CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Her eyes shot open. Once again she had refused to sleep in her master's bed - and so she slept alone, stewing in her thoughts in a spare room, connected to the maidservant's chambers. After arriving in curious silence, Lilian had again pressed Isobel for details - and Isobel had begun to get the feeling the maidservant had grown bored in her duties here, and searched for scandal and gossip as a side hobby with all the questions the pretty young woman asked of her.
The sun crept along the empty armoire in the at one end of the cramped, nondescript room; translucent curtains hung across a window facing the sunrise, and she lay in only a simple nightgown among a sea of snow-white sheets. She yawned, feeling terribly embarrassed at having slept long past the rise of the sun; Isobel had hoped to take a daybreak stroll through the garden at the rear of the estate to ponder on all that had been troubling her for the last few days. The thoughts still clung like leeches to her mind; she had dreamed of him last night, and awoke disgusted with the thought of him and his ribald, philandering lifestyle. But no matter how much she denied the things he said or tried to hold her head above the water, she found herself breathing and drinking deep from what he said, more and more, each time their bodies met. She felt she couldn't even deny it now - and that the more she did, the more lost she felt.
"M'lady? Are you decent?" Isobel groggily heard the pound of knuckles on the small door to her cramped room; in sitting up from the bed she nearly banged her head on the sloped ceiling. The room felt more akin to a broom-closet than a guest room, and perhaps it had been in the past.
"What is it, Lilian?" Isobel said with a yawn. She couldn't quite tell what time of the day it was, but from the bright gleam blazing through the curtains, she felt it was likely at least ten in the morning. She pushed away the sheets, her head still foggy from the previous evening, her mind still awash in the sensation of submitting; how it had felt, and how she wished to feel it again, as much as she disdained the thought.
"I've fetched you tea! I thought perhaps you could use with some company, given the disposition of Lord Brighton," Lilian responded dutifully. Isobel blinked; a cold terror gripped her blood, and she rose from the bed, her tired limbs carrying her to narrow doorframe, which she pulled open quickly to reveal the maidservant bearing a small tray, smiling weakly.
"...Yes, thank you, I quite appreciate it, Lilian, but—" Isobel cleared her throat, straining to look past the maidservant. She saw only the bowels of the scullery and the hallway behind, nothing to indicate to her whatever may be happening in the remainder of the manor. "...What did you mean, the disposition of Lord Brighton? Has something happened to him?"
"H-happened? Oh, no, I—" Lilian chuckled politely, setting the tray of tea down on the quaint, short table next to the door. "...Have you not seen the master yet, this morning? I had thought you would have been out already, and had returned to your room after he... well, after he began his... m-meeting." Her shaky words drew Isobel's skeptical glare.
"Meeting? With whom is he 'meeting', exactly?" Isobel felt something twist in her stomach that tore deep into her sense of dignity. She had felt the pangs before, and so they came as quite familiar, which only worsened her mood. Jealousy - strange pangs of jealousy, jealousy over this man who seemed bent on twisting her away from maintaining her family's dignity. But she felt it in her bones, and could scarcely keep it contained, her face twisting in slowly simmering fury.
"Oh, he's... I apologize, m'lady, I'm not certain I should be saying, if you don't already know," Lilian responded sheepishly, her eyes downcast in mute shame. "I... I apologize for bringing the subject to bear, I hadn't a clue you were unaware of his business this morning, m'lady."
"Don't speak so evasive, Lilian, just answer my question," Isobel pressed, her voice shaky.
"O... okay, but, I'm not the one who woke you, if the master asks... please?" Lilian's smile turned sideways in contention.
"Yes, of course, just tell me, Lilian," Isobel hurriedly insisted, gathering herself quickly, throwing a small shawl over her nightgown to at least give the appearance of social decency.
"I'm not... certain of her name, though she's visited the estate on a few occasions, to meet privately with the duke," Lilian's voice trembled. "M'lady, I'm certain it's simply a business meeting—"
"Why would it matter to me? What business is it, of mine?" Isobel lied, maintaining this illusion that her presence at the state was merely a matter of convenience.
"M'lady, you, and the Lord Brighton," Lilian stammered, "are you... not... well, I mean, is he not... courting your hand, for...?"
"What have you got in your head, Lilian?" Isobel frowned. She hated denying it, lying to perhaps the only soul willing to listen to her problems. "It's... just a business matter, between your lord, and I." She stumbled over her lies as she hurriedly pushed past the maid. "...Which, is why, his business negotiations with other lords, and ladies, is a matter of some importance to me." She passed the cabinets of dishes and foods, passing into a short hallway with irritated curiosity in her expression; Lilian followed behind. "I don't need a shadow, Lilian," Isobel insisted, though her convictions sounded only scarcely convincing.
"Are you certain?" Lilian smiled. Isobel sighed, and continued, her friend behind her. He could hear her voice already - disconnected, but controlling; that put-upon sort of angelic ring to each syllable. She heard Lord Brighton's voice, too - wearing the same amused charm that he spoke with around her. Yet, it felt... forced. Uncomfortable. Not natural, the way it had with her. Isobel's heart squeezed hard inside her ribs, and she felt an ire rising through her fiery blood.
"Well, certainly, m'lady, we could come to some manner of agreement about the disposition of the lands east of Laurel, can't we," Lord Brighton commented, and Isobel could hear the edge in his words.
"All business with you," the feminine voice giggled. Isobel swallowed her rage. She stayed put. She rationalized in her head that that's what she ought to be doing. Waiting. Keeping her presence out of sight. But the urge to confront this woman boiled over, in no small part due to the whisper Lilian offered.
"That's not right, m'lady... if you'll be having my input," Lilian murmured. "He shouldn't be doing that to you." Isobel's fists tightened, her knuckles white; she closed her eyes, as the bruises and marks of passion all across her body stung with pain. Rounding the corner out of the side hallway, Isobel stormed in to the living area, happening upon a sight that turned her inside-out in furious fear. She saw Lord Brighton, on the overstuffed couch therein, inches away from Lady Maryweather - the woman in the flowing gown, her ethereal face, pale skin, perfectly-styled hair and puffy dress covered in bows and flowers something to behold. She shimmered in the sunlight, blinding; overwhelming. She leaned close to Lord Brighton, whispering now; his expression appeared charmed, if conflicted, and he leaned to one side of the couch to further the distance between the two. Nevertheless, her hand crept along his thigh, gloved fingers pressed tight to the fabric of his slacks, his eyes growing progressively wider the more she touched him.
"Haven't you considered a... fine woman, one you'd like to wed yet, Ellery?..." she asked, her voice full of her brand of icy, manufactured feminine charm. "A strong marriage could mean the world to your future, and the future of whichever lovely woman you chose to court..."
"I h—have, in fact," Ellery gasped, feeling her fingers pressing harder into his skin. Isobel watched from the corner of the room, keeping quiet, save the rapidly increasing pace of her steamy, enraged breaths.
"You have?" Lady Maryweather quipped, a songbird's note of curiosity in her question. "And... which lucky lady have you had your mind on, m'lord?..." she spoke in a deepening tone, like the throaty call of a boisterous lark. "I just wish... perhaps, it could be me..."
"M-M'lady, do you take this as entirely proper?" Lord Brighton said, from behind a hectic and harried grin. Lady Isobel huffed - she huffed loud enough at the comment that it drew the eyes of both of the people on the couch. Lord Brighton's eyes opened wide, while Lady Maryweather's eyes narrowed; silently predatory, hunting at the rather scantily-dressed Lady Duskwood with her sharp, pretty features.
"Am I interrupting your meeting?" Lady Duskwood asked, holding back a storm of emotions; some threatened to force sobs out of her reddened, tired eyes, while others drove the want in her to ball up a fist and strike Ellery square in his cheek. Her gaze met the frozen eyes on Lady Maryweather's face; she could sense nothing in those eyes, no emotion; no life. Only a faint undercurrent of barely-tangible contempt.
Perhaps this is what Ellery had meant, all those times he said he could read Isobel - just by her eyes.
"L-Lady Duskwood, I'm—I'm certainly glad—I pray you enjoyed your time in the garden, with Lilian?" Lord Brighton asked. Isobel glanced over one shoulder to see the scrappy maid had followed her out into the sunbathed foyer. Ellery stared through the two women, hoping they'd play along with the charade - ironically, they had become a lie all their own, one even Lord Brighton felt bound by. Isobel realized she, herself, had been a lie - perhaps Lord Brighton was not so free as he wished to portray himself as.
"...Yes," Isobel responded, broken, eyes watching the sun dance along the silvered dishware displayed proudly in a cabinet far off. It lay dusty, some pieces glinting with disrepair, just as she felt inside her. "It was a... a pleasant. Time."
"Certainly," Lilian responded; Isobel could hear the disappointment in the maid's voice clearly, the situation only stinging harder with the revelation.
"I wasn't aware you were visiting, Lady Duskwood," Lady Maryweather's soft and doting tone disguised the contempt Isobel knew laid just beneath the veneer of respectability. Just like the Duke of Thrushmore, Lady Duskwood knew that Lady Maryweather planned to take the Lord Brighton, no matter what - and all other words, nice or otherwise, shared in the interim were simply parts of her ploy.
"Only briefly," Lady Duskwood murmured. Footsteps broke a tense stare between the two women; Isobel hadn't even seen the damn specter, but he had been looming by the front doors of the manor the entire time; the carriage driver, Arthur, a wisp of a man with a tall and wide-brimmed black hat, ragged blonde hair, skin mired in age and that gaze that felt like something that Lady Duskwood would almost describe as truly evil. It made perfect sense, then, that he worked as a loyal chauffeur to the Lady Maryweather.
"M'lady, ought we take this opportunity to leave?" Arthur's voice, like his employer's, tried to be friendly, socially conscious; but he couldn't hide the snakelike slither in every unsettling word. "By midday those Merry Bandits will most certainly be on the search for a carriage just like our particular one, I'll wager." Lady Maryweather's empty eyes shifted back to Isobel, and for a moment Isobel felt an intense, almost otherworldly pressure on her; she couldn't help but look away, as if she feared the devil himself would emerge from the perfectly-pedicured widow and drag Isobel down into the fiery depths of a burning pit.
"Certainly, you know best, Mr. Ellsworth," Lady Maryweather answered, pointedly rising to her feet and, silently and with ghostly poise, she took Arthur's hand and followed his lead through the foyer, offering to Lady Duskwood a polite little wave and a girlish smile. Tension burned thick as they exchanged glances, the haughty widow staring down the young heiress from the moment she stood until the second her eyes left view. Isobel dared not glance upon the glare, nor the piggish, disgusting grin of Arthur Ellsworth as he accompanied his mistress through the door. Only when the doors slammed shut and sunlight ceased beaming through the threshold did Isobel finally release her breath. She felt Lord Brighton already rushing to her side, no doubt to try to explain himself. He'd find her scarcely interested in any explanation he had to offer, her arms held tight to her chest. Lilian put her hand upon the Lady's shoulder to support her, and Isobel's resolve only strengthened.
"That chauffeur of hers. I can't stand to look into his eyes - it's like staring into a black hole. He gives me a mighty shiver," Lord Brighton laughed, though he found no consolation in Lady Duskwood, who turned away from him to see Lilian glaring angrily at her master.
"Lilian, leave us, please," Lord Brighton said with a sigh; Lilian stood firm, watching Isobel instead, whose eyes began to redden and well weakly with tears.
"I'm here to try to help Lady Duskwood," Lilian said, defiant.
"And I am your master. I employ you, and you will listen and do as you're told," Lord Brighton said icily, in a manner Isobel had never heard; a manner that shook her hard. Surprised, Lilian cleared her throat and gave Isobel a squeeze on the shoulder - and Lord Brighton a brief glare - before shuffling back through the door from which she'd come, shutting the hall up behind her.
"I hate that I feel this way, and I should have known better than to be a foolish child," Isobel said, sniffling, a small stream of tears in her eyes. "It wasn't your mistake. It was mine - to believe that... whatever this is, meant anything more to you, than a simple arrangement of flesh."
"Did it ever mean anything more to you, than a way to get out of your father's debts? Have you listened to any of what I've said - or are you simply bearing this?" Lord Brighton pressed her, anger welling in his own voice.
"I know that you've told me, over and over again, how the entire world is full of liars - our world, particularly. You presented yourself as a man free of the chains, but that?" Isobel gestured angrily towards the door. "It seems you're as much a prisoner as anyone. Not the affable, free spirit you try to pretend to be. You're a liar, m'lord. A liar."
"What do you expect of me? The Lady Maryweather is a viper - she'll pounce on any weakness she sees, and she'll pursue me until the day she marries me, or kills me and takes my estate in some manner of entangled court battle," Lord Brighton huffed. "It's a charade I need to maintain, until the spider find another gnat to tie into its web."
"A charade? A charade, you say? One of those charades you are, so proud, to hold yourself as being above?" Isobel snarled. "What other charades have you been living? This charade - with me? A charade for my body?"
"I did not make this problem," Lord Brighton roared. "Your jealousy is unbecoming of a proper lady."
"I was a sinner not but a few nights ago. Now I'm a proper lady again?" Lady Duskwood contested hotly. "What is this? A game? Do you hope to prove, perhaps only to yourself, that you can corrupt a noblewoman with not but your roguish charm? Is that what this means to you?"
"You'll never understand a woman like that," Lord Brighton said coldly.
"I understand that she's chained you, just the same as you claim the world chains me," Isobel seethed.
"Perhaps you're right. But we do what we must in life," he concluded resolutely, turning in anger to the stairs and storming out of the foyer. Tears welled in Isobel's eyes, uncertainty heavy in her eyes. She fled; she fled the room, the stinging memories; she fled pleasure and she fled pain, back to that damnable broom closet; anywhere but here, for her to sob.