Chapter Two
Westchester Hall
North of England
Isabella breathed a sigh of relief as she crept through the hidden door set into the glossy paneling of the long gallery.
Safe at last!
Well, peace at last, anyway. Even Lady Catherine’s piercing shrieks of displeasure would not permeate the heavy stone of these ancient walls.
Isabella picked up her taffeta skirts and began to climb the steep, spiral staircase which led to the tower room of Westchester Hall; the room she had come to consider her own private sanctuary.
Hardly anyone knew of the secret door in the long gallery, and the only other entrance to the tower was outside, accessed via a long walk through the rose gardens.
Given that the last of the roses had given up their blooms long before Michaelmas, Isabella thought it unlikely that the fastidious Lady Catherine would risk getting her slippers muddy.
The circular room at the top of the tower was hung with silken drapes and tapestries bedecked with flowers.
Isabella had spent years ensuring the elegant furnishings inside complemented the lovely views outside.
Six well-spaced windows ran from the floor to the ceiling and flooded the space with light, even today, when the weak winter sunlight was obscured by heavy clouds.
However, six windows meant a chilly draught, especially with the fireplace left unlit.
Isabella drew her soft woolen shawl further over her shoulders, shivering in her fine gown.
Perchance she should have chosen something more practical, but to Isabella, appearance was everything.
Whenever possible, she dressed in deep blue silk, the same hue as her eyes. Her golden hair was pinned neatly atop her head, just as if this was a normal day for the Countess of Felsham.
But she was no longer the Countess of Felsham and this wasn’t a normal day.
This was goodbye.
As she gazed out at the immaculate rolling lawns and the woodland beyond, Isabella was enveloped by a wave of sadness. The weight of it pressed down on her shoulders and made it hard to breathe. Panic flared in her chest and tears filled her eyes.
The truth was, she didn’t want to leave.
She twisted a heavily jeweled ring around her finger and tried to stop herself from repeating what had become a familiar refrain. If only things had been different.
Isabella had learned the hard way that there was naught to be gained by wishing or hoping or praying. She’d been doing all that and more for eight long years; but wishes weren’t enough to put a babe in a cradle, nor to have a half-grown heir ready to take on the title of Earl of Felsham.
Instead, the day her husband had breathed his last, his title—and all that went with it—had passed to his nephew, Edward.
Edward was the new Earl of Felsham. His wife, Catherine, was the new countess who waltzed around Westchester Hall as if she owned the place.
Which she did, Isabella reflected wryly, fixing her gaze on the barren branches of the distant trees.
At least she had seen the splendid red and gold display of Westchester’s woodland for one last time.
Her home looked glorious in the autumn, with the ancient trees basking in the slanting sunlight.
It was the same in the springtime, as pretty flowers unfurled their first, tentative petals, as well as in the long, lazy days of high summer when fluffy white clouds scudded over the battlements.
In fact, it was a beautiful home year-round.
Now that she was obliged to leave, Isabella reflected on all of it fondly.
Even her marriage, which had never been happy, had never been exactly unhappy either.
Many years her senior and grappling with ill health from the first days of her marriage, Charles had left her well enough alone.
What will my new husband be like?
Isabella gulped, imagining for a moment the sallow face of Lord Gaunt; a man she had met only once at a long-ago yuletide ball. They had talked little and in truth she had found his conversation dull. When Edward told her of his offer, her first instinct had been to laugh.
She was Isabella de Neville. The Rose of England!
He was baron of some poor estate in the east. An overseer of farmland which yielded little. A man with greasy, greying hair, a pointed chin and a glint of something that was at best, disinterest, and at worst, cruelty, in his dark eyes.
What right did he have to offer for her?
But then Edward commented, mildly, that Lord Gaunt was now Laird of Greenock and a favorite of the young King.
And suddenly his suit had grown more interesting.
Isabella reflected that Lord Gaunt was barely more than ten summers her senior. A man that age could still father many children.
He had land, coin and a title. All Isabella had was her de Neville charm and golden good looks. Looks which would not last for many more years.
All she wanted—all she had ever wanted—was a child.
Isabella put a hand to her heart, careful to avoid brushing her fingers against her collarbone which surely protruded more than ever before. Perchance, within the year she would be a mother!
She had been raised to accomplish such a task.
Sighing deeply, she gazed at the tapestried armchairs and low wooden tables, all of which could be pushed easily aside for dancing.
Such life and energy had flowed through this chamber.
She had once imagined her own sons and daughters excitedly climbing the spiral staircase.
But soon it would be as if her years at Westchester had never been.
She would leave no legacy here, save this beautiful room and memories of the beautiful music which had once rippled around the silk-clad walls.
The sound of actual footsteps ascending the spiral staircase made her turn in surprise. No servant would dare interrupt her repose; and neither Catherine nor Edward knew of the secret door.
Did they?
A smile broke over her face when she recognized the tall man who bowed gracefully on the threshold, his dark winter cloak pooling on the polished floor behind him.
“Will, how lovely. Have you come to play for me one last time?” Isabella straightened her shoulders, ensuring that her shawl fell in flattering folds over her tightly fitting gown.
Will had once been a travelling bard and lute player. Isabella had first encountered his dry wit and artful music-making when she was staying as a guest at Windsor. She had beckoned to the talented youth—then no older than a squire—and invited him to perform for them at Westchester.
That was five winters ago. And Will had never left.
Isabella oft-times fancied that Will was the closest thing she had to a friend. They had certainly spent many pleasant hours talking and laughing together. But something must now be amiss, for his blue eyes were no longer alight with merriment and his smiling mouth had turned down at the corners.
“Alas, no, milady.” He stepped forward and she saw, with alarm, that his long fingers were trembling. “Forgive the interruption, but I have come to bid you farewell.”
Isabella frowned. “I am not due to leave until the morrow. Surely, I will see you this night? Will you not perform for us in the feasting hall, as usual?”
Two spots of red appeared on Will’s pale cheeks.
“That would give me great pleasure.” He paused, awkwardly. “These last years have been full of pleasure. It has been my honor to serve you.”
Isabella’s alarm increased at his stammering, but her years of experience as a hostess quickly came to the fore.
“Come and sit down.” She took his arm and led him to an overstuffed armchair positioned by the unlit fireplace, sitting beside him and crossing her ankles gracefully. “Tell me what has occurred.”
Will took a deep breath. Now a man of more than twenty summers, his frame had never filled out so though he was tall, he was as slender as a willow branch.
“Lady Catherine has declared that she no longer requires my services.”
Isabella blinked as her mind tried to process this. “She has no need of a musician?”
Will linked his fingers together, possibly in an attempt to control their trembling. “She says she will hire her own musicians.”
Isabella’s confusion was washed away in a hot flush of anger. “But that is foolish indeed. ’Twas one thing for her to bring her own maids. But this!” She jumped up from her chair and began pacing over the rugs. “I swear I will not stand for it. Wait here. I shall go and speak to her this instant.”
“Nay, pray do not do that.” Will rose unsteadily from his chair and stood before her, his arms wavering entreatingly. “Truth be told, I would not have wanted to stay at Westchester without you, milady.”
“Oh.” Isabella blinked. “But what about coin, Will? How are you to live?” Concern for the young man’s wellbeing flooded through her.
“I have some coin set by.” Will tried to smile. “And I can make a living just as I always did, with my wit and my lute. Thanks to your patronage, doors will open to me where’er I go.”
“You must go to my father’s castle at Wolvesley.” Isabella snapped her fingers as the thought occurred to her.
“Thank you, I shall.” Will nodded, though his eyes were wild. “May I speak freely, milady?”
“Of course.” Isabella rearranged her shawl. “I like to think we have long been in the position of speaking freely to one another.”
“Aye.” If Will’s cheeks had been red before, now they were the color of over-ripe plums. “It gladdens my heart to hear you say as much.” The young man ground to a halt.
Isabella stepped closer, wanting to offer reassurance but instead rearing backward at the strong smell of liquor on his breath.
“Have you been drinking, Will?”
“Aye, milady.” The youth’s voice trembled more than his hands. “For courage.”
Isabella raised her eyebrows, but she felt something in her stomach plummet with foreknowledge of what was about to happen.
“Will,” she said quietly.