Chapter 9 #2
Lillian’s eyes darted toward the door again, fear replacing enthusiasm. “I think... I think Uncle Edmund knows what’s best for me. He’s been very kind, taking me in when my guardians died. I owe him my obedience in all things.”
The change was heartbreaking. In the space of moments, the vibrant young woman who had argued theological philosophy had become a frightened child reciting approved responses.
“Lillian,” Isadora said carefully, “you need not be so guarded with me. I’m not here to report your thoughts to anyone.”
“You’re his wife.” The words held a note of accusation. “You’re bound to tell him everything.”
“I’m bound to respect him as my husband, yes. But that doesn’t mean I must betray confidences or suppress my own judgment. Marriage needn’t mean the complete surrender of independent thought.”
Lillian stared at her with something approaching wonder. “Mrs. Hale says a wife’s duty is absolute obedience to her husband’s will. That disagreement is a form of rebellion against God’s natural order.”
“Mrs. Hale has strong opinions on many subjects, I’m sure. Lillian... Tell me honestly—are you happy here at the Abbey?”
Lillian opened her mouth, then closed it, clearly struggling with competing impulses toward honesty and self-preservation.
“I’m grateful,” she said finally. “Uncle Edmund saved me from destitution. He’s provided for all my needs, ensured my education, protected me from scandal. I would be ungrateful to complain.”
The answer sounded far too rehearsed and Isadora had to bite her lip to not burst out, shake her head or scream. She kept her voice low. “That’s not what I asked.”
“It’s what I can answer.” The words came out sharp, desperate. “Please don’t ask me to say more. Please don’t make me choose between honesty and safety.”
The plea was devastating in its simplicity. This girl—barely sixteen, intelligent and curious and alive—had learned to see honesty and safety as mutually exclusive concepts. What manner of household had Isadora entered, where even family members lived in fear of speaking their minds?
Before she could respond, footsteps in the corridor announced Mrs. Hale’s return. Lillian immediately straightened, her expression becoming carefully neutral.
“I hope you’ve had a pleasant conversation,” the governess said, though her tone suggested she hoped nothing of the sort.
“Most illuminating,” Isadora replied, rising from her chair. “Miss Gray’s insights into Milton are quite sophisticated. I suspect she would benefit from more challenging texts.”
Mrs. Hale’s expression soured. “His Grace is quite specific about appropriate reading material for young ladies. Miss Gray’s education follows a curriculum designed to prepare her for her proper role in society.”
“Of course.” Isadora smiled, though she felt anything but pleasant. “I merely thought that intellectual curiosity should be encouraged rather than... contained.”
The word choice was deliberate, and both women understood its implications. Mrs. Hale’s jaw tightened, while Lillian watched the exchange with wide eyes.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Isadora continued, “I believe I’ve seen quite enough for today. The tour has been most... educational.”
She moved quickly to the hallway where Mrs. Pemberton stood, her eyes downcast. “Thank you, Mrs. Pemberton,” she said quietly, her tone betraying none of the turmoil she’d felt after her altercation with Mrs. Hale. “I think I have seen enough.”
“I trust you found the tour informative, Your Grace,” Mrs. Pemberton said simply.
“Indeed. It was quite informative.” Isadora moved to the window, gazing out at gardens that lay dormant beneath their blanket of snow. “Tell me, Mrs. Pemberton—honestly—are you happy in your position here?”
The housekeeper went very still. “Your Grace?”
“It’s a simple question. Are you content in your work?”
“His Grace provides fair wages and steady employment, Your Grace. The household runs according to his expectations, and I take pride in meeting those expectations.”
More carefully chosen words that said everything and nothing. Isadora turned from the window to study the older woman’s face, noting the lines of tension around her eyes, the rigid set of her shoulders.
“But are you happy here?”
Mrs. Pemberton’s hands twisted in her apron—that gesture again, the unconscious betrayal of inner turmoil. “Your Grace, I... that is, my feelings on the matter are hardly relevant. I have my duties, and I perform them to the best of my ability.”
“Your feelings are relevant to me.” The words came out more gently than Isadora had intended. “I am to be mistress of this household now. Surely that means I have some interest in the welfare of those under my authority?”
For a moment, Mrs. Pemberton’s careful composure cracked. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, then sighed. “Your Grace is very kind. But kindness and authority don’t always... that is, His Grace has particular ways of managing his household. Ways that have served well for many years.”
“And if those ways were to change? If kindness were to become part of the household’s management philosophy?”
Mrs. Pemberton stared at her as though she had suggested turning the Abbey upside down and shaking it for loose change. “Change, Your Grace?”
“Small changes. Reasonable changes. The sort that might make everyone’s lives a bit more pleasant.”
“His Grace doesn’t approve of change, Your Grace.” The words came out as barely more than a whisper. “And begging your pardon, but those who have tried to introduce changes in the past have... well, they’ve found it best to seek employment elsewhere.”
The warning was clear, though diplomatically phrased. Edmund tolerated no interference with his system of control, no matter how well-intentioned. Those who challenged his authority found themselves looking for new situations, regardless of their previous standing in the household.
“I see,” Isadora said, though what she saw was far more complex than Mrs. Pemberton’s careful explanation had intended to convey. “Thank you for your honesty. And for your concern.”
After the housekeeper left, Isadora remained at the window, watching snow continue to fall over the Abbey’s grounds.
The village lights twinkled in the distance—warm squares of yellow that spoke of families gathering around their hearths, of comfortable conversations and shared laughter.
Here, in her magnificent prison, silence reigned supreme.
She had married to escape one cage, only to find herself in another—grander, certainly, but no less confining.
The difference was that this cage held others as well: servants too frightened to speak their minds, a girl too intelligent for her own safety, and somewhere in this maze of marble and misery, a man so damaged by grief and guilt that he had transformed his home into a mausoleum of the living.
The question that haunted her was whether any of them could be saved—or whether she would simply become another ghost haunting the halls of Rothwell Abbey, another voice silenced by the suffocating weight of enforced perfection.
As evening approached, Isadora found herself drawn to the drawing room she had glimpsed during her tour.
Unlike the state apartments with their museum-like perfection, this chamber showed signs of actual use—books left open on side tables, a slight indent in the cushion of what was clearly a favored chair, newspapers folded but not yet cleared away.
In the corner stood a pianoforte, and she approached it almost reverently, her fingers trailing across keys that showed the slight wear that came from regular use. When had music last filled this room? When had anyone sat here and played for simple pleasure rather than duty?
Without conscious thought, she settled onto the bench and began to play. Soon, she lost herself in the gentle melody, her entire spirit moving with her fingers as sounds danced from the instrument.
A movement in the doorway caught her peripheral vision, but she didn’t turn. She could feel his presence—Edmund’s careful attention, his silent assessment of this breach in his ordered routine. How long had he been standing there? Had he come seeking her out?
For long minutes after the music stopped, husband and wife stared at each other silently.
“It grows late, Lady Isadora,” he said at last, his voice curt.
“Forgive me,” she muttered as she stood. “I... could not help myself.”
“The instrument hasn’t been played in some time.” His words were neutral, but she caught the slight hoarseness in his voice that suggested the sound had affected him more than he cared to admit.
“It has a lovely tone. Someone once cared for it well.”
“My mother. She played every evening after dinner. The entire house could hear it.”
The past tense hung between them like a bridge neither seemed willing to cross.
She wanted to ask about those evenings, about the woman whose portrait had gazed down at her with such warmth, about the transformation that had turned a house of music into a tomb of silence.
But something in his expression warned her away from such dangerous territory.
“I shall confine my playing to more appropriate hours in future,” she said instead.
“That won’t be necessary.” He stepped forward, the firelight catching the sharp angles of his face. “The music is... pleasant. A welcome change from the usual quiet.”
Pleasant. Such a careful word, one that committed him to nothing while acknowledging something. But his eyes told a different story—they held a hunger for the warmth she had brought to his cold halls, even as his rigid posture warned her not to make too much of such small concessions.
“I should retire,” she said, though neither of them moved. “Tomorrow will bring its own obligations.”
“Yes. Sleep well, Isadora.”
Her name on his lips sent an odd flutter through her chest. Without his formal titles and careful distance, it sounded almost intimate—a recognition of her as a person rather than simply a solution to his domestic difficulties.
She curtsied and moved toward the door, but his voice stopped her at the threshold.
“Isadora.” She turned back, noting how the firelight painted him in shades of shadow and flame. “Thank you. For the music.”
The simple gratitude in his words was more dangerous than any grand gesture could have been. It spoke of a man starved for beauty, for warmth, for the simple human comforts he had denied himself in his fortress of solitude.
“You’re welcome,” she replied softly, then fled before she could say something foolish, something that might shatter the fragile peace they had achieved.
As she climbed the stairs to her chambers, Isadora allowed herself to acknowledge what she had been avoiding since her arrival at Rothwell Abbey.
Edmund Ravensleigh was indeed dangerous—not because of his reputation or his scarred past, but because beneath his rigid control lay depths that called to parts of herself she had never known existed.
He was a man capable of inspiring not just fear but fascination, not just obedience but the far more treacherous emotion of genuine care.
The realization should have sent her running back to London, should have made her grateful for the emotional distance he maintained between them.
Instead, it made her want to stay and fight—for Lillian’s freedom, for the servants’ dignity, and perhaps most dangerously of all, for the soul of the man who had built such beautiful walls around his wounded heart.