Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
If Isadora could not have Nicholas, then she at least had a daughter by proxy. The first opportunity she had, she took Sophia into York. It was the first time the young girl had come shopping with another woman, and her eyes were giddy as a feline’s as they descended from the carriage.
“Remember what we agreed; stay close,” Isadora instructed, clasping Sophia’s gloved hand.
All around them, people of the world bustled.
Young girls from a finishing school waddled behind their schoolmistress, all wearing their uniforms, like ducklings behind a mother swan.
Ladies talked and gossiped beneath fans, their chaperones following in tow.
Urchins scurried through the crowds, and horses abided patiently as their masters entered shops or stopped to exchange words with passersby.
A footman accompanied them through the busy streets as Isadora found what she was looking for: a small seamstress’s shop tucked under a smaller archway.
Isadora had always secretly coveted the place, staring hungrily at the gowns displayed in the windows—while never being granted an opportunity to enter.
When she was merely Isadora Fairbourne, a pesky affliction on the Chester family, her aunt and uncle had not wanted to spend over a shilling than was necessary on her.
Then, as duchess, she’d had the privilege—and excitement—of summoning a seamstress to her home to provide measurements, choose material, and eventually try on the gowns.
But this was different. And she wanted to give Sophia a chance to experience what she had never been able to.
A bell rang as they stepped over the doorway into the darkened interior, and Isadora glanced around at the rolls of material, lace, buttons, and ribbons on display, an expression of wonder on her face.
The proprietor bustled toward them, and upon understanding that her patron was the Duchess of Winchester, immediately wreathed her face with smiles.
“I am delighted to welcome such distinguished company to my humble shop,” she greeted, waving an assistant forward. “What can I do for you, Your Grace?”
“I would like a ballgown for my daughter,” Isadora answered.
If the lady before them—a Mrs. Fernside—was disappointed, she had the good sense not to show it, and instead turned to Sophia with another of those wide smiles. “Indeed? How wonderful! Do you have anything particular in mind, young lady?”
Sophia brightened at this treatment, and Isadora stood back to watch as the little girl stroked her tiny hands over multitudes of materials and peered at fashion plates before eventually deciding on the design she would like.
Then commenced the measuring process. All the while, Mrs. Fernside plied Sophia with gentle questions about her hobbies, preferences, and what she would be using the gown for.
Sophia, delighted to be treated in such an adult way, chattered away freely.
Once again, Isadora was reminded of the young girl she had first met—the one who had seemed so old for her years, and who had been trained, almost, to sit in Society’s conversations in a way that most young girls did not.
Once this process had been completed, and Isadora chose a few ribbons for herself, they left the shop and walked down the street arm in arm.
“Thank you!” Sophia cheeped with a happy sigh, tipping her head back to stare at the sky. “That was wonderful.”
Isadora’s lips curved. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“Papa loves me, but he would never do something like this for me. She’s going to make me a dress… how amazing!”
“Well, that is how ballgowns are usually commissioned,” Isadora explained with a laugh. “And we are attending a ball together.”
“Even Papa.”
“Even your father,” Isadora agreed. “And he doesn’t like to dance, so count yourself lucky.”
“Did he tell you that?” Sophia made a contemplative noise. “Sometimes I think he’s not very good at being nice.”
“Is he ever not nice to you?”
“Oh, he’s always nice to me.” Sophia pursed her lips, thinking, and Isadora wished she could take this expression of burden away from the young girl. “But sometimes he isn’t always nice to other people… Even my aunts.”
Isadora thought back. “He seemed as though he was being nice to them then.”
“I think… sometimes he doesn’t see people as people. Except me.” Sophia’s small hand slipped into Isadora’s. “And you.”
Isadora couldn’t help thinking about the last breakfast they’d shared, where he had sat behind his newspaper so resolutely, there had been no chance of a conversation, even if she’d known what to say. “Is that so,” she mused.
“I’m glad you married him.” Her serious expression dissolved into a blissful smile. “And I’m especially glad I get to have you as my mother.”
“Well, I’d hope so.” Isadora squeezed her small hand. “I’ve always wanted a family of my very own, and marrying your father gave me one. So, I, too, am very happy.” She glanced up, the smile still on her face, and froze.
There, standing at the other end of the street, reins in hand, was Mr. Windham.
York was not a large city, but it was large enough that she had thought she could visit it once during the day without having to worry she might run into her former betrothed.
She wished, irrationally, that Nicholas was standing beside her.
But then she straightened her spine. Such wishes were foolish, and besides, if Nicholas had been here, he might have suspected that she had intended to meet Mr. Windham. She couldn’t forget the way he had reacted when she’d first received the letter from him.
Upon seeing her, Mr. Windham immediately made his way to her side, pushing through the crowd.
Isadora stepped between him and Sophia, partially blocking the girl with her body.
Not because she thought Sophia would be in danger, particularly, or because she feared whatever Sophia might see, but because she wanted to shelter the girl from this kind of man.
The less he saw of her new life, the better.
“Mr. Windham,” she said, her voice as repressive as she could make it.
“Duchess.” He swept off his hat in a flamboyant bow. “What a delight to see you here. And a surprise! You left your husband’s tower. Did he give you permission?”
Isadora gritted her teeth. “That is not the nature of my marriage, Mr. Windham. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“I see you escaped unscathed the last time we met.” He looked her up and down. “And with a child in tow. Not yours, I presume.”
“You forget yourself,” she snapped.
“My apologies, all in good humor.” He held his hands up in surrender. “I heard you made quite the splash a few days ago. I hope it is everything you had ever hoped it would be. And, of course, your new family is, too.”
Isadora lifted her chin. “I have no regrets.”
“Of course not. You could hardly admit them to me, after all.” His eyes glittered strangely. “I see you have not forgiven me.”
“I see you have changed your mind about becoming my friend.”
He held up a finger, waggling it before her face. “Ah, now, you can stop there. I was not the one to decide that, dove. You were the one who implied that you did not wish to be my friend. Hurtful, of course, but what can one do?”
“Isadora?” Sophia mumbled from behind her. “Who is this man?”
“He is nobody,” Isadora reassured.
“Nobody? Ha!” Mr. Windham took a step back, hands still wrapped around the reins of his horse. “And to think I would have married you, Duchess. I would have given you my name and my home and my life.”
“If that were so,” Isadora said with as much dignity as she could summon, picking up her skirts with one hand and taking Sophia’s hand with the other, “then you would not have left me waiting at the altar. Come, Sophia. We must be going.”
“Ah, yes, blame me for things outside my control!” he called from behind her. “I apologized, did I not? And I would have made things right.”
He had not apologized until after her wedding, a good two weeks after the last attempt. If he had truly intended to take her as his wife, he would have said so before then.
But what did it matter? He was part of her past, not her future—she just wished he would stay there.
“Good day, sir,” she said, and finished marching Sophia away.
“Who was he?” Sophia pressed.
“Not a very nice man.” Isadora sighed, feeling oddly shaky now that the encounter had ended.
“He was supposed to marry me before your papa did, but he never showed. And now that I’m married to someone else, I suppose he thinks I am finally worthy of his attention.
But I have no desire to be friends with him.
” She almost regretted telling the girl that much, but really, what else could she do?
By appearing before her and saying all those things, he had forced her hand.
“He wasn’t very nice to you,” Sophia pointed out.
“No,” Isadora agreed. “Which is another reason I’m glad I’m not married to him. When you’re older, I hope you will never marry a gentleman like that.”
Sophia wrinkled her nose. “I don’t ever want to get married.”
Isadora smiled, finally, as they reached the carriage. Home. The house now felt as though it was somewhere she belonged, and she couldn’t wait to be safe within its bounds.
“One day,” she said, squeezing Sophia’s hand, “I expect you’ll change your mind.”