Chapter 7 #2
Perhaps even takin’ on the dramatic persona of Captain Beefheart himself?
The very idea brought a ghost of a smile to her lips, yet a deeper ache to her chest as dutifully she pushed it aside, her thoughts coming back to Oliver.
“Well, where were we? Ah yes, ye willnae see the light of day,” Isla roared, picking up where she had left off.
When the chapter ended with Captain Beefheart escaping by the skin of his teeth, Oliver let out a long, satisfied sigh.
“That was magnificent. Your pirates are much better than the ones I read to myself. Why is that?”
“A pirate needs flair, me lad. And a little too much theatrical commitment if ye ask me,” she chuckled, closing the book. “It seems we both enjoy a thrillin’ escape.”
“You mean like my papa?”
“Speaking of other escapes,” Isla said, hoping to distract him. “I was reading a passage today on Scottish history. Do you know where the Earls of Glencoe stood during the Jacobite Rising?”
Oliver’s interest immediately shifted from the fictional hero to history with a snap of a finger, much like Isla. She was surprised at how much they shared, and how she knew just what to say to pique his interest.
“The Glencoe family? They pledged to the government, but only because they were forced to after the massacre. My governess taught me about this.”
“What else do you ken?”
“Well, their true loyalty was always to the Stuarts, but they had to wait for the next generation to raise the banner again.” He paused, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Isla had spent her life feeling like she had been lacking purpose.
Now, listening to Oliver connect the dots of history, her history, she felt an absolute necessity.
The emptiness that had followed her like a shadow for nearly thirty years was beginning to fill, replaced by the profound, quiet joy of being truly needed.
“Does yer faither like history?” Isla asked, hoping to learn something about her husband.
For all the time she had spent at Ealdwick, they had been passing ships in the night.
A marriage in name only.
“Oh yes! He knows everything about history!”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. He has read every book in our library. That is why I want to do it to!”
“Are ye sure that was nae just a turn of phrase?”
“Oh no! Papa told me when he was a young boy, his father was not around much, and his only company was books.”
“Well, what fine company to have then,” Isla thought, her heart aching for the young Duke but also happy that he learned to find comfort in the written word just as she had. “What of your grandmaither?”
“She died when Papa was born, just like my mama,” he said, his eyes cast down on the ground.
“Oh. I didnae mean to upset ye, darlin’. I am sorry for pryin’…”
“It is good to talk about it. Right, Isla?”
“Aye, ye are most right. We should always talk about our feelins’,” she said as she wrapped her arms around him.
Perhaps there is more pain inside of me husband than I had realized…
The following morning, a biting wind whipped snow across the grand drive.
Isla had planned a long walk, knowing the fresh air would do them both good, despite the bitter cold.
The Duke had excused himself to go into the local village to check on his tenant farmers before the harsh winter would do its worst. She noticed Oliver hesitated momentarily as he pulled on his coat, his hand instinctively touching his left knee.
“It’s a hearty distance to the tower in the distance,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Are you… um, are you sure you are up for it?”
Isla knelt beside him, adjusting the wool scarf around his neck. “I ken it is, but I will have ye to help me.”
“Of course, I will help you!” He said, his posture straightening.
They walked slowly, Isla deliberately matching her pace to his shorter stride, and the slight, rocking motion caused by his weaker leg. She ensured their conversation remained focused on the terrain and not his pace.
“Aye, I love the resilience of the oak trees, so hearty even in the loomin’ winter,” Isla said as she pointed in the distance.
“Yes, and look! I see fox tracks in the snow!”
“What a keen observation, lad! They must have been nearby; the snow fell recently. We should keep an eye out for them, but a distance.”
“Of course!” He said as his eyes scanned the open expanse of Eadlwick’s grounds.
When they reached the sheltered stone hut at the edge of the property, Isla set up a small picnic blanket and poured hot cider from a pewter flask.
“I confess,” Oliver said, taking a sip, his breath pluming white in the air. “I sometimes… Well, I guess I just wish I could have a real adventure.”
“Of course, ye can! What do you call this?”
“No, a real one. Not just in a book.” He kicked lightly at a stone with his sound foot. “One where I could run away from the King’s Navy or climb a fortress wall.”
Isla put her cup down and took his hands in hers. “Oliver, look around ye. This estate, this ground we are sittin’ on, has seen more true adventure and drama than any pirate novel. It simply requires a better storyteller, like ye. I think ye could be a great writer one day.”
“You really think so?”
“I sure do.”
Oliver looked up at her, his expression melting from earnest contemplation into a radiant, genuine smile. It was the kind that reached his eyes and made them crinkle at the corners, showcasing the same shade of blue his father had.
“Thank you, Isla,” he said softly.
The snow began to fall around them, soft and silent, dusting the edges of the blanket. Isla watched the flakes dance, her chest full as a realization dawned on her.
All evening, during their quiet conversation, he had not once looked at her scars. His gaze had lingered instead on her face, steady and unflinching, as though she were whole.
It had been so long since anyone outside her family had regarded her without pity or polite surprise.
The thought left her breathless—a fragile, wondrous sense of freedom she had not known she still longed for.
And yet, for all the boy’s gentleness… Isla couldn’t help but think of his father, who was a whole other matter.
For the Duke remained at a distance she could not cross. Always courteous, always correct, but never quite there. His composure was a mask, and though his acceptance comforted her, it only deepened the ache of his absence.
Will I ever be truly seen by me own husband?
She was a duchess now, surrounded by comfort, adorned in luxury.
But beneath all the splendor, she had never felt more achingly alone.