Joanna Maitland - A Poor Relation

‘I promise. At least, I promise to try,’ said Sophia.

Isabella felt the tension relax in her shoulders. ‘I shall be satisfied with that. And now, let us talk of something else.’

‘Yes, let’s,’ said Sophia more eagerly. ‘Tell me about your first Season—er—Isabella. Did you have many offers?’

Isabella smiled resignedly. ‘I only ever had one Season, I’m afraid, and no offers, so there is little to tell.’

‘But why?’

Isabella shrugged. Although she had avoided telling the story until now—over the years, she had learnt to be content with her single state, but it still hurt too much to discuss the deaths of her parents—she knew that Sophia would pester her until she gave in. ‘My Season was cut short because my papa became ill and had to return home,’ she said quietly.

‘But surely there was no need to pack you all off back to the country?’

‘I was only too happy to go, Sophia, I assure you. Mama needed my help to nurse Papa.’

‘Oh.’ Sophia seemed to have realised, at last, where the story was leading. She sat for a moment, thinking. ‘Could you not have had another Season? Later, I mean, when…’ Her voice trailed off.

‘It suited me to remain on the family estate with my brother, Sophia. He could not run it alone.’

‘But surely he runs it alone now,’ protested Sophia.

‘He is a grown man now—and married. He does not need an older sister looking over his shoulder.’

‘Is that why you went to live with Lady Wycham?’

‘Partly.’ Goodness, the child was certainly persistent. Isabella knew she was going to have to embroider the truth from now on. To the outside world, it was Lady Wycham who had the money and Isabella who was the poor relation. It was a fiction both worked hard to maintain.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Sophia.

Isabella sighed. ‘Great-aunt Jemima invited me to join her in Hill Street last year. She would have been alone, otherwise, so it suited us both. I can enjoy as much as I wish of London Society—and she has company about the place. Even more, now that you are joining us,’ she added, with a gentle laugh.

‘And I shall be as good as gold, I promise,’ said Sophia. ‘It is so very generous of Lady Wycham to frank my come-out—’ Isabella hoped she was not blushing ‘—and I intend to make her proud of me. Wait and see!’

‘I’m sure you will. Aunt Jemima is looking forward to taking you to our French modiste for your new gowns. Your dark colouring is all the crack these days, you know. Fair hair is sadly passé, I’m afraid,’ she added with a mischievous glance across at the abigail who spent so many hours arranging Isabella’s honey-gold curls. ‘Should I cover it with a turban, do you think?’

A moment later, they were engulfed in laughter.

In the late afternoon, the carriage arrived at the Bell in Barnby Moor where they were to spend the night. Isabella alighted first to see that all was in order for her party, leaving Sophia, chaperoned by Mitchell, to make a more leisurely descent. Sophia was just remarking on the unusual degree of bustle in the inn-yard, when Isabella returned, grim-faced.

‘It is too vexing,’ she declared. ‘The rooms that were bespoke for us are not available, it seems. The inn is full of gentlemen, here for some sporting event about which I did not enquire. The landlord appears to have preferred the immediate custom of these gentlemen to the prior written instructions of a lady. You will please return to the carriage, Sophia, while I try to resolve matters.’

With firm tread, Isabella returned to the inn to do battle with the landlord for the promised rooms. By the time he eventually appeared, looking hot and flustered, she had been kept waiting for more than ten minutes and her patience had worn extremely thin. Her eyes had lost their usual grey-green calm to become very stormy indeed; her foot was tapping in a rhythm of irritation; and, with her threadbare clothes enhancing the effect, she knew she must appear a veritable harridan. She fully intended to make the most of it in this encounter.

The landlord, however, seemed to be in no mood to acknowledge the justice of her claim. He stated flatly that no rooms were to be had, either in his inn or for several miles around and, furthermore, that the locality was no place for ladies at present, with so large a gathering of sporting gentlemen in residence.

Isabella would have none of it.

Their heated discussion was beginning to attract the attention of the gentlemen assembled in the coffee-room behind her. Isabella could not help but notice that the level of their conversation had become muted as they listened avidly to hers but, driven by the justice of her cause, she would not be deterred. ‘Two chambers and a private parlour were bespoke for Miss Winstanley, besides accommodation for the servants. I insist they be provided immediately. If you have been so lax in your duty as to let them to some of these gentlemen, you must simply require them to move elsewhere. I shall wait here until you have made the arrangements.’

By this time, the coffee-room was almost silent. Isabella coloured a little but stood her ground, wondering whether the men now staring at her defenceless back would have been so reluctant to come to her aid if she had appeared in her normal elegant guise.

The landlord was in a quandary. ‘I’ll ask among the gen’lemen, if you wishes, ma’am, but I don’t see as ’ow I can do what you says. T’wouldn’t be right.’

‘Nor is it right to fail to undertake your commitment to two ladies,’ flashed Isabella.

The landlord shrank a little before her fiery look. His hesitant response was forestalled by the arrival of a young gentleman from the inn-yard who immediately said, ‘Landlord, you have wronged these ladies. I insist that you look to their needs—immediately!’

Isabella’s stormy gaze softened a little at the sight of the young man. His intentions were good, certainly, though they were of little practical help. And the landlord was looking thoroughly mutinous.

The landlord’s response was interrupted by movement from the coffee-room—one of the gentlemen there strode out to join the little group in the hallway.

Isabella swallowed a gasp at the sight of that tall dark figure. She recognised it at a glance. Somehow—impossibly—his powerful outline had become deeply etched in her mind.

It was her would-be rescuer—again!

Isabella found herself confronting an imposing figure, dressed now in immaculate riding dress and top-boots. She was struck by a sternly handsome face, dark eyes of unfathomable depths, and curling black hair that seemed to invite a woman’s fingers to touch it. This time, she found she could not drag her gaze from his face. Suddenly, she forgot to breathe.

The newcomer paused for a moment alongside Isabella’s frozen figure, raking her from top to toe with a long, appraising glance that seemed to search out every shabby, demeaning aspect of her appearance. She felt as if he had stripped her naked. Then, with a tiny shake of his head, he simply turned away without a word.

Isabella remained motionless, though her heart was pounding now at the extent of the man’s disdain. He was dismissing her publicly. But what else could she expect? In the light of her behaviour earlier, it was hardly surprising that he would not even acknowledge her. She wanted to sink.

Isabella thought she saw the merest hint of a condescending smile on his lips when he turned away from her. In a trice, mounting fury had overcome her embarrassment. How dare he treat her so? First, he pretended to be a knight in shining armour, and then he treated her like a…like a common doxy. This was no gentleman. For no gentleman would look at a woman as he had looked at her. The man must be a libertine. A man of his stamp would doubtless prefer to gaze on women with more opulent, and visible, charms. Isabella told herself she was glad of her dowdy appearance if it protected her from a handsome ladykiller. Isabella Winstanley would never have truck with such a man.