Epilogue #3
A lie, but she wouldn’t give these vultures the satisfaction of confirming their suspicions, wouldn’t feed gossip that would follow her for years regardless of what truth she offered.
“Of course, of course.” Lady Fairfax’s smile suggested complete disbelief beneath the polite agreement.
“Though one does wonder why you fled Rothwell Abbey in the middle of the night if everything was so proper between you. Surely if the marriage was satisfactory, a new bride would want to remain with her husband, especially with Christmas approaching and all the festive celebrations.”
The barb landed precisely where intended. Isadora felt it strike deep but refused to show reaction that would only encourage further prodding.
“I needed time with my dear friend Lady Charlotte,” she said, keeping her voice carefully neutral despite anger simmering underneath.
“The transition to married life can be quite overwhelming, as I’m sure you understand from your own experience.
Sometimes a woman requires companionship of her own sex during adjustment periods. ”
“Oh, naturally.” But Lady Fairfax’s expression suggested she understood nothing of the sort, was already mentally composing the version of this conversation she’d share with other society matrons over tea and scandal.
“Though the timing is rather unfortunate, what with all the whispers circulating about His Grace and that tragic duel. People will talk, you know. They always do when circumstances appear suspicious.”
They talked for another excruciating hour, each visitor extracting whatever morsels of information they could while offering sympathy that felt more like accusation.
When they finally departed—satisfied with whatever gossip they’d managed to gather—Isadora retreated to her chambers and collapsed on the bed fully dressed, staring at the ceiling while tears she’d been holding back finally spilled.
She’d become exactly what her father had always warned against—a woman who’d made emotional choices rather than practical ones, who’d believed love might conquer cold pragmatism, who’d trusted her heart instead of her head and now paid the price for such foolishness.
A soft knock interrupted her misery. “Isadora?” Charlotte’s voice carried through the door, gentle with concern. “May I come in?”
“Yes.”
Charlotte entered carrying another tea tray because apparently tea solved everything in her world, settled on the bed beside Isadora with determination. “Well, that was thoroughly awful. Lady Fairfax is even more insufferable than I remembered.”
Despite everything, Isadora felt her lips twitch slightly. “She means well.”
“She means to gossip, which is entirely different.” Charlotte poured tea with practiced ease, pressed a cup into Isadora’s hands with gentle insistence. “But they’re gone now, and you survived with your dignity intact, which is more than most women manage under such circumstances.”
Isadora sat up enough to drink without spilling, welcomed the warmth spreading through her chest even though it couldn’t touch the cold deeper inside. “I received a letter from Mrs. Crawford this morning. Before the visitors arrived.”
She’d almost forgotten about it in the chaos, the letter from Rothwell Abbey that had arrived with the morning post and sat unopened on her writing desk because reading it felt like reopening wounds barely beginning to scab over.
“What did she say?” Charlotte asked carefully, as though sensing the answer might cause pain.
“That Lillian has taken my departure very hard. Barely eats, refuses her lessons, spends hours weeping in the gardens where we used to walk together.” Isadora’s voice cracked despite her best efforts.
“Mrs. Hale is apparently at her wit’s end trying to manage her, and the girl asks constantly when I’ll return. ”
The image of Lillian weeping tore at her heart worse than Edmund’s rejection, made guilt join the grief already threatening to drown her.
The girl had already lost so much—her parents, her anonymity, any chance at normal childhood.
And now Isadora had abandoned her too, proved herself just another adult who promised protection but delivered only disappointment.
“And Edmund?” Charlotte’s question emerged cautious.
“Mrs. Crawford says he prowls the house like a caged beast. Doesn’t sleep—she hears him pacing in his study until dawn.
Doesn’t eat properly. Won’t go near the drawing room where I used to play pianoforte.
” Isadora swallowed against the tightness in her throat.
“Yesterday she found him standing in the rose garden, just staring at the beds I’d begun to tend.
He stood there for nearly an hour in the cold before finally returning inside. ”
She shouldn’t care. She shouldn’t let his suffering matter when he’d caused all of this through his own stubborn refusal to feel anything real.
But the image of Edmund standing alone in frozen gardens, staring at flowers that wouldn’t bloom until spring, made her chest ache despite every logical reason to feel nothing but anger.
“The entire household is in mourning,” Isadora continued, pulling the letter from her pocket where she’d tucked it earlier, unfolding it to read Mrs. Crawford’s careful script.
“She says it’s as though the life I brought to Rothwell Abbey departed with me, leaving only shadows and silence.
That they miss me terribly. All of them.
That the house feels hollow without my presence. ”
“Then perhaps you should return,” Charlotte suggested gently. “Give Edmund another chance to—”
“No.” The word emerged sharper than intended, but Isadora couldn’t soften it, couldn’t afford to let hope make her stupid enough to return to a man who’d made his feelings abundantly clear.
“I cannot remain here, mocked and ruined by Edmund’s shadow.
Cannot watch from a distance while gossip destroys what little remains of my reputation and Lillian’s future.
Better to remove myself entirely, go somewhere Edmund’s scandal cannot reach me. ”
“What are you saying?” Charlotte’s voice rose with alarm she didn’t bother concealing.
“My cousin Georgiana lives in Paris.” Isadora set down her teacup with hands that trembled slightly but held steady enough. “She’s written several times over the years inviting me to visit. I think it’s time I accepted her invitation.”
“Paris?” Charlotte stood abruptly, began pacing the way Isadora had earlier, agitation clear in every movement. “Isadora, that’s exile. If you leave England now, society will brand you a coward, and Edmund will have won whatever terrible game he’s playing.”
“Society already believes the worst regardless of what I do.” Isadora rose as well, moved to her writing desk where stationery waited alongside Georgiana’s most recent letter, months old but still extending welcome.
“And Edmund isn’t playing games, Charlotte.
He simply doesn’t want me, has made that abundantly clear through both words and actions.
Better to acknowledge reality and build a life somewhere I won’t constantly be reminded of my failure. ”
“This is madness—”
“This is survival.” Isadora pulled out paper and ink, began composing a letter to her cousin with determination that felt like armor against doubt.
“I cannot stay in London being pitied by former friends and gossiped about by vultures like Lady Fairfax. Cannot return to Rothwell Abbey and pretend everything is fine when Edmund has made it clear I’m nothing more than an inconvenience he’d rather not manage.
So I’ll go to Paris, let the scandal die down in my absence, and perhaps eventually build something resembling a life for myself. ”
“And Lillian?” Charlotte asked quietly, voicing the question Isadora had been avoiding since reading Mrs. Crawford’s letter because facing it meant acknowledging guilt that threatened to consume her. “Will you simply abandon her when she needs you most?”
The accusation landed like a blow despite Charlotte’s gentle delivery. Isadora set down her pen, pressed her palms flat against the desk.
“I’ll write to her. Explain as best I can why I had to leave. Promise to return when—” Her voice failed.
When what? When Edmund suddenly developed the courage he’d spent ten years avoiding? When society forgot about the Dangerous Duke and his runaway bride? When she stopped loving a man who’d made it clear he’d rather die than love her back?
“This isn’t right,” Charlotte said, coming to stand beside her at the desk with determination written across her features. “You’re running because you’re hurt, but running won’t heal anything. It’ll just put an ocean between you and the people who need you.”
“Perhaps they need to learn to manage without me.” Isadora picked up her pen again, dipped it in ink with hands that refused to shake despite the turmoil inside.
“Perhaps I need to learn that not every battle can be won through sheer stubbornness and refusal to quit. Some losses are meant to be accepted gracefully.”
She wrote quickly before doubt could weaken her resolve, composing a letter to Georgiana accepting the invitation and requesting accommodations as soon as could be arranged. Sealed it before she could reconsider, set it aside for posting in the morning.
“When will you go?” Charlotte’s voice carried resignation, recognition that once Isadora made a decision, nothing short of catastrophe would change her mind.
“As soon as I can arrange passage. A week, perhaps ten days. Long enough to settle my affairs but not so long that I lose my nerve entirely.” Isadora turned from the desk and met her friend’s troubled gaze.
“And Charlotte? Thank you. For everything. For not judging, for letting me fall apart in safety, for being the sister I never had.”
“Write to me,” Charlotte demanded, pulling her into a fierce embrace that threatened Isadora’s carefully maintained control. “Promise you’ll write and let me know you’re safe and managing. Promise you won’t simply disappear into France and forget about everyone who loves you here.”
“I promise,” she said, muffled against Charlotte’s shoulder, breathing in familiar perfume that smelled like friendship and loyalty and everything good she was leaving behind.
They stood like that for a long moment, holding each other while tears threatened and London bustled outside, oblivious to the small tragedy playing out in a townhouse drawing room.
When they finally separated, Isadora’s decision felt final. Irrevocable. The sort of choice that would define the rest of her life regardless of whether it proved right or catastrophically wrong.
She would go to France. She would put an ocean between herself and Edmund Ravensleigh. She would prove she could survive his rejection and build something resembling happiness without him.
She would stop loving him eventually, though that particular promise felt like the lie it undoubtedly was.
But she would try. She would board that ship and sail away from everything familiar toward a future that looked nothing like the dreams she’d harbored during those brief weeks at Rothwell Abbey when she’d believed love might be enough.
It wasn’t enough. It had never been enough.
And now she would spend the rest of her life learning to live with that truth in Paris, far from Yorkshire moors and rose gardens and a man who would rather destroy everything good than risk feeling anything at all.
Better exile than remaining close enough for Edmund’s shadow to completely consume her. Better to leave while she still had dignity intact and heart still beating, even if that beating hurt with every single rhythm.
Better to learn to survive alone than continue hoping for miracles that would never come.
The End?