Chapter 12 #2
And you, Sebastian thought.
There could be no mistaking Isabel, even dressed in a light blue gown with her dark hair worn in a soft, flattering style.
In her painted smile and the ease with which she cradled the child in her right arm while her left hand was raised, touching that of her husband, he saw genuine happiness. What had changed?
He turned his attention to Anthony. He looked very much as Sebastian had expected.
The word ‘fop’ came first to his mind. Anthony wore his dark curled hair fashionably long with the long sideburns similar to those affected by Freddy Lynch.
In further emulation of Freddy, his waistcoat appeared to be expensive brocade worn with a high starched collar and intricately tied neckcloth.
He was no judge of male beauty, but he guessed that a woman might consider Anthony, Lord Somerton, a handsome man with his high cheekbones and well-shaped mouth.
He scanned the face looking for something that might give some indication of character, but he found nothing.
It was as if the man’s handsome features were a mask.
What was he hiding?
‘Do you think we are much alike?’ Sebastian commented, handing the precious folder back to Isabel.
‘You mean in looks? There are moments when I think there is a superficial similarity, but in all other respects you are as unlike as two men could possibly be.’ She looked down at the folder in her hands for a moment before raising her face, her expression grave.
‘Trust me, Lord Somerton, that is a good thing.’
For a long moment, they stood quite still, looking at each other. There was such unguarded pain in her eyes, he had to resist taking her in his arms. It was the death of her child, not her husband, which had robbed this woman of light and life. He wondered what it would take to bring her back.
Isabel glanced away, her shoulders lifting as if she remembered herself. When she looked back at him, the mask was back in place, calm and implacable.
‘Is there anything else you wanted to ask me?’
Sebastian cleared his throat. ‘Tomorrow is Sunday. What time is the church service?’
Isabel’s eyes widened. ‘Nine-thirty,’ she said.
‘Do you attend?’ he asked.
‘Of course, but...’
He frowned, ‘But?’
‘It’s just that Anthony rarely—’
‘I am not Anthony,’ he said in a tone that even to his ears sounded sharp.
She regarded him for a long moment. ‘Well then, if you care to accompany me, it is my custom to walk to the church directly after breakfast.’
He nodded. ‘Thank you. I would like to do that. Now I think I should rest or I will have to answer to Bennet.’
‘I will have dinner sent up to your room.’
He nodded and left her standing in the parlour, clutching the precious portrait to her chest.
Isabel waited until she heard Sebastian’s boots on the hall tiles before closing the door to the parlour. She opened the little portrait and set it on the escritoire. She kissed her forefinger and touched the painted face of the small baby in her lap.
This was all she had to remind her of that brief moment in time when she had been happy, completely and utterly happy, and she clung to the memory, taking it out, like the portrait, holding it in her hands, feeling its warmth sustain her for a little longer.
She wondered what it was about Sebastian Alder that had prompted her to show this likeness to him. He seemed to invite confidences and that thought unnerved her.
Taking a steadying breath, she picked up her pen, trying to concentrate on a letter to Lady Ainslie.
Lord Somerton’s heir had been found, saved from near death and installed at Brantstone. Her responsibility was done. The rest was up to him. She, Isabel, had other plans that did not involve him.
She picked up her pen and dipped it in the inkpot.
‘My dear Harriet,’ she wrote. ‘The new Lord Somerton is now at Brantstone and our plans for the school, so long delayed, can now proceed ...
She paused and looked out of the window at the long sweep of the drive and the church spire rising above the trees.
If she craned her neck to the right, she could make out the chimneys of the dower house.
Her heart leaped with excitement. Her own home, freedom and a chance to make something of her life.
... Lord Somerton is a contradiction. Of course, it is but his first days here, and while he is doing everything wrong, treating the servants and the tenants with too much familiarity, yet it only seems to make him more endearing.
Even in the short time he has been here, I can see in their eyes for all his rough edges, the staff appear to have accepted him.
I do not expect he will change. However simple his upbringing has been, the one thing the Reverend Alder seems to have instilled in him is a great trust and respect for his fellow human beings, however humble. ..
She played with the feathers of the pen for a moment, remembering how he had stooped from his great height to ask a little kitchen maid her name. That had been the moment that had set the stamp on Lord Somerton’s heir.
… When the opportunity presents, I am looking forward to talking to him at greater length about our plans for the daughters of the mill workers in Manchester. I expect a more sympathetic audience than my late husband would have given me.
She put her elbows on her table and covered her ears with her hands as if she still heard Anthony’s mocking laughter.
‘My dear Isabel. You may as well throw money into the pigswill than try and educate the lower classes. Those girls who won’t go into the mills will end up on the streets. You are wasting your time and my money.’
She couldn’t save the world. She wasn’t trying to, but even if she could give half a dozen young girls a better start in life, then she would have accomplished something.
No, Sebastian Alder wouldn’t laugh at her as Anthony had done.
He would listen with grave, approving eyes.
She looked down at what she had written, scrawled a few lines of general gossip and signed her name.
As she sealed the letter, she smiled. She picked up the travelling folio and shut it, hooking it closed.
That part of her life was over, and a new life was beginning, filled with meaning and purpose.