Chapter 6
Chapter Six
“Heavens, one would think I have dragged you out here against your will.”
Rigby Village was home to a lot of poets, writers, and other creative villagers, who crowded the Theater Stage Inn a day later.
Oscar looked around with disinterest, trying to ignore the jostle of a bard to his right and the wailing of a poet who wanted attention for his most recent works.
Oscar turned to Edmund, who smirked at him.
“I am glad my discomfort amuses you, Harcross.”
“You are surrounded by the arts, Oscar. What is there to be uncomfortable about?”
Oscar said nothing, only nursed his drink pointedly.
The lighting around them was bright, not at all like the cozy, dim ambiance of his favorite tavern in Rochdale. That one was quiet, rarely frequented by anybody who did not want to be left alone, and it was the perfect place for Oscar to occasionally hide away from everything.
“Then again,” Edmund continued, “you are surrounded by art in your own home now, are you not? Your wife is a masterpiece in herself, a sculpture borne from Venus’s shell. So of course, you must appreciate the arts.”
Oscar gave a warning snarl, looking at him witheringly. “If you’ve always regarded her so highly, you should have saved her at your ball.”
“Perhaps you are the one who should regard her more highly,” Edmund countered. “I believe she deserves that.”
“What you think is irrelevant,” Oscar muttered. “I do not recall inviting you into my marriage.”
“As your best friend, that is practically part of the deal,” Edmund smirked. “Besides, I feel some… responsibility to the Duchess. It was my party she was harassed at—”
“Attacked at,” Oscar corrected. “But do not blame yourself. Peregrine made his own vile choices, and he has paid for them. Not nearly enough, though, for if I ever see him cross my path again…” He shook his head hard.
Edmund’s gaze was deliberate and steady, seeing through him in a way he didn’t care to enjoy. “Mm. Perhaps I was wrong about how you regard her.”
“She is my wife. I must protect her.”
“Yes, but you care about her, too.”
“I barely know her.”
“You mean to tell me that in all these days since your wedding, you two have not dined together and had a conversation? You do not know her favorite wine, or what she does indoors when it rains? You do not know what chocolate cheers her up on a terrible day, nor what dress she secretly hates wearing to balls?”
Oscar scowled. “No, and I do not need to know any of those things.”
“On the contrary, they are the things you do need to know.”
“I do not care to know those things.”
“Oscar,” Edmund sighed. “What on earth have you been doing in that empty, rattling castle, if not getting to know your wife?” At Oscar’s silence, Edmund let out an even heavier sigh. “Ah, I see. You have been avoiding her. Why, Oscar? You clearly offered her your hand for a reason. You are lone—”
“Do not,” Oscar warned, “suggest such a thing.”
Around them, some patrons quietened their own conversations, but Oscar had long mastered keeping his voice low. It was only a shame his friend couldn’t.
“I have spent enough time in solitude to endure the loneliness without issue,” Oscar added. “The Duchess will not change any of that.”
“But she could.”
Oscar’s scathing look said enough. He didn’t care what Isabella did or did not do. She didn’t have to affect his life if he didn’t want her to. He had his secrets and his closed doors. By keeping her at arm’s length, they both remained safe.
“You cannot keep pushing her away forever, Oscar,” Edmund warned. “You cannot imprison her in that dark castle without anything to do. You will drive the girl insane.”
“I do not intend…” He trailed off because Edmund was right, really.
That was exactly what he had intended.
Not quite imprisonment, but… he intended to keep her safe, within marriage. Safe from the ton’s wagging tongues, and only let them see her when it was absolutely necessary for their legacy. Above all, his intention was to keep to their own lives behind closed doors.
“What sort of life is this for your duchess?” Edmund pushed. “A husband who will not even have one dinner with her for the sake of company.”
“I do not need company.”
“It is not always about what you alone want or need. Sometimes, you can put your own pride aside and think of another soul.”
Oscar bristled at his friend’s berating, but swallowed back any further argument with a hard, long swig of brandy. He glared at the bard, who was attempting to get close enough to hear any gossip, likely to make some silly tune out of it.
His thoughts lingered on his wife, trying to recall anything about her loving the arts.
Would she love it here, in this tavern, where shows were performed, and poets created stanzas of flattery? Would she blush and laugh if one were created about her?
Hunching his shoulders, Oscar thought about his friend’s advice.
One dinner.
Perhaps he could consider a night to do that.
Once again, he looked out at the tavern and wondered what Isabella was doing at that moment.
“Mrs. Tisdale,” Isabella called out a few days after she had caught the Duke exercising in the garden. She strode down the main hallway on the ground floor, fueled by purpose. “Mrs. Tisdale, where are you?”
The housekeeper emerged from the parlor, her hands clasped before her. “Yes, Your Grace? What can I do for you?”
Isabella paused, looking around her pointedly. “I have been struck with inspiration. This place is far too dreary, and I cannot stand it. If I have to look at one more black or very, very dark gray décor, I am going to jump out of my chamber window.”
She could almost hear Alicia muttering, ‘says the least dramatic lady in the ton.’
“Your Grace, anything you wish to change can be.”
“Without His Grace’s permission?” she checked, more of a warning than anything.
Mrs. Tisdale looked hesitant but nodded. “He understands you are the mistress of the house, as he is the master of it.”
“Then it is decided,” Isabella said gleefully. “I will begin in the drawing room, for I intend to invite my family in the near future. Or at least Lady Mary, my friend from London. I will not entertain guests in such drab colors, not when I came from a home bursting with light.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Mrs. Tisdale agreed.
Isabella turned, already gathering the staff in the near vicinity.
“I wish for more candles to be placed around the hallways. On every other surface you find, place a candle on it. The lighting ought to be warm at night, inviting, almost intimate, without trying. And heavens, these heavy curtains must be adjusted. If I wish to eat in darkness, I will find a sewer for myself, but not while in my own home.”
“Perhaps the drawing room can have lighter curtains, while the library can have more translucent ones, along with the music room. Those rooms ought to be as light and airy as possible, unless it is the evening, upon which we can make the ambiance cozy.”
The staff immediately set to work. Isabella watched them scurry around, knowing that the décor came from Oscar’s need for cold, dark isolation, judging by his own chambers. Isabella would not stand for it. If she were stuck here, then she would not be stuck in darkness.
So, while her husband remained out checking on his tenants at a nearby farmstead, Isabella got herself involved.
Room by room, changes were made. Curtains were switched out, and she sent maids for bolts of fabric to lighten furnishings.
Isabella also sent an order letter to a village craftsman to get lighter wooden furniture placed around the house.
Namely, she intended to replace the furniture in her own room.
She wanted to replicate that of her townhouse room.
While Wickleby Hall had been beautiful enough, nothing compared to her childhood bedroom in the family’s townhouse.
“Miss Duchess.”
She turned at a small voice that had called her by the strange title. In turn, she was still getting used to even being a duchess.
Facing a small boy in a servant’s uniform, no more than nine, perhaps, she was surprised. His blue eyes were wide and innocent, full of curiosity.
“My mama works as a chambermaid, and she says I might be able to help. She says you are making things…” He frowned, his mouth twisting. “Lovelier!”
Isabella’s heart flooded with adoration. She had always loved children. Watching the way her own mother had treated her and her siblings had always filled her with a longing to be better than that, wanting to know how it would feel to raise a child in a loving household.
“Are you… part of the staff?” she asked, thinking of her formidable husband.
He was hard and cold, but surely, he was not so cruel as to employ a child.
The boy shook his head. “No, but I like the uniform! Mama lets me help out when I ask, but I mostly live with my grandparents in the village nearby. She told me earlier today that I can come and assist!”
“Oh, well, that is excellent,” Isabella said, brightening her voice for his sake. “What is it you would like to help with?”
“I like music,” he told her. “Papa has taken me to Rigby Village before, where there is a tavern that bards play at!”
Isabella’s curiosity was piqued, but she filed that away for a moment. “All right, then. How about we… put up some art for the music room? You can help me choose from the collection I have already acquired. And flowers! We must have flowers in there. Nice, fresh blooms. Do you like fl—”
“Yes, I do!” he said excitedly. “My name is Thomas, by the way.”
“Well, it is lovely to meet you, Thomas.”
She offered her hand to him, leading him to the music room, where she had already ordered several art pieces to be spread out for consideration of what to decorate with.
“I like the one with the bard playing the lute,” Thomas immediately said. “It reminds me of the tavern.”
He pointed out a piece that was indeed, as he said, full of pale greens, ocean-blues, and yellows. It was bright, pretty, and flawlessly themed.