CHAPTER TWO
Isobel opened the door to the sprawling chapel, nestled on the far end of the familial Duskwood Manor; all of it belonged to her now. The halls, the doors - much of it felt foreign to her, another world; Isobel had spent the better part of the last four years abroad, trying to handle family business - and trying to find a suitable husband, as was expected of the young girl. She'd settled back into the Duskwood estate only months before her father fell ill, and so much had changed since then.
Isobel sighed, carrying herself through the old chapel; what had once been a triumphant place of worship lay dusty and disused, cobwebs clung in sprawling sheets across every corner. A marble baptismal font sat wretched with dirt and dust; years past, a housekeeper had pulled white cloths across what had once been brilliant marble statues of cherubs, saints; Jesus Christ and even the Virgin Mary, themselves, lay beneath dust-swabbed cloth. She dragged her finger, gloved in black, across one of the pews, which she recalled from her childhood shining so brilliantly in the late afternoon sun, shining through the windows high on the walls. Now, their gloss dulled, coated in thick layers of dust, it reflected the same dead emptiness Isobel felt in every spacious room of the halls of the estate. The sun crept through those same windows, muddled by the clinging sheets of dirt and smudges collecting on the panes of glass; even the red carpet running along the chapel floor, which had once been so brilliant and vivid a tone, lay grayed by years of collected grime.
Isobel followed a pair of footsteps trudged through the messy rug - the only signs of human activity in this entire chapel in who knew how long. At the end of the rug, at the heart of the chapel stood Gudheim, the elderly organ player from down in Upton, collecting his sheets of music anxiously, muttering quietly to himself. Until her steps carried her across a creaky wooden floorboard, Gudheim had not noticed the presence of Lady Duskwood; her arrival brought a jump of surprise to the old man; he stood tall and thin, bony beneath a ragged suit that hung over his malnourished form. He offered a mostly-toothless smile, his eyes sunken and wary with age. Everything had decayed in the years Lady Duskwood spent away from the estate - even the people. She had remembered Gudheim as a jolly, strong man, always a sharp dresser.
"Isobel!" he chimed in his distinctly Germanic accent, his words lifting; his voice hoarse. He coughed and wheezed loudly. Isobel sighed. Gudheim had always had such a pleasant singing voice, in her youth. "I was so enthused when you requested I play the old organ again. It is only regrettable it comes in such sad times," he lamented. Many would struggle to understand his English through the marred and uneven German accent, but Isobel grew up listening to the old man; she could decipher it easy enough. "Oh, how I missed the organ. It plays as beautiful as ever. We in the village, we missed hearing it, too."
"You missed hearing it?" Isobel's voice caught in her throat. "Have religious services here in the estate gone quiet, of late? I had assumed father had stopped holding them due to his ill health."
"Oh, no, not in years," Gudheim shook his head. "Your father was... well, over the years, he began to... retreat. Retreat, yes, back in to the estate. He no longer came down from the hill to share bread with us, or drink... at the pub. Then, some years back, after you had left, he stopped holding service." Isobel noticed the changes in her father when she returned, but she had assumed it stemmed only from his illness.
"Why do you suppose that is?" Isobel asked, trying to be cheery. "I know he always loved Ms. Brackwell's delicious bread, and the stout that Porter served at the pub."
"Oh, it could have been a great many things. Stress, stress sat upon Lord Reginald's shoulders," Gudheim recalled with sorrow in his tone. "He could never speak to us of it, as he would wear only smiles to the people of Upton. But, the dam to the river broke, and the estate lost a great many servants... and when Mr. Steward's children fell seriously ill, your father, he paid for doctors from across England to help. The people of the village, we grew needy, and your dear father... I think, the bandit attacks, they worried him too," Gudheim recalled.
"Bandits? In this day and age?" Isobel scoffed in disbelief. "Bandits plagued my father?"
"In the last two years, or thereabouts. He spoke often of them. They fancy themselves heroes, of some sort, but he worried their heroics would end," Gudheim recalled. "The Merry Bandits, they called themselves. They strike on wealthy caravans, noble drivers... and," he lowered his voice, "I'm not too proud to say, it's mighty kind, what they did, feeding the whole village when your father couldn't afford to."
"They fed—" Isobel cleared her throat, the confusion in her rising; her nerves on edge. "They fed the village, because... father couldn't?"
"Oh, dearest Isobel, he did try," Gudheim reassured her, sorrow filling the hoarse old man's throat deeply. "Your father tried so hard, but a hard winter and a shortage of grains across northern England made it hard. He did not fancy accepting help from criminals, and nor did we. Upton is our home, after all. We would rather not invite roustabouts," Gudheim snarled.
"I had believed, the... family coffers, that we'd have no trouble protecting the people of Upton should a shortage come," Isobel said, her voice faint. What had happened, she wondered, in those interim years? What state had the manor and her father fallen in to?
"Oh, I'm..." Gudheim cleared his throat nervously. "I'm certain, that the lord, he did everything..."
"Gudheim," Isobel asked starkly, her voice frail, "are you being paid for playing the music today? Have you spoken to Deaton?" Gudheim glanced to the floor, expression reserved.
"Lady Duskwood, I would expect no such thing. Your father, he was a good man, he deserved to be consigned to Heaven appropriately."
"But father would always pay you, no matter what, and you know that," Isobel insisted.
"I'm not..." Gudheim stammered.
"Lady Isobel?" the heavy doors to the chapel swung open; in the doorway stood a slight man in a suit that had seen better years. A thick beard at his chin, unkempt, and his voice a shrill squeak, Isobel recognized the short steward as Deaton, her father's trusted assistant and trustee - and now, the executor of her father's estate. Her young eyes fell on him, wracked in confusion.
"Deaton, I'm glad you're here," she said, her voice shivering; she tried to sound as authoritative as she could, using her new position as Lady of the hall, but it scarcely fit her. "Have we not disbursed some sort of payment to Gudheim for playing his music? He helped to make the day better, and deserves something for it."
"Mr. Gudheim is already deeply in debt to the estate," Deaton observed with a razor-eyed glare. "And in the matter of debts, we have much to discuss about the nature of your father's business, Lady Duskwood. Please, if we could—"
"Gudheim has been a loyal client and friend to this family since I was a little girl, Deaton," Lady Duskwood insisted. Her voice cracked and shook as she tried to boom at the trustee. "As I'm now the executor of this estate, I demand an accounting made of his debts so that we might relieve him of that particular burden." Deaton's snakelike glare turned to Isobel instead; she always hated that look. Deaton's stern, businesslike demeanor had always startled the poor girl.
"Lady Duskwood, if we are to forgive everyone in Upton who owes us a debt, we may very well not have a single shilling, parcel of land or title to our name by nightfall," Deaton growled cuttingly. "And we will need every shilling we can, in fact, get our hand on, to sort out financial matters. Now, please, follow me," Deaton beckoned her into the hall. She shook weakly; what had father done? What had he gotten the village in to?
"We... we will discuss this sometime soon, okay, Gudheim?" she spoke softly to the organist, who nodded in a gesture of silent thanks. Carrying her gown with her Isobel rushed along the dusty carpet, kicking up a small cloud of the stuff at her feet as she ran into the hall. She remembered this hall, too - a grand hall, with a grander staircase, which in her youth had always basked in afternoon light streaming through the foyer's grand, stained-glass windows. One window had been broken; a sheet wafted in the wind over where it had once been. The other, most likely, had been sold, replaced by a cheap pane of misshapen glass that let a draft flow through the room. Shadows now clung to every corner, keeping Duskwood Manor in a state of decaying disrepair.
Isobel followed Deaton up the stairs, along a twisting side hallway and down a dark corridor she had always known in her childhood as the 'business hallway'. Where men like Deaton - there used to be many more than just he - buzzed about all through the afternoon, negotiating trade deals and debts and profits and merchant caravans and issues like these 'Merry Bandits' that Gudheim had mentioned. She approached hesitantly; she had never felt comfortable in this wing of the manor, and the dark oak-paneled business hall felt even more oppressive now, with the knowledge humming in Isobel's troubled mind that now she had to deal with whatever troubles emerged from the studies and smoking rooms behind these dusty, darkened doorways.
"Here, please?" Isobel's nerve-wracked trance faded as Deaton's voice startled her out of it. His head poking from a corner door, he beckoned her to follow. Isobel had never been in these rooms. She had never even snuck in as a child, when her father forbade her from disturbing the great minds within. She entered, taking a deep breath, finding heavy, high-backed leather chairs arrayed around a long table covered, nearly to the ceiling, with books and books; stacks upon stacks of papers, many of them sorted haphazardly. More papers litter the floor, to the point each of Isobel's hesitant steps crunched and crunched atop parchment below. She stepped lightly, eyes wide as Deaton collapsed grumpily into the chair at the far end of the room, near a dead fireplace, coated in soot, which looks to have not been used or even cleaned in years.
"Deaton," Isobel sighed, shivering, "why is the estate in this manner of disrepair? Truly? I had imagined my father's declining health had contributed to our estate's issues. But I've noticed the lack of servants. The state of the foyer. The state of the chapel, the—"
"M'lady, Isobel," Deaton exhaled sharply. "We have a lot to discuss. In the time you were away—"
"Please, Deaton... I've no mind for business. I've no husband, yet, to help me. Be plain in your words," she requested, with a harsh edge. Deaton sucked in a deep breath, considering the Lady Duskwood for quite a long moment, his nose curling in distaste.
"Very well, Lady Duskwood. The estate is a last priority, at the moment. Your father, may he rest peacefully - left us in a very difficult place."
"Deaton, please," she clasped her fingers to her forehead.
"Our coffers are empty. Your father, the dear man, had an obsession with fixing everything for the people of Upton. It's left us not only destitute, but deeply in debt," Deaton summarily announced, thumbing through a book at the table. "The last few years' accountings have been numerous. Endless, even. Each subject in Upton owes us considerable amounts of money - and we owe everything, our entire land, estate, the manor - everything, in debt, to the Duke of Norbury."
"The Duke of Norbury?" Isobel's face lit up. She recognized the title - though, not the man. The man, whom she had never seen, had requested to be married to her a great many times. Her father had always resoundingly denied the request, and she never quite understood why. "I've heard that name before, Deaton. The suitor, who had sought my hand, through my teenage years."
"Lord Brighton did indeed aggressively pursue your hand," Deaton lamented. "The truth, is that while your father despised the man, the man's father and yours had long-standing ties. Upton had produced great wealth for Norbury, and Lord Brighton's father always worked with yours. It was not until the... younger, Lord Brighton, took hold that Upton fell upon difficult times. Lord Brighton honored his father's dedication to yours, and to Upton... though I've no doubt he did it for his own, selfish reasons," Deaton hissed. "The man is a dissolute animal. Your father was right to turn away his hand in marriage for you, for so long. He was protecting you, and protecting our family name, by keeping you clear of that man."
"And so what can we do, Deaton?" Isobel asked, worry in her voice.
"It's quite simple," Deaton nodded, "we simply request all the debt we are owed, be paid. Here, in these books, is an accounting of every shilling the people of Upton owe us. For simple things - food, repairs, medicine - but for a great many other things, as well. If we call back those debts, we'll—"
"Deaton," Isobel interrupted, horrified, "those are our people. Men like Gudheim, and Porter, at the pub. Shaking these men's pockets for repayment of debt is not exactly the way to endear ourselves to Upton."
"M'lady, we are not a charity, nor are we about endearing ourselves to the citizenry. We need to come up with these debts in the year, lest we put ourselves at risk of losing everything we have," Deaton insisted angrily.
"Where do you think a man like Gudheim, or any of the dozens like him down the hill, are going to cobble together the coinage to pay off what they owe? Do you think my father gave to the people of Upton, expecting repayment on his investment? You knew my father better than perhaps anyone. You know that's not what he wanted, or why he gave them what he gave," Isobel scorned the trustee with her young, naive idealist viewpoint. Deaton grumbled, running his hands across the books stacked high.
"Whether your father expected payment, or not, he certainly did not expect the debts of Duskwood Manor would consume all of our family, or ruin us forever, Lady Duskwood."
"There has to be another solution. The people of Upton can hardly feed themselves," Isobel sighed. "What of this Lord Brighton? His father and mine worked together. They clearly respected one another. Perhaps this younger Lord Brighton shares that respect. Certainly, a man like that - an English gentleman, he can be reasoned with."
"M'lady, the Lord Brighton is anything but a gentleman," Deaton seethed. "I appreciate your approach, but there's little else we can do, if we are to keep our name and your dignity intact."
"Why are you so certain? This man is clearly enamored with me," Isobel admitted. "I'm certain he would listen to reason. Perhaps relieve our debts, or assist us in payment. Come now," Isobel beamed. "I do need to be putting myself out there for a husband after all, don't I? It's what father would want."
"You will not marry that man, not while I still live. Your father would have sent me to suffer in a desert in New South Wales if I'd allowed you to even consider courting him," Deaton's small voice roared.
"I didn't say courting! We're simply going to meet, to discuss this issue," Isobel blushed. "Could you arrange for a carriage for me, Deaton?"
"It'll be one from the village. Don't expect luxury," he grudgingly agreed.
"I'll be quite fine, Deaton. Set a carriage to be sent tomorrow evening," Isobel laughed precociously. "And don't worry."
"It's my job to worry," he snorted with finality.