Chapter 1 #2
In a moment of utter desperation, paired with a sense of hope that there were still good men in this world, Isolde had gone to see the duke personally and begged him for financial assistance so that he might save their parish from damnation.
She had heard the duke was a cold, calculating businessman who was cruel when he had to be, wicked when he wanted to be, and not the type who would waste a breath to puff out a fire if he could not see how it might benefit him. But Isolde, ever the idealist, refused to believe such things.
That was until she met the man, at which point he had mocked her, laughed at her request, and then kicked her to the gutter while announcing that he would not lift so much as a finger to help.
Sometimes, sadly, the rumors are true… and some men are simply beyond saving.
“I am not here to discuss His Grace.” Mr. Harwood cleared his throat. “I am here to discuss how I might help your parish.” He looked pointedly at her. “You do wish for help, yes? To save this fine establishment, as I know you have worked so hard to save it.”
“Oh.” Isolde blinked, her flutter of hope tempered because she sensed that this would not be a simple act of kindness. “I do…”
“Wonderful,” Mr. Harwood said with a generous smile. “As I was explaining to your father, while it might not look it, I am getting on in my years. And as busy and eligible as I am, I have found that these later years have grown cold and lonely.”
Isolde’s stomach clenched with warning…
“I thus have a proposal that I am sure you will find most appealing.” He made sure to look right at her.
“I would like to offer you the chance to marry me, Miss Whitmore. Be my wife, and in so doing, I will see personally that all your financial problems are solved. This parish will thrive, your congregation will grow, and if I may be so bold…” He laughed and patted his belly.
“Dare I say, your life will improve significantly in ways you can nay imagine.”
Were the offer not so startling and so repugnant, Isolde might have laughed.
She did not laugh, however. Isolde was not cruel.
She did not take pleasure in mockery. And while the offer was insane—even insulting—she knew too well that the man making it was the type who might not appreciate having his ego bruised.
Perhaps it should be! To think that he is serious… as if he is doing me a favor!
“Well?” he pressed on her. “What do you say? Shall I have the papers drawn?”
Isolde was twenty-two years of age. Petite in stature, her features were soft, while her hair was generously thick and so dark that it was almost black. And while she did not think of herself as a beauty, she knew that other men did, and Mr. Harwood was not the first to show interest in her.
He was, however, the oldest one to do so. He was also the first man of decent standing to approach her—someone who should have seen himself as being above her, as she was merely the daughter of a poor vicar, and little better than the daughter of a farmer.
This proposal, while seemingly generous, was undoubtedly chosen because Mr. Harwood believed that Isolde was one whom he might own, whom he could use as he wished, and who should be grateful for the mere chance to find herself on his arm.
It took great effort for Isolde to keep her composure as these thoughts flashed through her head.
“I… I do so appreciate the offer, Mr. Harwood. Truly, that you have even thought of me is…” She swallowed. “Very generous. Sadly, I am afraid that I must decline.”
“What?” His expression turned flat.
“My father needs me,” she said as she searched for excuses. “My younger brother and sister, also. To marry you would be to abandon them, and I cannot possibly—”
“You will be helping them,” he growled.
“Be that as it may, my answer must be no.” She did her best to appear aggrieved. “I do thank you, however. Truly, it was most kind of you to ask.”
Needless to say, Isolde’s rejection was not taken well.
“I try and do a good thing…” Mr. Harwood grumbled as he lumbered across the room, his face turning red. “I try to help!”
“Please, Mr. Harwood,” her father called after him. “I apologize for—”
“Perhaps it is best that you said no.” He reached the door and turned back, his visage one of fury.
“This place… this rat’s nest. There is a good reason that it crumbles like a house made of straw in a storm.
Personally, I will not shed a tear when the inevitable day arrives!
” He sneered at Isolde, she looked down at her feet, and he stormed out.
Silence rang through the room. Isolde kept her stare averted, able to feel her father watching. Thankfully, he did not appear angry or disappointed. If anything, it was sadness that she felt, as if he was sorry for her and what had just happened.
“That was not what I wanted, Isolde,” he sighed, forced to clear his throat to keep himself from coughing. “When he told me what he wished for…”
“It is not your fault, Father.” She went to him, crouching by his chair and resting her hands on his frail arm. “I should be apologizing. If I had said yes…”
“Perhaps it would solve many of our problems,” he agreed. “But would you be happy? Could you live with yourself?”
“No,” she said without pause. “To suffer so that others might thrive is a noble act. But marriage to Mr. Harwood…?” She grimaced. “There is only so much suffering a person can take.”
Her father laughed, and it warmed her heart.
“I will find a way, Father,” she promised him. “There must be a way to save this place, and I will find it.”
“I know you will, dear.” He took her hand. It was a weak grip, but it was filled with love. “I know you will.”
Her father’s belief in Isolde was like a candle in the darkness, enough that Isolde was able to tell herself that she had done the right thing.
But that candle’s flame was small; it struggled to fight back the night, and try as Isolde might, she could not see a way that it might lead her into the light.
Their parish was dying, there was no way to save it, and Isolde could not escape the feeling that she had just doomed them all.
As Isolde often did when times were at their worst, she went for a walk to clear her head. The warm day that had greeted her when she woke was a thing of the past, replaced by a coming storm that blew cold winds against her face and body as rain threatened to drench her with each step taken.
Did I do the right thing? I know that I did… even if it feels as if I have only made things worse.
She walked the fields that spread from her father’s parish. She smiled as she passed the farmers, all of whom she knew. She did her best to appear in good spirits, as she believed that others took strength from such things.
Inside, however, she fought back a storm of her own…
The simple fact was that her father’s parish was teetering on the edge of damnation.
Her intentions were good, the work she did was righteous, but that was not enough.
Worse too was that if the parish closed, it would affect not just her family, but those who sought her and her father in comfort.
The poor, the homeless, the starving… they would suffer most of all.
So wretched was her state of mind that Isolde did not notice the small group of farmers gathered on the road ahead until she was almost right on top of them.
They stood in a circle; their whispers were hushed and worried. Just down the way, Isolde also noticed a black mare, a beautiful creature that could not possibly belong to a farmer. It wore a saddle on its back, but the saddle was empty…
“What is going on?” Isolde asked as she approached the circle.
“Isolde!” one of the farmers cried when he saw her, a man named Marcus. “Nothing good, I can say that without thinking I misspoke. Oh, no… nothing good at all.”
She frowned at the man’s worry as she pushed her way into the circle to see the cause of his unrest. And when she saw it, she couldn’t help but think… when it rains, it pours, and it is always folk like us who find themselves getting wet.
Lying on the road and passed out cold was a man who, Isolde guessed, had been thrown from the black mare.
His hair was dark. His face was sharp and angular.
With his eyes closed, and lying as still as he was, he almost looked peaceful…
as if he was asleep, having a dream that was pleasant and joyous.
Why, if Isolde had not known any better, she would have said this was a kind man, a man who needed help that she was more than willing to give.
However, Isolde knew this man, so she knew just how deceiving such an impression as this was. This man was cruel and unkind. Were the roles reversed, she wondered whether he would help her or simply carry on his way without a care in the world.
The unconscious individual was none other than His Grace, the Duke of Blackthorne—the lord of this estate and ruler of them all—and he who Isolde despised more than anyone else in the entire world.