Chapter 6
Chapter Six
“Aletter has arrived for you, My Lady.”
Mr. Jameson’s calm baritone drifted across Isabella’s bedchamber, measured as always.
He stood at the doorway with his perfect posture, gloved hands folded neatly before him, with a familiar white envelope resting between his fingers.
It had been an additional week full of preparations for the club, and throughout the week, Isabella had returned to Everthorne House just once when it was decided that her correspondence with Lady Kendrick would remain through letters until opening day.
Isabella couldn’t have been happier because it meant distance from a certain grey-eyed duke.
Despite her excitement, she barely lifted her eyes as her entire focus was fixed upon the illustration forming beneath her hand. The sketch was of the proposed club’s emblem that Lady Kendrick had asked her to design in her last correspondence.
“Ellie,” she called, without glancing up from her position in front of her desk, her voice soft yet brisk, “take the letter from Mr. Jameson and read it aloud if you please. I am too occupied at the moment.” She waved the instruction over her shoulder.
Her younger sister, perched comfortably at the edge of Isabella’s bed with her legs tucked beneath her, perked up instantly. Eleanor had been watching Isabella draw for the better part of an hour, periodically humming or flipping the pages of a miniature novel she had brought in with her.
At the sound of her name, Eleanor hopped to her feet, proud to finally be of some help.
“Of course,” she said cheerfully, hurrying toward the butler.
Mr. Jameson bowed his head slightly as the younger girl accepted the envelope, stepping back with measured poise before withdrawing from the room entirely.
Eleanor returned with the prize in hand, settling beside Isabella with all the ceremony of one about to announce royal decrees. “Shall I begin?” She asked before adjusting her position in the cushioned stool beside the desk.
“Please do,” Isabella murmured, her charcoal pencil sweeping gently across the parchment as she continued shading the sketch.
With one fine motion, Eleanor slit open the envelope and unfolded the letter.
“Dear Isabella,” Eleanor began, purposefully mimicking what she felt was Lady Kendrick’s tone of voice, “I am excited that this will hopefully be the last time we exchange letters before the club’s commencement.
I would like to thank you again for accepting this old lady’s request and doing your best at it. I cannot wait to see you tomorrow.”
Eleanor lowered the paper dramatically. “How wonderful!”
A smile tugged at Isabella’s lips. She tried to hide it, but the delight bubbled up anyway. The thought of the club, fully realized, doors soon to open, ideas finally set into motion, sent a flutter of anticipation through her chest.
“Would you like to write back to Lady Kendrick?” Eleanor asked, folding the letter neatly. “I can write it for you!”
“No, dear. That won’t be necessary, but thank you,” Isabella replied, still smiling faintly. “She shall see me soon enough. A reply would hardly reach her before I arrive tomorrow.”
As Eleanor placed the letter on Isabella’s dresser, a light knock sounded at the doorway, followed by the entrance of Mrs. Harry, the housekeeper.
She dipped in a small curtsy. For a woman in her late fifties, Isabella still found her quite beautiful with her lithe frame, mahogany hair, and smooth skin that barely showed even the slightest wrinkle.
The housekeeper’s kind green eyes shone with affection as she addressed them both. “Dinner is prepared and served in the dining hall, my ladies. Your presence is requested.” She dipped respectfully again in a curtsy, almost making the tight bun atop her head bounce.
“Thank you, Mrs. Harry,” Isabella said, rising from her chair, dusting the charcoal remnants off her hands.
Eleanor stood beside her eagerly, and together, they left the room to go to the dining hall where their parents and brother awaited them.
The dining hall glowed warmly beneath rows of flickering candles. The scent of roasted herbs and fresh bread drifted through the air, mingling with the faint perfume of sandalwood. Hints of decanted red wine complemented the appetizing smells of what promised to be a delicious dinner.
Isabella’s father sat at the head of the table, his expression softening with warmth as his eyes met hers. She returned it, wondering why he had that look in his eyes.
Isabella took her seat between Eleanor and Christine, smoothing the fabric of her evening gown as a footman poured wine into her glass.
She had changed for dinner before starting her sketch, but she was pleased to note that the care she had taken had paid off.
Not s ingle spec of charcoal was to be seen on her garments.
Her father cleared his throat, drawing the table’s attention.
“My dear Isabella,” he began with a proud smile, “I’m quite proud of you.
You have always possessed a vivid imagination, thus I had no doubt the presentation would be effortless for you.
I’m glad you’ve taken up this venture with Lady Kendrick.
You two seem to be getting along quite well, so I trust you will be on your best behavior tomorrow. ” He beamed with pride.
Christine laughed softly, shaking her head. “Oh, allow her some credit, my love. Isabella can hold her own against the ladies of the ton far better than you or I ever could. She is sharp-minded and perfectly capable. You should know that better than I, considering you sired her.”
Eleanor beamed proudly at her sister. “She is the most capable sister in London!”
“Thank you, Ellie,” Isabella chuckled, affection blooming as she squeezed her sister’s hand beneath the table.
Henry, too busy focused on the meal before him, simply hummed in agreement, saying nothing more. His plate was overloaded with roast beef, vegetables, and sauces. It amazed Isabella how young men could put so much food away without gaining so much as an ounce.
Isabella felt her heart soften, and she could hardly keep from smiling, even later as she lay beneath her soft bedding, the gentle glow of the bedside candle casting warm shadows across her chambers.
Her hair spilled across her pillow in curls, and she sighed softly as the silence of the night settled around her.
Tomorrow.
The word alone seemed to shimmer in the silence.
She turned onto her side, hugging the cover lightly. For a week, she had poured every thought, every creative spark, every bit of daring into the plans for the club.
And at last, tomorrow, people would finally see what she had been working on.
The sketch she completed earlier rested on her bedside table, but even with the distance, Isabella could imagine every line of it, every curve, every small symbolism she’d sketched that made it what it was.
A thrill rushed through her chest, light and warm, at the thought of the simple sketch leaving her room and entering the world, and Isabella pressed a hand against her heart as though to steady it.
Then she closed her eyes, but she could hardly wait.
Yet, as sleep gradually pulled her under, her last waking thought was a quiet, shimmering realization:
At last, something in her life felt entirely and wonderfully hers.
I might see him again.
Her eyes shot open with a start as images of the duke’s bare back and chest flitted across her mind. Her skin began to feel a little too hot as she turned and faced the other direction.
I have to keep my attention on the club.
No matter how handsome he is.
Isabella awoke long before the pale winter sun had fully blessed the sky.
For a lingering moment, she lay still beneath her cover, eyes tracing the faint beams of morning light slipping through the curtains, her heart already quickening with the excitement she had tried, and failed, to contain the night before.
It was the first official day at the club, her first day stepping into something that was hers, and the realization alone banished any remnants of sleep she felt. Within moments, she rang for her maid, Collette.
What followed was a flurry of haste as Isabella, despite the display of dresses she’d laid on her bed and the one she’d initially picked for the event, could not make up her mind what to wear. It wasn’t until she closed her eyes to pick that she settled on one.
It was a winter-blue dress trimmed with delicate embroidery, the shade picked for the way it complemented both Isabella’s complexion and the crispness of the season. Her maid arranged her curls, weaving them into a style elegant yet free enough to give her room to think without tugging on her.
She had never prepared for such an undertaking before. She had been dressed for balls, teas, dinners, and assemblies, all predictable and rehearsed routine, but never for something she herself had helped to build.
When she finally descended the stairs, she found Christine waiting for her in the hallway, wrapped in a warm cloak of soft wool.
“Awake before your maid?” Christine teased, looping her arm through Isabella’s. “That alone tells me everything I need to know.”
Isabella smiled, a quiet breath leaving her.
“Then I shall save you the trouble of asking further.”
Christine arched one brow. “Nervous?”
Isabella shook her head with more conviction than she had expected.
“Not this time.”
Christine’s warm, approving nod accompanied them out the door and into the waiting carriage.
Everthorne House was already alive with activity when they arrived.
Two footmen hurried down the steps to assist the ladies from the carriage, while another rushed down after seeing the rectangular board attached behind the carriage, their boots crunching softly against the thin sheet of frost that clung to the stone.
A cold wind cut sharply through the air, yet the sight awaiting Isabella warmed her more thoroughly than any fire could have.