Chapter Ten #3
“Great-aunt Agnes then paraded each and every male member of the household staff who was in service at the estate while my mother resided there through the room and told them to stand next to me.”
“Whatever for?”
Isabella squeezed her eyes shut. “Apparently, my aunt had formulated her own opinion concerning my mysterious parentage.” Isabella lifted her head and forced herself to open her eyes and look directly at Damien.
“Aunt Agnes was searching for the man who had fathered me. She hoped by viewing me next to these male servants, she might notice a resemblance.”
“What did you do?”
Isabella gave a short, self-mocking laugh. “Nothing. Not at first. I didn’t understand what was happening.” Her lovely face sobered and she continued. “When I finally realized what Aunt Agnes was doing, I stormed out of the room. In a most undignified manner, I might add.”
“You had every right.”
“My aunt did not see it quite that way. Things deteriorated from that point on.”
Isabella made her comments with forced lightness, but Damien could see that the scars ran deep. He was moved by the hollowness of her voice, and he felt an odd twist of pity for the cruelty and humiliation she had suffered.
“Jenkins told me your father was a physician.”
“The man my mother married was a doctor,” Isabella corrected. “I have no knowledge of my true father.”
“That must be a difficult burden to bear,” Damien replied, trying to keep the sympathy from his voice. He did not want to further injure her pride by letting her believe he pitied her.
“I spent many a long night lying awake, wondering about my real father. I confess I often fanatisized about his identity,” Isabella responded in a faraway voice. Lost in her memories, she inadvertantly revealed secrets she had never dared to speak aloud.
“I remember at one point hitting upon the notion that my father was a royal duke. They were all known to have a great fondness for women and for siring numerous illegitimate children. I rather liked the idea of having royal connections. Of course later I overheard a gentleman repeating the Duke of Wellington’s remarks concerning the old king’s sons.
He called them ’the damndest millstones about the neck of any government that can be imagined.
’ After that, I quickly revised my theory. ”
Damien was amazed that she could speak so calmly about an incident that was clearly a deep and scaring wound.
“Why have you shared this with me?”
“I’m becoming fond of my life here at The Grange.” Isabella swallowed reflexively and forced her chin up. “I wanted you to know the truth about me, Damien. If you care to dismiss me, I’d like to leave before I become too attached to my charges.”
“Is that what happened? In your previous positions?”
“Not exactly,” Isabella hedged. She wiggled uncomfortably, not eager to recite her history of dismissals, but the earl obviously was waiting.
“My first employer thought I was attracting far too much attention from the men visiting the house, and my second employer falsely believed I had my sights set on capturing the affections of the eldest son of the household.”
“Did you?”
“Certainly not,” Isabella insisted emphatically. “There was only one small, stolen kiss, nothing nearly as passionate and exciting as those you have ...” Her voice trailed off in horror as Isabella stopped herself.
“Do go on,” Damien prompted, secretly thrilled that his kisses were far more stimulating than those of some nameless young dandy’s.
Rattled, but forcing herself to ignore the earl’s intense stare, Isabella continued.
“My third post was as a companion, and my employer and I mutually agreed that I was not at all suited to the life. I am infinitely more successful coping with children than spoiled old dowagers. And I do believe you are aware, sir, of the circumstances surrounding my dismissal from the Brauns’ household. ”
Isabella couldn’t be sure, but she thought the earl blushed. “Their loss is our gain, Isabella,” he responded gallantly.
Isabella acknowledged the compliment with a slight nod of her head. “Now that I have shared a secret with you,” she said, “I expect you to return the favor.”
Damien’s body stiffened instantly in suspicion, but he kept his voice neutral. “What precisely do you wish to know?”
“Why does Jenkins address you by your given name?”
The guarded, wary look slowly left the earl’s silvery eyes.
“Jenkins managed to pull my injured body from beneath my fallen horse after the battle of Vitoria. If not for his stubborn insistence and perseverance, I might have been left for dead, like so many of my comrades. During my long recuperation in Spain, he began calling me Damien. Once we returned to England, it seemed ludicrous to insist he again adopt the formality.”
An ironic smile tugged at her mouth. “Impending death is a great equalizer,” Isabella murmured softly.
During the ensuing silence, a comfortable warmth settled over Isabella. She felt a closeness with Damien, a sharing of memories with the absence of judgment.
“We’re ready, Father.” Catherine’s voice rang out loud and clear.
Regretfully, Damien pulled himself away from the softness in Isabella’s eyes.
It had been oddly comforting to share this moment with her and unexpectedly establish a bond of understanding and respect between them.
Damien couldn’t remember if he had ever spoken of his wounding with so little pain at the memory.
“If you ever decide you are interested in learning to ride, I’d be pleased to instruct you, Isabella.” With that said, the earl pushed himself off the bench and stood upright. Before Isabella could muster an appropriate response, he was gone.
Sunday morning dawned gray and overcast. Nevertheless, it was a large group that set out from The Grange bound for the village church.
Isabella rode inside the earl’s carriage with Jenkins by her side, while the maids Fran and Penny, accompanied by their husbands, rode on top.
Penny’s husband, Joe, handled the ribbons.
“Did you enjoy last evening’s supper with the earl and his children, Miss Browning?” Jenkins inquired politely, as the carriage ambled down the dirt road.
“No food or drink was thrown, Mr. Jenkins,” Isabella replied wryly. “I suppose that marks the occasion as a success.”
Actually, Saturday night’s supper was not quite the disaster afternoon tea had been, but it was not without its mishaps.
Catherine upset the gravy boat, which in Isabella’s opinion was no great tragedy, since the gravy was bland and far too thick.
But Ian made such a fuss over his sister’s accident that he truly embarrassed her, and Catherine in turn promised retribution.
This time Isabella managed to stop their fight with a quelling look of her own, but overall she was disappointed in the children’s behavior. A stern lecture to them before the meal had not ensured a peaceful dinner. Isabella sighed softly.
“The children are perfectly well behaved when they are alone with me and during their lessons. Yet I’m afraid, Mr. Jenkins, I have yet to devise an effective way to control Catherine and Ian’s unruly behavior when they are in their father’s presence,” Isabella admitted.
“I am certain you will find a solution, Miss Browning,” Jenkins proclaimed kindly.
Isabella gazed with undisguised skepticism at the valet.
Her confidence had been shaken during the last two encounters with the earl and his children.
Compounding the problem was her own personal desire to succeed.
It was fast becoming an obsession to prove her competence to the earl.
Isabella did not want to explore her reasons for this need too closely, not ready to deal with the consequences of what she might discover.
Seeing Isabella’s preoccupation, Jenkins sought to distract her by relating some of the history of the village.
“Much of the Norman influence remains in our local buildings,” Jenkins began, as they passed several stone houses, some thatched with mullioned windows.
Isabella obligingly turned her head. Even from this considerable distance she could distinguish the soaring stone shafts of the church, with its massive pillars, round arches, and small windows in thick walls.
“The church was built by a Norman knight, one Ruark De Mohun. In the chapel, an alabaster effigy carved on the coffin lid of the last of the male line of this same family, who was killed at the Battle of Boroughbridge in 1322, is prominently displayed.”
Isabella made an appropriate comment of interest, and Jenkins continued. “Of course, much of the history in the village has been overshadowed through the years by the fascination with Whatley Grange.”
“Whatley Grange?” Isabella echoed, certain Jenkins was about to depart more gossip. “What else can possible be said about The Grange?”
“Have you not yet heard the tale of Lady Anne’s treasure?”
Isabella drew her brows together. “I do seem to recall Maggie making a reference to Lady Anne, but I paid it no heed at the time.”
“The legend of Lady Anne’s treasure is a fascinating tale, Miss Browning.”
Isabella was obviously intrigued, but they were fast approaching their destination and there was no time for an explanation.
The carriage drove by a regimented line of clipped yew trees, and Isabella could see the lovely stone archway to the churchyard.
They drove through it and as they entered the churchyard, Isabella’s nervous excitement turned to pure shock.
Perched regally upon the church steps, looking every inch the lord of the manor, from his polished Hessian boots and form-hugging breeches to his expertly tailored coat of black superfine, stood the earl.