicler of family history. From what she overheard, Isolde had discovered the name of the baroness’s and duchess’s mother: Lady Chenille Aldridge, Viscountess Averette. The lady had been Ashton’s youngest sister. The girls’ father, Edward Aldridge, who served as the namesake for the duke’s son, had married the former Miss Morton and had quickly set up his family in Edinburgh, where Aldridge held his viscountcy. Meanwhile, the baron’s wife, Baroness Louisa Morton, had been a distant cousin of Thornhill’s mother, Amelia Fowler. The connections among the English aristocracy never ceased to amaze Isolde.

What did not change dramatically had been Lady Swenton’s eating habits; yet, Isolde thought progress had occurred. Although the baroness had quite adeptly moved her food about her plate as if she had consumed each course set before her, only a few bites of each dish passed the lady’s lips. Even so, Isolde had looked upon her mistress’s return to good humor as a sign of happier days for the baroness and Lord Swenton. The return of hope also had fired Isolde’s “itch” to depart for Ireland to discover a future without Baron Swenton in her thoughts. It was useless for her to remain in a household where she preferred her master to her mistress. However, those hopes were quickly dashed when Isolde came upon Sally and Judith in a heated discussion regarding their mistresses.

“I tell you, Lady Swenton is of a more delicate nature than is the duchess,” Sally declared loyally.

Judith, who had served Velvet Fowler since the duchess had first come to live with the Fowlers and who had seen her household status rise substantially with Velvet Aldridge’s marriage to the duke, snarled her nose in disbelief. “You assume your mistress’s slight appearance indicates her fragile nature. Everyone knows a duchess is superior in every way.”

“Is the duchess’s constitution so sensitive that even the slightest change in Her Grace’s meals sends her in search of her chamber pot?”

“Certainly not!” Judith said with incredulity.

Sally flounced away. “Exactly. Lady Swenton knows such a tender disposition.”

Isolde’s heart sank: Lady Swenton’s obsession had continued. Isolode did not know what to do. Should she inform the duchess? Speak to Baron Ashton? As the baroness’s companion, Isolde held no right to intervene in Lady Swenton’s private life. Surely, the baroness’s family could recognize the crisis: Could look upon Lady Swenton’s appearance and note the girl’s extremely thin stature. But such a supposition held no value. A decision made, Isolde returned to her quarters. She would wait for Baron Swenton’s return–inform the baron of her concerns–and leave the baroness’s troubles to the lady’s husband. Baron Swenton would be more receptive to her opinions than would Baron Ashton or the Duchess of Thornhill.

*

“The duchess and I plan to return to Kent on Monday,” Thornhill announced as the household gathered in the late afternoon for the daily ritual of the duke and duchess’s sharing moments with young Edward Fowler. “If you have a mind to do so, you are welcome to join us, Ashton. I am certain the duchess would enjoy more time with her uncle.”

Isolde glanced up from her book to observe Lady Swenton’s reaction to Thornhill’s news. Although the duke’s party had taken in regular entertainments, a ball had been avoided since the baron had escorted his niece from the crush at Lady Thomas’s home. Although no one consulted her opinion, Isolde had assumed Thornhill and the baron had purposely executed the choices of social engagements.

Lady Swenton stiffened. “And what becomes of me?” Her tone spoke of the lady’s lack of knowledge regarding the change of residence.

Thornhill’s frown lines met. “You will return to Thorn Hall to await Baron Swenton’s reappearance.”

Lady Swenton snarled, “So you and my uncle have decided my future?”

The duchess said aristocratically, “You asked for a taste of the London Season while your husband tended to his mother’s loss. It is time you resumed your wifely duties.”

“My husband has been absent a month,” the baroness asserted. “Given the first opportunity, Lord Swenton has proved his opinion of his wife.”

Isolde wished to defend Lord Swenton. It was she who had convinced the baron to permit his wife time to become accustomed to her new position. However, she diverted her objections by jamming her nails into the palms of her hands.

“True. Swenton has tarried, but it was at my suggestion. I begged Lord Swenton to permit me an opportunity to set my house aright. It was shocking to realize that during His Lordship’s absence you had proved yourself open to any number of trysts,” Ashton accused.

Isolde recoiled from the barbs issued by Lady Swenton’s uncle. She could not believe the baron had spoken so coldly to his niece. Perhaps Isolde had misjudged the air of cordiality between the two. Venom filled the baroness’s tone. “As you did upon the Continent, you once again believe the worst of me, Uncle Charles.”

“I believe my eyes. Your conduct at Lady Thomas’s evening did not speak well of you, Satiné.” His long fingers had tightened about his teacup. “You should know I am not easily made a fool. I took note of your brief encounter with Lord Morse at yesterday’s picnic, and as to the Continent, Rupert’s presence proves my objections held merit.”

Isolde’s eyes grew large with disbelief. She had not observed Lady Swenton and Lord Morse together. How had she missed the exchange?

“Am I a child, Uncle, to be spied upon and then chastised when found deficient?” Their eyes collided.

Ashton spoke softly, the words choked with emotions. “You know I have rarely raised my voice to you in criticism, but you must understand I could never approve of your actions with Morse or your abandonment of Lord Swenton. The baron has offered you the protection of his name and his title. You owe him your allegiance, Satiné.”