Isabella (Trevelyan Family 1)

He dropped a kiss on her cheek, and she winced. As he drew away, he found himself, quite unexpectedly, quite angry. But he did not shake her or utter any of the cruel remarks which so quickly leapt to mind. Instead, he manufactured an affectionate smile, and politely took his leave.

Telling Mama was considerably more difficult, for she was exasperatingly obtuse today. At length, when Isabella had outlined the advantages of the match for what seemed the thousandth time, Maria Latham looked down at the diamonds sparkling on her fingers and sighed.

"Will you not at least wish me happy, Mama?" her daughter pleaded, struggling to keep her voice even.

"I cannot wish you happy when you persist in telling me the most outrageous bouncers, my love."

Startled by this accusation, Isabella gave a guilty glance at her mother's face, but Maria went on as though she noticed nothing. "But then, darling, I am quite at your disposal, and prepared to wait all day, if need be, for you to tell me why you have so abruptly decided to marry Mr. Trevelyan." In demonstration thereof, Maria leaned back comfortably against her cushions and gazed out the window.

"But, Mama, I've told you several times already."

"Then I suppose you must tell me again."

Minutes ticked by as Isabella considered whether to give up and leave the room. Yes, there was a great deal more she could tell, but she couldn't bring herself to confide in her lackadaisical parent. And perhaps, anyway, it wasn't confidences Mama sought. As it became clear that no guidance was to be volunteered, Isabella asked, "What exactly is it you wish to know? And why did you say just now that I had lied to you?"

"It is equally a lie to me when you leave things out as when you put the wrong things in." The sudden flush on her daughter's face indicating a direct hit, Maria went on, once again apparently taken with what was beyond the window. "You have gone on interminably about Mr. Trevelyan, yet you have not even thought to mention why you've refused Lord Hartleigh."

"What has that to do with it?" Isabella burst out before she had time to wonder how her mother knew. Had she been eavesdropping last night?

"That's what I would like to know. For Lord Hartleigh most properly sought my permission to pay his addresses to you." (The fact that Mr. Trevelyan had not done so was thus left disapprovingly implied.) "And since last night I provided him with a decent opportunity in which to make a start—"

"Mother!"

"—and came upon you gazing soulfully into each other's eyes—"

"Mother!"

"—I must confess myself at a complete loss as to why you are telling me of your engagement to his cousin. It is quite the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard—your aunt's daily conversation excepted, of course."

This was too much for Isabella, who dropped into a chair and promptly burst into tears. Her mother bore this demonstration with perfect equanimity, and at length, when Isabella had regained some measure of self-control, bade her come sit by her and tell the entire story.

This exercise occupied a full half hour and was punctuated with sobs, tears, and an occasional hiccough. When it was done, Maria calmly ordered tea as a restorative.

"My love," she said some time later as she thoughtfully stirred her tea, "this is a bewildering tangle indeed."

Isabella merely nodded. To speak, she thought, was to choke. For now that she'd confessed her infatuation with the earl, every memory she'd so ruthlessly crushed last night and this morning rose up to haunt and torment her, compounding the exhaustion which had already made her dizzy.

"You are quite convinced that Lord Hartleigh's offer was primarily motivated by his ward's desires, rather than his own?"

"Yes" was the dismal reply. "And even it if weren't— which I know it is—it's too late now. I've given my word to Basil."

"Yes. Well. You know, Isabella, I do believe my lifelong opposition to arranged marriages was ill considered. It is perfectly amazing what a mull of things the principals will make when left to themselves. And it seems, now I think of it, to run in the family."

Isabella was too caught up in her own misery to perceive the implications of her mother's admission. She simply nodded in agreement.

"Well, at the moment I cannot think what can be done to mend matters. All these complications and insinuations and declarations—I confess it's quite beyond me. At any rate, I don't think it necessary to mention your betrothal to any of the others just yet. For now, we must be content to hope for the best. I shall hope, for instance, that your Intended is struck and killed by a passing carriage. This afternoon, preferably," she murmured, half to herself, "just about teatime. Now that would be an aid to the digestion." She got up, absently patted her daughter on the head, and left the room.

A moment later she put her head back through the door. "Which reminds me, darling. I shall be joining Lady Bertram for tea today. She was kind enough to invite us this morning, but I think it would be better if you stayed home with a headache."

It had been an overcast, oppressive day, and the air's heaviness seemed to have cast its pall on the features of the three who sat, pretending to take tea. Mr. Latham was embarrassed and uncomfortable. Lady Bertram was never embarrassed, but her dignified features were thoughtfully solemn. Even Maria, who rarely registered any expression but ennui, had a tightness about her face which, in her, was indicative of perturbation.

It was the countess who broke the silence, striving to put the usually genial Mr. Latham at ease.

"No," she told him firmly, "you were quite right in making your investigations. She is your niece, after all. Certainly, I should have done as much, in your place." She lifted a tiny sandwich from the tray, looked at it as though it were a venomous serpent, then dropped it onto her plate and forgot about it as she turned to Maria. "And given the horrifying state of Basil's finances...well, in your place, I would have no scruples in forbidding the match, regardless whether she is of age, regardless what foolish promise she made Basil. Unless, of course, you are persuaded that she has conceived a passion for him and will be thoroughly miserable without him. And somehow," she added, with a ghost of a smile, "though he is a devilishly charming wretch, I cannot believe he has managed to charm her."

"No, but he has persuaded her," Maria replied.

"But surely you are not prevented by this scandal he threatens you with. If I may be blunt, Maria, you've survived worse."

Maria's features tightened just a bit more as she pondered this for a moment. Then, after casting a swift glance at her brother-in-law—who reddened slightly—she turned to the countess.

"The scandal you speak of is nothing. Isabella is naive to take it so seriously—perhaps because others around her make so fatiguing a fuss about it. But no, that is not the matter. Certain facts have recently come to my brother-in-law's attention—"

"Maria!" her brother-in-law interposed in a low, warning voice.

"Do not trouble yourself, Henry. Lady Bertram is entitled to know. And it is my experience," Maria went on, meeting that lady's gaze unwaveringly, "that she is the soul of discretion."

In a quiet voice, she went on to tell her story, interrupted once or twice by Lady Bertram's expressions of sympathy and surprise. When Maria had finished, the trio sat in silence for several minutes. The tea had grown quite cold by this time, and the biscuits and tiny sandwiches seemed to have hardened into rocks.

"But this is infamous!" Lady Bertram finally exclaimed. "And your daughter knows nothing of it?"

"With Harry presumed dead, there was no reason to tell her. It would only have made her unhappy, needlessly, and forced her to carry my secret as a burden for the rest of her life."

"And now?"

"And now I feel I owe it to Harry to discover few wishes in the matter, first."

"He has been wronged enough," Mr. Latham put in, "that we wished not—even inadvertently—to wrong him further."

"But why do you tell me this? Surely Harry will not want the tale bruised about, regardless what he wants Isabella to know or not to know—"

Lady Bertram stopped suddenly, as a suspicion struck her. "Ah, now I see. Basil. He has somehow ferreted out the truth."

"He has questioned my brother quite closely about Harry Deverell."