Chapter 4
The frost had turned the windows of Cavendish House into sheets of crystalline lace, each pane etched with patterns that reminded Isadora of the delicate needlework her governess had once forced her to master.
She pressed her forehead against the cold glass, watching the servants below wrestle holly garlands into submission around the iron railings.
Their breath formed white clouds in the December air, and she found herself envying their simple purpose—string the greenery, tie the ribbons, make the house ready for Christmas.
No one expected them to smile prettily while their lives were bartered away like livestock at market.
The irony wasn’t lost on her that Christmas preparations should feel so much like funeral arrangements.
She’d been summoned to the library an hour ago.
Father’s note had been characteristically brief: My study.
Immediately. The sort of terse command that had preceded every major disappointment of her three-and-twenty years.
When she was twelve, it had been the announcement that she would no longer be permitted to visit the stables unaccompanied.
At seventeen, the declaration that her involvement with the local orphanage was “unseemly for a lady of her station.” Last year, the lecture about her responsibility to marry well and stop embarrassing him with her “peculiar notions.”
She suspected today’s summons would make all previous disappointments seem trivial by comparison.
“Lady Isadora?” Jenny appeared in the doorway, wringing her hands in a way that suggested she’d been listening at keyholes again. “His Lordship is asking for you. Again. He seems rather... insistent.”
Insistent. What a delightfully understated way to describe the Earl of Wexford when his patience had reached its natural conclusion.
Isadora could picture him now—standing behind his mahogany desk like a general surveying a battlefield, calculating which pieces to sacrifice for the greater good of his political ambitions.
She’d always known this day would come. Had watched her sister Charlotte marry the Marquess of Pembroke at twenty with all the enthusiasm of a lamb approaching slaughter, then disappear into the northern estates to produce heirs and manage household accounts.
Had endured three years of increasingly pointed comments about her unmarried state, her advancing age, her stubborn refusal to accept perfectly adequate proposals from perfectly tedious men.
But knowing and accepting were different creatures entirely.
“Help me look presentable,” she said, turning from the window with the sort of resigned determination she imagined martyrs must have felt on their way to the flames. “If I’m to be sacrificed for the family honor, I might as well look dignified while it happens.”
Jenny worked quickly, pinning Isadora’s hair into a severe chignon that would meet Father’s standards for propriety while doing nothing to soften the sharp angles of her face.
The dark green morning dress she selected was one of his favorites—modest neckline, long sleeves, not a single ruffle or ribbon to suggest frivolity.
The sort of garment that proclaimed its wearer to be a serious person worthy of serious consideration.
Though she suspected Father’s definition of “serious consideration” would prove rather different from her own.
The walk to the library felt like a condemned prisoner’s final journey.
Christmas greenery adorned every doorway, filling the halls with the scent of pine and winter berries, but the festive decorations only emphasized the grimness of her situation.
Somewhere in London, other young ladies were planning holiday festivities, choosing ribbons for their hair, wondering which gentleman might claim a dance at the season’s remaining balls.
She was about to discover which gentleman had successfully negotiated for permanent ownership of her person.
The library door loomed before her like the entrance to a tomb. She knocked once, heard Father’s curt “Enter,” and stepped across the threshold into whatever fresh hell awaited.
He stood with his back to her, hands clasped behind him in the pose he’d perfected during his years in Parliament.
The Earl of Wexford had always been a handsome man—tall and lean with silver threading through dark hair, the sort of classical features that looked well on coins and in portrait galleries.
Age had only sharpened those features, giving him the appearance of a Roman senator carved from particularly unforgiving marble.
“Sit.” He didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge her presence beyond that single word of command.
Isadora perched on the edge of the leather chair facing his desk, arranging her skirts with the mechanical precision that years of deportment lessons had bred into her bones.
The room smelled of leather and pipe tobacco, old books and the faint sweetness of Cook’s Christmas puddings steaming somewhere far below in the kitchens.
Under different circumstances, these scents might have comforted her. Today they felt suffocating.
When Father finally turned to face her, his expression was ice cold. “Lord Ashcombe called on me yesterday evening.”
Ice crystallized in her veins, though she managed to keep her face carefully blank. “How pleasant for you both.”
“Pleasant indeed. He made me a very generous offer.” Father settled into his chair with deliberate slowness, savoring what he clearly considered his moment of triumph. “For your hand in marriage. The settlements are more than fair, considering your... circumstances.”
The words hit her like physical blows, driving the breath from her lungs and leaving her gasping.
She’d known this moment would come, had prepared herself for it as one might prepare for surgery or natural disaster.
But the reality proved far more brutal than any amount of mental rehearsal could have anticipated.
“My circumstances,” she repeated carefully, testing the words like one might test ice before venturing onto a frozen pond.
“Your age, Isadora. Your singular failure to secure an appropriate husband despite three seasons and numerous opportunities. Your tendency toward opinions that most sensible men would find... challenging.” His smile held no warmth whatsoever.
“Ashcombe is willing to overlook these deficiencies in exchange for the Cavendish connection and a substantial dowry. You should be grateful.”
Grateful. The word sat in her mouth like poison, bitter and choking.
She should be grateful to be bartered away to a man old enough to be her father, whose previous wife had died under mysterious circumstances that no one discussed in polite company.
Grateful to become the property of someone who looked at her the way other men looked at particularly fine horses—calculating their value, their breeding potential, their likely useful lifespan.
“I see.” Her voice sounded remarkably steady, considering the earthquake occurring inside her chest. “And when is this... transaction to be completed?”
“The banns will be read starting this Sunday. A wedding in the new year, once the worst of winter has passed. Ashcombe sees no point in unnecessary delay, and frankly, neither do I.”
“No point in delay.” She rose from her chair, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “Because heaven forbid I should have time to consider whether I wish to spend the rest of my life married to a man who buried his first wife six months ago and is already shopping for her replacement.”
Father’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You will watch your tongue, Isadora. Ashcombe is a respected member of society, a man of substantial wealth and unquestioned breeding. That he’s willing to take on a woman of your age and temperament is a gift you’d be wise not to refuse.”
“A gift?” The word exploded from her with enough force to rattle the crystal decanters on Father’s sideboard.
“To be sold like breeding stock to a man who sees wives as interchangeable pieces of household furniture? To spend my life producing heirs for someone who’ll never see me as more than a vehicle for his legacy? ”
“That,” Father said with the sort of icy calm that had cowed Parliament on more than one occasion, “is what marriage is, Isadora. A practical arrangement between families, designed to advance mutual interests and secure the future. Your romantic notions are the product of too much novel-reading and insufficient reality.”
“Reality?” She began to pace wildly through the room.. “The reality is that… that you are selling me, father. Like I am no more than a mare or a sheep!”
Father rose from behind his desk, and though a part of her was certain that it was her imagination, she was almost certain that she saw something that might have been hurt flicker across his features.
But it vanished so quickly she might have imagined it, replaced by the cold calculation that had governed every decision of her life.
“My career advancement benefits this entire family. The estate, the tenants, the servants who depend on our prosperity—all of it requires careful management of our resources and connections. You are one of those resources, Isadora, and it’s time you accepted that fact.”
“I am your daughter, not a chess piece to be moved around your board for strategic advantage.”
“You are both. And if you possessed even a fraction of the sense God gave lesser creatures, you’d understand that this arrangement serves your interests as well as mine.
” He moved around the desk, his voice taking on the patronizing tone he’d once used to explain why she couldn’t attend university like the sons of his friends.
“Ashcombe will provide you with security, status, a magnificent home. You’ll want for nothing material, and in time, you’ll have children of your own to occupy your attention. ”