Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
“Am I disturbing you?” A soft whisper said through the cracked door.
The next morning, the sun streamed through the bedroom window, and Isla woke to a quiet knock on her door.
It was Oliver.
She got up and wrapped a dressing robe around her. She strode over and opened the door to find him smiling shyly, already dressed and ready for the day.
“I was wondering if you would like me to show you the house?” he asked. “I know Mrs. Callahan said she was arranging for someone on the staff to take you, but as a man of this manor and the future Duke of Ealdwick, I would like to do it myself. Is that all right?”
“I would like that very much, Lord Oliver,” she said, her heart lifting. “Why nae give me a few moments to get ready and we can take a nice stroll about the manor before we break our fasts? How does that sound?”
“That is a splendid idea, Your Grace!”
“Please, call me, Isla.”
“Isla. That is a lovely name.”
Isla dressed quickly in a simple day dress and wrapped her hair into quick braids, without bothering to ring for her maid.
She stepped outside the door, and without pause, Oliver began his tour of the vast manor, his small hand tucked in hers.
He showed her the great hall, the music room, and the library, which was his favorite room.
It smelled of old musty tomes and rich mahogany.
“One day, I am going to read all the books on these shelves!” He said as he showed her the organized sections of works by subject and author. “Have you read all these books?”
“I am a most voracious reader, but I daenae think I could ever read all these books. Although ye are inspirin’ me to try!”
His enthusiasm is infectious.
They finally reached the long portrait gallery on the far east side of the first floor, where stern-faced family members stared down from their gilded frames.
“This is my papa,” Oliver said, pointing to a portrait of an equally handsome but much younger Duke.
His eyes were softer in the painting, yet just as strikingly blue. He even wore a faint, gentle smile that touched the corners of his lips. Next to him was a woman; she had a striking face and dark, shining hair.
Isla knew instantly that this must be his late wife, Cecilia.
“And this is my mama,” he said, his voice a little wistful. “I never got to meet her. Papa doesn’t talk about her very much. I like this picture of her.”
He fell silent, his small hand tracing the bottom of the frame. Isla knelt, her heart aching for the boy. Isla knew loss and hated that it was something a boy so young had to reckon with.
“I am so sorry for yer loss, lad,” she whispered. “But she looks like a wonderful lady, and I am certain she loved you very much. In fact, I think ye look a lot like her. Except for the hair, and yer faither’s eyes.”
She hugged him close then, her gaze still fixed on the portrait over his shoulder. She felt a profound sadness wash over her like a wave, not just for the motherless child but for the man who had lost his wife.
He had told her very little about the late Duchess. Isla could not shake the feeling that there was great sadness behind her death. She hoped she would find out the truth in time.
Why wouldnae a faither talk about his deceased wife to their son? Is the Duke still in love with his first wife?
The thought was a cold, lonely stone in the pit of her stomach, and Isla realized why the Duke had shut her out on their wedding night.
And the rejection resurfaced, cold and jagged like an iceberg.
“Mrs. Callahan, could we review these numbers once more?”
“Of course, Your Grace,” she replied sharply as she stood over Isla’s shoulder, evaluating the orders for the kitchen and upcoming meals. “You have done well these last several days in your role as Duchess. There will be questions, and it is my duty to help you.”
The household ledgers, when first presented to her by a stiff-backed Mrs. Callahan, were a source of initial confusion.
As sharp as she was with mathematics, Isla made a few mistakes at first. She had mixed up expenses and miscalculated a few accounts the way they were organized, but she was a quick study.
She spent hours at her desk, poring over the documents, her brows furrowed in concentration.
I will fulfill me role, and do it well. Isla filled herself with determination as she finished the work.
Isla was no stranger to running a household. She had taken charge of her siblings and their care after their mother’s death when she was eighteen. When her father died only two years ago, she made sure to work closely with her brother as he acclimated to their family’s title as the eldest son.
Yet, the sheer scale of the Ealdwick estate was staggering. She may as well have been running a palace. Isla’s Scottish upbringing at Dalrigh Hall was worlds away from the intricate accounting of an English ducal manor.
“There is this letter that came for you,” Margie said to her later that day, once the afternoon post had arrived.
Isla recognized the script instantly as she handed her the paper.
Dearest Sister,
All is well in London, although Aunt Honoria continues to parade me about the ton in search of any suitor she deems worthy.
I fear she is using me to live vicariously, but I could do far worse.
What all of this means, though, quite thankfully, is that your work in marrying His Grace has helped. I cannot express my gratitude.
I fear my thoughts are mostly of you, wondering what you are doing and if you are settling in. It has been hard without you, but I am learning that I am capable. I think I have you to thank for that.
We received word that you will be coming back to London in a fortnight, but please do write to me before then. I am anxious to hear of all that is happening at Ealdwick Manor.
Your Little Sister (Always),
Eilidh
Isla sat down and got to work, pulling out her stationery and quill and throwing the ledgers aside.
She penned a response, happy to share that she missed Eilidh greatly and was still settling into her very different life as a duchess at the vast, grand Ealdwick Manor, complete with an enormous list of new responsibilities and many staff.
Isla shared her excitement to see the family in London in a fortnight, and she told of the other bright spot in her new life, her husband’s six-year-old son, Oliver.
By her seventh day, Isla was surprising Mrs. Callahan with her questions and sensible suggestions for consolidating a few of the household purchases.
The seasoned housekeeper, who had initially been skeptical of the new duchess, began to show her quiet respect.
She nodded carefully as Isla explained her reasoning for the changes to established Ealdwick practice.
“I agree that we would do better to combine our orders to work with one purveyor for linens and other fabrics, Your Grace,” she said finally. “Thank you for your keen eye. We are grateful.”
We, she thought wistfully, wondering if she meant herself and the Duke or just the staff.
The ledger was closed then with a definitive thud as Mrs. Callahan left the room.
Isla stretched her hands, still tingling from the cold weight of the Duke’s signet ring, which she had been using to seal correspondence. She turned her thoughts from business to her true reward, her time with Oliver.
The library was their sanctuary, and in the late afternoon glow of early December, it held a cozy warmth. Firelight danced from the hearth across the spines of thousands of leather-bound books, and the scent of aged paper and woodsmoke hung sweetly in the air.
Oliver, already settled in a deep wingback chair in the corner, looked up, his face brightening instantly. A thick, worn volume rested on his knees.
“Isla! I thought you would never be done,” he said.
Isla smiled, crossing the room to the fire to warm her sore hands, taking care around her scars. “Business waits for nay one, Oliver. Yet now, it waits for me until another day. I have told yer governess to take the rest of the day to herself.”
“Really?”
“Aye, now what swashbucklin’ hero are we with today? Is Captain Beefheart finally sailin’ free of the King’s Navy?”
“He is!” Oliver pushed the book towards her, pointing with a small finger. “But he is trapped in a narrow cove, and they’re setting the fuse to the gunpowder store. He needs a distraction before the whole thing blows to pieces!”
Isla took the seat beside him, leaning in to read the next passage, but quickly abandoned the script for her own.
With a bit of improvisation, she knew she could provide a much more animated performance.
Her voice shifted, deepening for the villainous captain.
Oliver was rapt. His bright blue eyes followed her every move.
“Arr, and when I am done with ye,” Isla read Captain Beefheart’s words aloud, “Ye will nae see the light of day!”
“Something about that tone of voice sounds familiar,” the Duke said as he approached the doorway. “Almost like… your brother?”
“Your Grace,” Isla said, rising to her feet with a crimson flush in her cheeks. “I was gettin’ a bit carried away, readin’ to Oliver.”
“She is the best reader in the whole world, Papa!”
“Is that so? Well, then be on with it. I will not disturb you.”
“But…” Isla said to his back, as he retreated from the threshold and walked down the hall without another word.
Her mind spiraled, desperately trying to steady the whirlwind left by Benedict’s sudden exit. The silence felt enormous. A raw, needy part of her wanted to call out, to have him stop, turn back, and stay with them.
Could we ever simply be a family? Even just for Oliver?
She closed her eyes, and a sharp image formed. His handsome profile leaned toward the page as he read. She thought of his deep, resonant voice, perfectly suited for narrating epic tales.
How fun it would be now, at this very moment, to break the tension that looms around this place and have him read aloud with us…