Prudence grinned. “I say we gobble up everything until we are sick to our stomachs.”
“Prudence!” their mother barked, rolling her eyes in exasperation.
But Isolde smiled back, already feeling a little more human and a little less like a scrap of paper that had been tossed aside. Maybe, being with her family, enjoying good food, talking of everything and nothingwouldbe the perfect cure for her melancholy.
“I shall race you!” Prudence cried, haring after Teresa, who had volunteered to go to the kitchens to fetch a tea tray for everyone.
One of the maids or the housekeeper could have easily done it with the merest ring of a bell, but Teresa had insisted that it would ruin the authenticity of the picnic if they had the servants’ help. There would undoubtedly be a lecture during their teatime about the merits of not always relying on staff for simple tasks, but that would have to wait until the expert on the subject returned with the tea tray.
“Thank you, Mama,” Isolde said, once her sisters’ footsteps had faded into nothing. “Teresa said that you had orchestrated this. I am grateful.”
Her mother turned to face her on the settee they shared. “And I am relieved that you are out of your bedchamber, my darling.” She raised a hand to brush a wayward lock of hair out of Isolde’s face. “I have been so worried, dearest. I… cannot even begin to describe how afraid I have been. I thought you might stay up there forever.”
“I would have grown bored eventually,” Isolde replied, struggling to maintain a lighthearted tone.
The gentle brush of her mother’s fingertips against her cheek was too much, conjuring up unbidden tears, though she had assumed she had no more to shed.
Her mother’s brow furrowed as she swept away one such tear that landed on the apple of Isolde’s cheek. “What has happened, my darling? You were happy… and then you were not.” She took out her handkerchief to dab away another escaping tear. “Have I put too much pressure on you? Have I been too… invasive? I know I am supposed to believe that you are unwell, and you likely want me to play along with the pretense, but… I know you, Isolde. I can see that you are… in pain.”
Isolde quickly turned away, embarrassed and dismayed in equal measure that her mother had seen right through her. Then again, Julianna Wilds had been young once, and likely knew more of what Isolde was going through than she thought.
Perhaps, it was that realization that made the truth bubble to the surface, perhaps it was the desire to have a knowledgeable opinion on the matter, or perhaps it was merely the fact that Isolde was too tired to carry the secret anymore.
“It happened at… the Farnaby ball,” she heard herself whisper, like she was at a confessional.
Her mother’s eyebrows shot up. “What happened?”
“Edmund… He…” Isolde paused to take a steadying breath. “At the Farnaby ball, I needed some peace and quiet and ended up in the library. Edmund… followed me there to see if I was… allright. After a while, he… he… Mama, he kissed me. He kissed me and then he left, saying, in essence, that I should not hope for anything from him. I do not think he meant it in a cruel way, but he said something about never wanting to marry, and then… he left.”
“He didwhat?” a voice that was not her mother’s roared, the drawing room door banging open as a livid figure stormed in. “I will kill him! My goodness, I will kill him!”
Isolde’s mother shot to her feet, panic-stricken. “Vincent, calm down.” She put up her hands. “Let Isolde tell the rest of the story. There is no need to be rash. Perhaps, there is a reasonable explanation.”
“A reasonable explanation?” Vincent seethed, hands curling into tight fists. “I put my sister in his care, Mother. I trusted him to keep her safe and out of trouble. For pity’s sake, I came back early because I received his letter, and was ready to apologize to him for putting so much responsibility on his shoulders!”
Isolde stared at her brother, unable to recall another time when she had seen him so furious. Even in her wilder childhood, he had never roared with such venom in his voice, his eyes like two smoldering coals of pure rage.
“It was a letter of guilt, a letter of deception, a letter of betrayal!” Vincent sniped, two patches of scorching red appearing in his cheeks. “I will kill him. Truly, I will.”
“Vincent, please,” their mother begged.
But all Vincent hissed in reply was, “My pistols. Where are my pistols?”
And as dread surged up from Isolde’s stomach, she wished she had thought to throw those in the apple crate too.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
In the gloom of his study, shadows dancing between the cobwebbed rafters, Edmund swirled a glass of brandy and watched the flames waltz in the fireplace.
His eyes were blurred by the many glasses of brandy that had gone before, the lashing tongues of the fire transforming into scenes he wished to forget: Isolde dancing with Noah at Martin Thorne’s dinner party, Isolde chatting with Noah at the same dinner party, Isolde leaning in to hear what Noah had to say at the ball where Edmund had kissed her; Isolde looping her arms around Edmund’s neck to pull him closer, Isolde kissing him back so fervently, Isolde staring at him with burning hurt in her eyes when he had left her standing there against the bookcases.
“Was I jealous all along?” he muttered into his glass as he took another deep sip.
Regardless of whether he was inebriated or sober, he could not fathom when his feelings toward Isolde had changed. It wasunderstood that they were supposed to dislike one another, as they had done since the day they met six years ago. It wasexpectedthat they would carry on disliking one another—so much so that it had become a joke among friends.
We grew up.
The notion was quieter than the din of his memories and regret, puzzling him. Was that why things had changed? Had they both matured while he was away on the Continent, and she was preparing to enter society? Had they matured, somehow, at the same pace, bringing them together instead of apart?
