CHAPTER EIGHT
"So you're going to be relocating just... temporarily, m'lady?" Beatrice had been a loyal servant of Lady Duskwood's father, and the prospect of the young lady moving abroad - particularly with the estate in such dire straits - worried the aging woman with her faded orange-red hair, and wrinkled face.
"Yes, just temporarily, that's all," Isobel reassured Beatrice with a small, thin smile. She didn't relish lying to the few servants who had remained loyal to her father - but she needed to maintain some sense of dignity, and to avoid the scandal her departure for the Duke of Norbury's estate would no doubt cause all across north England. "I'll be back before long."
"And you're certain you'll be safely looked after by... who, was it, you were staying with, for these few months?" Beatrice asked, trying to tidy the dust-caked rugs with a scrubbing brush in one hand. "I certainly hope they have a staff more equipped to help you than we are, dear Isobel."
"Oh, I'm... I'm just staying at a guest residence, near Norbury, to... to deal with business negotiations, regarding Upton, for the next few months," Isobel insisted, trying to maintain a sense of ease, and as not to remind anyone of the specter of debt looming over the entirety of the manor.
"M'lady, I had to come and see you off, especially considering the nature of your business," Deaton interrupted the exchange with the rather senile Beatrice, trouncing down the stairs with his arms wide. He embraced Lady Duskwood in a hesitant hug, though he murmured into her ear as they stood together, revealing to her the true nature of his visit, keeping his words a secret from eavesdropping old Beatrice nearby. "You're relocating to deal with the issues with Lord Brighton, right? The debts? Upton, and this entire estate, are certain to sink if we've not resolved these issues soon, and after your time away from the manor I had hoped—"
"Please, Deaton," Isobel interrupted soundly, a sigh coaxed from her lips by the pressure the frenetic record-keeper and majordomo placed on her shoulders. "Business with Lord Brighton will be worked out sooner, rather than later. It's nothing that you or the village need worry about, any longer. Upton will be freed of its obligations by the time I return. Do you understand?"
"Had you perhaps considered consulting with the Duke of Thrushmore, m'lady?" Deaton asks in a hushed tone. The name brought visceral revulsion to Isobel's faculties; she shrunk at the mention, feeling his grotesque words and surly lips on her skin again as she did the last moment they met, and hearing his shrieking, demeaning roars in her ears. "I'm certain he would be interested in hearing your propositions, and he's quite wealthy; certainly wealthy enough to cover the debts incurred by your father, and more. He's a proper man who's more than deserving of your attention, I do believe, m'lady."
"The Duke of Thrushmore is..." Isobel held back all the things she wanted to say about the old man, gritting her teeth angrily. She worked herself down from a fury, breathing the fumes of her vitriol out in a slow and measured manner. "...I'm not interested in working with him, Deaton. He's just not... it's just not a business proposition I'm interested in courting, at the moment."
"Are you certain, m'lady? Because he arrived this morning, setting out as soon as he had heard you returning from the Duke of Norbury's estate. He's been waiting - asking for you, even," Deaton mentioned offhandedly. Lady Isobel blinked, her heart pounding hard, sweat immediately dripping form her brow, her nerves alight in fear.
"He's... he's here? Why—who told him of my return? I'm not... I don't want..." she stammered. She had hoped to never see the lying 'gentleman' again, much less did she expect him to pursue her after their last meeting.
"I would propose that I speak to him and see him off, m'lady, but a man like the Duke of Thrushmore would not take the word of a mere servant. He's been quite insistent on seeing you, m'lady, and I think it would be best for the reputation of the estate, and for your chances, m'lady—please, just listen to what he has to offer, won't you? He's not quite the doddering old fool he seems to be. He could mean good things for Upton, and for you—"
"Deaton!" Isobel exclaimed; the more her majordomo fawned over the duke, the angrier Isobel grew. She could certainly never blurt it out aloud to her servants - 'the Duke of Thrushmore violated me, he is a disgusting pervert' - and instead she simply silenced her servants, hesitantly making her way towards the dining hall. "Have him meet me here. Alone - no servants, please Deaton," Isobel requested, gesturing to the hall. Deaton nodded and rushed off to the front doors; Isobel sequestered herself into the Duskwood dining hall, which looked positively decrepit compared to the lavish manors of Thrushmore and Norbury. Silver sconces had long ago been raided and sold off; those few that remained were coated in smudges, dirt and dust, with the sheen of the metal decaying from fingerprints left to set upon precious surfaces. A tea set sat upon a silvered tray, so coated in dust that nothing even glinted in the muddled sunlight streaming through curtain-drawn windows. Isobel exhaled, covering her face with her palms, not ready to face the disgusting duke. Ready or not, she heard the doors to the dining hall fly open, the duke entering with his arms outstretched and glee beaming from his face.
"Lady Duskwood! Please, I came as quickly as I could, after hearing you'd been forced into a meeting with that wretch, Lord Brighton," he exclaimed, as if their own meeting hadn't even happened. The doors shut behind him and he continued to play the part of the friendly gentleman, embracing Lady Duskwood; she squirmed against his grip, pushing him harshly away.
"What do you want? Why have you come?" Lady Duskwood rebuffed him. "We met previous. You know what you said. And what you did."
"M'lady, I needed to come and to apologize," he bowed his head, grasping her wrist and kissing her fingers gently; she shivered, even the feeling of his lips on her fingers filling her with bile. "I spoke rashly, and you certainly deserved a more metered approach, don't you? Your father passing and all, times must be difficult here at the Duskwood estate."
"What do you mean? A metered approach? I took you for a gentleman, m'lord, but you violated that trust I had placed in you," Lady Isobel snatched her hand away from his kiss. "I... I have a new solution. Something I must do, for my estate, and for Upton."
"You certainly don't mean giving in to that rogue Lord Brighton, do you?" Lord Miller said, voice full of disdain. "What has he got you doing? Certainly something suspect, scandalous. A lady such as yourself deserves more."
"Deserves more? As in what?" Lady Duskwood asked. Suddenly, perhaps in a moment of emotional weakness, she saw a way out again - but could she trust the Duke of Thrushmore to be a gentleman, this time?
"A woman of your stature deserves emotional care, devotion - a proper courtship," the duke said. She breathed a gentle sigh of relief - perhaps the end was in sight after all.
"And how could I know that I can trust you to provide me with that - or anything close to it, after the way you acted in our last meeting?" Lady Duskwood needled him. She shivered, looking out the muddied window, her body shaking like a leaf on a lone tree. The duke took advantage, moving closer, his voice a churlish whisper.
"I know the kinds of things that animal on the hill wants, and certainly what he wants out of you, whether he had been bold enough to say it or not." The Duke moved closer; Isobel closed her eyes, sucking down a deep breath, stilling her raging nerves. "What deal has he worked you in to, then? Moving to his estate, where he can have you serve him? As a slave, or worse? What scandal has he involved you in? Certainly not one your father would have approved of." The mention of her father had Isobel weak at her knees; she sniffled back tears, emotion beginning to grasp at her heart. "You want a way out... don't you?" he asked, his voice tense.
"M'lord, please, I... I can't," Isobel murmured.
"You can. I told you," the Duke of Thrushmore's voice grew thick and throaty, "there're ways out. Easy ways. I would treat you as a queen," the old, shrinking husk of a man clung to those filthy ideas in his head of courting young Isobel, and she felt nothing but appalled as he came in closer. "You'd never sweat nor worry again. What more could a woman of your stature ask of me, but to forgive debts for your hand?"
"You want more than my hand. You want my dignity, just the same as he. You're no gentleman," Isobel hissed in a hushed voice.
"You are a woman, and I am a man. I am a man of respectability, and your estate is in shambles. Which of us is the gentleman, and which the fraud - your father, or me?" Eugenius asked, roughly grasping at Isobel's wrist. "I'll have your hand. What choice do you have? To play slave to the Duke of Norbury?"
"Your confidence is a lie, just as much as these overtures of yours are nothing but lies, Eugenius," she hissed his name like a striking viper. "How dare you impugn my father, in his own estate. Your confidence is a lie - your wealth is a lie. Your name is a lie, and you are no gentleman," Isobel snarled, louder now. "You hate that you can't have me - a simple woman, with everything against her, saying 'no'. You can't take it, can you?" Lady Duskwood taunted him, seething as tears streamed from her eyes.
"I told you that you would be mine," Duke Miller growled threateningly, tugging at her wrist until he'd nearly bruised it. She couldn't tell what had come over her - perhaps it was that confident impetuousness of Lord Brighton's, rubbing off on her. She resisted.
"You're a liar, and I'll have you thrown out of my estate if I must! You'll never have me," Isobel shouted. She shrieked when the duke raised his hand, swinging it in a wide, arcing slap across her cheeks, with enough force to throw her onto her knees, tears streaming along her cheeks. She looked up at him, her gaze vexed, her sobs loud, and her face full of fire.
"You'll be mine, you harlot," he hissed down at her, eyes like rumbling storm clouds, "and if you don't - you'll come to regret it more than you ever will the debts you owe to Lord Brighton."
Lady Duskwood's eyes burned in defiance as the dining hall doors creaked open, and shut. She heard through the wooden panels the muffled sounds of his lies - the Duke of Thrushmore, presenting himself as personable; respectable, a gentleman, to Deaton, who waited just outside the door. Lady Duskwood wouldn't allow herself to be seen in this kind of position. She scrambled to her feet, smoothing the ruffles in her gown; she fought away tears still streaming from her eyes, composing herself with a cold dignity in her eyes. She wiped away the moisture and she straightened her hair and she took a deep breath, exhaling sharply as she heard the duke's voice echo through the halls, back towards the front door of Isobel's decrepit manor. Relieved to finally hear him leave, she grasped the doors, pulling them open and swirling with furor into the main hall.
"M'lady! Did you..." Deaton cried out; Isobel kept her head high, not willing to listen to more lies.
"I'll be departing in the morning, Deaton. The Duke of Thrushmore has made his choice, as have I," she stated simply; vaguely.
"But m'lady—" Deaton chased after her, ever-harried by what he saw as a lack of business sense. "If you—"
"That's the end of it, Deaton," Isobel's cracking voice squeaked. She had begun to understand the difficulties that her father must have faced - and she understood why he had avoiding letting the estate fall in to debt to the Duke of Thrushmore. Perhaps an improper, scurrilous philanderer was preferable to a venomous, lying viper like Eugenius.
Isobel sighed. What a choice to have to make.