SIX
6
H ow unexpected that I should be here , Isolde thought as she ascended the gilt staircase of Buckingham Palace, her hand snugged into Tristan’s elbow.
After all, she had never planned to marry. She most certainly hadn’t made husband-hunting her life’s goal as did other women of the ton . Her attitude had been singular for an aristocratic lady—if she met a gentleman and fell in love, then she would marry.
Mostly, Isolde had supposed she would use her university education to further the cause of women—education, suffrage, and equal treatment under the law—content to spend her days on the fringes of Polite Society.
Instead, she had married and fallen in love with a powerful duke. Or rather, she had married and fallen in love with a remarkable man who made her laugh and met her as an equal. The dukedom was merely an unfortunate side effect.
So it therefore followed that Isolde hadn’t particularly pondered what being a duchess would entail. Of course, if she had thought about it, she would have surmised that being the Duchess of Kendall would involve duties similar to her mother’s position as Countess of Hadley—overseeing the household, hosting guests, making and receiving morning calls, and so forth.
But given the number of people who currently bowed, curtsied, and murmured greetings as she and Tristan climbed the stairs, Isolde had failed to envision the sheer scope of the role of Duchess of Kendall.
Once, she had inhabited the edges of Polite Society. Now, it appeared, she had moved to its very epicenter.
A sickening sort of nervousness coiled in her belly, like snakes writhing and spitting acidic venom into her throat. Would she be given the cut direct tonight? Or would she simply find her every word and gesture meticulously criticized in a gossip rag come morning?
She took a deep breath as she and Tristan reached the top of the staircase.
“You are magnificent, Duchess,” he murmured to her in a clipped tone completely at odds with the ardor of his words. “Magnificent and beautiful. Everyone here should grovel before you.”
Isolde shot him a thankful look. Trust her husband to be so absurd . . . and kind. Buoyed, she lifted her chin as they crossed the wide hallway to the main ballroom where Ethan would give his recital.
If either of them looked magnificent, it was Tristan. The close cut of his dark superfine coat showcased the power in his shoulders, and the white line of his collar accented the sharp angle of his jaw and the Mediterranean bronze of his skin. He appeared a tiger on a leash, civilized at the moment but ready to draw blood at the slightest provocation.
Tonight, his expression was pure Kendall—icy, contained, and impassive. Not a trace of her Tristan to be seen. Unlike his lashing anger over his cousin’s behavior, her husband’s mask was a deliberate ruse this evening.
“I know I need to adapt,” he had murmured to her in the carriage, “but I do not know how to be different in these sorts of situations. Not yet. Such change will take time. For tonight, I shall be the Duke of Kendall, but know that I am still your Tristan.”
She had nodded in understanding, and thus far, he had been true to his words—cool, haughty Kendall in tone and manner, but when he spoke to her, his words were pure Tristan.
It had been an unusual day. Fredericks had been unable, as of yet, to locate Mr. Ledger. Hopefully, the man would turn up soon . . . preferably by morning. Isolde knew Tristan found the silence from his former secretary somewhat concerning.
In the meantime, Tristan had enlisted Isolde to help him reply to correspondence. They had sat, side by side, in his study, pens scritching as they wrote. That part of the day had been pleasant.
But Lady Lavinia’s shrill voice making constant demands of the staff and Tristan’s obvious frustration over Ledger’s continued absence had dragged on Isolde’s mood. Not to mention her own annoyance at realizing that Aubrey and Lady Lavinia would be in attendance tonight as well, courtesy of the Duchess of Andover. Tristan had sent them ahead in the town coach with Ethan and Allie, much to Isolde’s relief. Lady Lavinia’s caustic tongue and spiteful barbs were every whit as awful as Isolde remembered.
In short, Isolde could not wait to quit London before luncheon tomorrow, and God willing, go years before seeing Lady Lavinia again.
Tristan stopped just inside the ballroom door, rightfully intuiting that Isolde needed a moment to collect her bearings. For easily the hundredth time today, she felt a surge of affection for her husband.
She took in another slow, steadying breath . . . anything, really, to quell the snakes.
Ye can do this.
A crowd gathered around Queen Victoria and Prince Albert at one end of the room, the tiny queen’s dark head scarcely visible over the hoop skirts of the other ladies. Chairs stood in neat rows facing an impromptu low stage, but guests roamed the room, talking and laughing. The queen stood and, therefore, so would her guests until Her Majesty stated otherwise.
Isolde spotted Allie and Ethan across the room, speaking with Lord Aberdeen, a distant cousin of Ethan’s. Aubrey and Lady Lavinia were chatting with Lord and Lady Melbourne close by.
Isolde was about to suggest that she and Tristan find a quiet spot against one wall when a footman bowed before them.
“Your Graces,” the man said. “Her Majesty wishes to speak with you both.”
Isolde managed to hold back a sigh. Tristan merely nodded his head with terse, Kendall-like precision.
Dutifully, they both followed the man to where Her Majesty held court. Victoria appeared almost comically small beside Prince Albert and the other men hovering around her. Though scarcely five feet tall, she still radiated authority and control. The queen turned her blue eyes their way as they approached. Isolde felt every inch of her own towering height as she looked down at the queen. Did the top of Her Majesty’s head even reach Isolde’s shoulder?
“Kendall.” Her Majesty inclined her head regally, truly the barest hint of a nod.
“Your Majesty.” Tristan bowed and Isolde dropped into a deep curtsy.
Isolde had been presented at Court during her first season, right after Victoria ascended the throne, so she had met the queen once before.
Isolde couldn’t reconcile that she and Victoria were nearly identical in age, both born in 1819. But whereas Victoria ruled an empire and had already borne five children, Isolde had attended university and was scarcely more than a month married, much less in a family way.
Their life experiences were vastly different.
“You are well, Kendall?” Her Majesty studied Tristan’s face, a wee dent between her brows. “We had heard a rumor that you had suffered a deleterious head injury.”
“I am as well as ever, Your Majesty. I suffered no injury.” A muscle ticked in his jaw, the only evidence Isolde could see of his agitation. “I fear that rumor might have its origin with those who harbor ill intent. Many stand to gain from the dukedom if I am declared incapacitated.”
Victoria merely stared at Tristan, expression impassive. “As you say. You do appear hearty enough, I suppose.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I would be more than happy to recite Latin declensions or perform mathematical calculations, if that would help put Your Majesty’s mind at ease as to my intellectual fitness.”
Tristan delivered the jest in such dry tones that it took Isolde a moment to register the humor. She bit her lip, barely stopping a startled, nervous giggle from escaping.
“We do not find your cheek amusing, Kendall,” Victoria snapped.
“My apologies, Your Majesty.”
“You would do well to behave impeccably for the next while, Kendall, as we assure ourselves that you are truly recovered. This is your new bride, I presume?” Victoria surveyed Isolde with a censorious up-down glance that exuded acres of judgment about Isolde’s choice of dress, exuberantly-colored hair, and excessive height. “We do not approve of your method of gaining a wife, Duke. We were seriously displeased when we heard of the mishap at Kew Gardens. ’Twas another mark against you. It is fortunate that you married post-haste.”
Tristan tucked Isolde’s hand closer to his body. “Despite our unorthodox beginning, Your Majesty, I consider myself the most blessed of men.” Though he said the words in his expressionless Kendall voice, Isolde still felt heat flood her cheeks.
Victoria harrumphed, keeping her critical eye on Isolde. “We understand you are the eldest of Lord Hadley’s daughters, Duchess.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“The daughter who attended university in Boston?”
“The very same, Your Majesty.”
“Dreadful business, that.” The queen fanned herself. “Women are not meant for such educational endeavors. I cannot imagine what your parents were thinking, permitting you to sail halfway around the world to sit amongst men while listening to more men lecture on topics that women have no reason knowing. The scandal.”
Isolde’s mouth flapped open for a second before she could rally her voice. “I cannot speak to other universities, Your Majesty, but Broadhurst College is a female-only institution. Yes, we did have the occasional male professor, but as ladies, we were always heavily chaperoned.”
“Is that so?”
Isolde nodded, swallowing her tongue against offering to recite Latin declensions herself.
“Which subject was the focus of your studies?” Victoria asked.
“Engineering, Your Majesty.”
“Engineering? Such as building bridges or a steam railway, as if you were a man intent on employment?”
“The very same.”
“How preposterous!” Victoria’s fan picked up speed as if she might need smelling salts to accommodate the idea of a woman learning about Milton’s Laws of Motion or the physics of Mr. Watt’s steam engine. “Have you since repented of your decision?”
“Pardon, Your Majesty?”
“Have you repented of your decision to seek a university degree?”
Isolde froze, the air sucking from her lungs. Repent? Whyever would she repent of gaining an education? How could she reply without offending the queen, and by extension, Tristan and their potential future children?
“I c-cannot say I have given it much thought, Your Majesty,” she managed to stammer.
Victoria harrumphed again and then looked past Isolde, her eyes lighting up.
“Duchess,” the queen said, voice warm and welcoming to whomever she saw beyond Isolde’s shoulder. “I was merely telling Isolde, Duchess of Kendall, that she should renounce her educational leanings immediately. They are hardly seeming for a woman of her station. A Duchess of the Realm must be of singular reputation.”
Isolde turned to see the Duchess of Andover, Lady Lavinia’s mother, standing behind her. Like her daughter, the Duchess had rather pinched features—a long, narrow face and an equally long nose that she now peered down to study Isolde, as if the woman were pinning Isolde like a moth to a board and examining her with a quizzing glass.
“Your Grace.” The Duchess of Andover tilted her head in Isolde’s direction.
“Your Grace,” Isolde said in return.
“I must agree, Your Majesty. The wrong education can indeed be perilously inappropriate for a woman,” the duchess said. “Dangerous even.”
How so? Isolde longed to ask. Is it the broadening of the mind? The cultivation of thoughts and ideas? But due to her expansive education, she recognized—with no small amount of irony—the strategic wisdom in holding her tongue.
“Well said, Duchess.” Victoria nodded in approval. “As usual, your wisdom and perspicacity are a boon to us all.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” The Duchess of Andover continued to stare at Isolde. “I have spent my days ensuring my own daughters do not harbor unseemly ambitions for such mannish pursuits. I am sure as Her Grace settles into her new role as duchess, she will heed the wisdom in Your Majesty’s words and forsake her more prurient endeavors.”
A terrible ringing started in Isolde’s ears. Was this true? Would her new station force her to abandon scientific interests? Why should anyone care what she did in her spare time?
Tristan cleared his throat at Isolde’s side, pulling her hand tighter to his side. “We shall ensure that my new duchess is given ample time to settle into her role, Your Majesty.”
Victoria shot Isolde what could only be described as a disappointed look. “We certainly hope so.”
Forty minutes later , Isolde was still fuming—panicking? worrying?—over the Duchess of Andover’s comments.
Never once had Isolde supposed that becoming the Duchess of Kendall would force her to cease scientific studies. The very idea was absurd. As long as she behaved with decorum, who should care if she attended the occasional lecture on current advancements in steam locomotion? Surely, the eyes of the ton would not always be watching. Or would her choices forever be grounds for debate?
What was she to do?
She and Tristan were now seated with the rest of the guests, listening as Ethan spoke from the dais at one end of the room. Allie sat on Tristan’s opposite side, eyes staring raptly at her husband on the stage.
Tristan remained stoic and entirely Kendall-like—spine rigid and unbending. However, a trace of Tristan showed when he reached for Isolde’s hand where it rested in her lap and gently pried open her clenched fist. Relax , his touch said. Isolde glanced up at him, and he rewarded her with a soft look, the sort that curled her toes in her silk stockings. She nearly sighed and sank her head against his shoulder in gratitude before remembering that noblemen and their ladies did not indulge in displays of affection in public.
Her name on Ethan’s lips jerked her attention back to the poet.
“ . . . Iseult of legend. The poem, in the form of a dramatic monologue, details the final chapter of Iseult’s relationship with Sir Tristan,” Ethan was saying in his magnetic Scottish brogue. “As ye likely already know, the legend of Sir Tristan and Princess Iseult has echoes of King Arthur, Guinevere, and Sir Lancelot. But for the few who may not know the tale, I’ll give a wee summary. The story begins with Sir Tristan fetching the fair Princess Iseult of Ireland who is betrothed to his uncle and mentor, King Mark of Cornwall. However, on the long journey back to Cornwall, Sir Tristan and Princess Iseult accidentally ingest a love potion that compels them to fall in love with each other. They know their affections to be false, but unable to resist the pull of their attachment, they succumb to their baser impulses.”
Tristan’s fingers squeezed around her own. Isolde knew that he viewed his initial attraction to her as a form of madness—unable to stem the relentless pull to adore her.
She would be forever grateful that he came to his senses and stopped resisting.
Ethan continued, “As ye can imagine, chaos ensues. King Mark is incensed, and Sir Tristan and Princess Iseult are vilified for their scandalous behavior. Eventually, the love potion wears off and the lovers are set free. They each marry another and find some semblance of happiness. But years on, Sir Tristan is gravely wounded. As often happens in these tales, only Iseult’s presence and her link to the magical love potion can save him. My poem begins at the moment that Iseult receives word of Tristan’s injuries—her dramatic monologue is in response to the messenger’s summons. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Iseult of Ireland .”
Applause burst through the room.
Ethan grinned and held up a silencing hand. Clearing his throat, he clasped his hands behind his back and began reciting:
“Must I once more venture into madness?
You cry, ‘He is dying!’ and ‘Come in haste!’
But has it not been sufficient? The scope
Of my suff’ring? The folly of my heart?
Here, I am at peace with husband and child
And redemption beside me, my heart devoted
to another now. What care I if my
potion-magicked lover perish?”
Ethan continued. As usual, the poem shone with the brilliant luster of his wit and sharp insights.
Isolde saw much of her own current dilemma reflected in her namesake’s words on Ethan’s lips. She, too, had been at peace with her place in the world. Years ago, she had turned her back on Polite Society and created a life outside of it—one not dictated by tradition or custom, but of her own choosing.
But now, she was called to re-enter the world of her birth. How was she to manage it? How could she fit her square personality and interests into the round hole the ton demanded she be?
Isolde had adored her time at Broadhurst—interacting with other scientific-minded women, studying engineering and maths, consistently broadening her thoughts and abilities. It had been the definition of a dream realized.
Well, that was until Mr. Stephen Jarvis appeared on the scene. The youngest son of Lord Jarvis, he had relentlessly pursued her. Taken with his good looks and charm, Isolde had been flattered and more than willing to permit him to dance and flirt and, on more than one occasion, kiss her. She had even pestered her father into investing with Jarvis.
Unfortunately, the affair had detonated in spectacular fashion. First, she had discovered that Jarvis, the blackguard, was already married, his doting wife rusticating at home in Bristol. Then, Isolde learned that Jarvis was a fraudster and was using her father’s reputation to swindle investors. Thankfully, Jarvis had been arrested, brought to trial, and convicted of his wrongdoings—receiving transportation for his behavior.
Miraculously, her indiscretions with Jarvis had never come to light. Isolde had demanded he return her letters and then burned their correspondence, reducing the information they contained to smoke and ash. No one outside of Jarvis himself and her parents knew the depth of her indiscretion. Well . . . and Tristan. He had unfortunately read the letters before she had burned them. But that chapter was behind her now.
Like Iseult of Legend, Isolde had experienced a sort of love-stricken madness with Jarvis. But she had thankfully come to her senses and broken off with the man.
Ethan’s words cut through her thoughts:
“My calm rests, weary-winged, atop my breast.
I shan’t disturb it. Forsooth—I will not!
What man merits the flight of tranquility?
None, I say!”
Hear, hear, Isolde thought, lifting an imaginary flute of champagne in Ethan’s direction.
She wrapped her fingers around Tristan’s hand still in her lap.
Who cared if Queen Victoria and all of Polite Society judged her? Isolde knew that the barbs about her unorthodox ways would not cease.
Fortunately, she and Tristan would be leaving for Hawthorn in the morning. Once there, they could ignore everyone else, discuss science or argue philosophy—or, even better, giggle at naughty limericks—and bury themselves in the joy of their newfound love.