Author: Virginia Vice
Category: Historical
Go to read content：https://readnovelfree.com/p/45305_4
"We're coming up on the estate now, m'lady!" The carriage bobbed and bounced along the scattered cobblestone road, Mr. Trevingham calling through the small wooden window to his passenger, announcing their arrival. Immediately, what had been rough and rugged roads calmed; the wild bouncing stopped, and the rattling clop of horse hooves grew slow and easy. Isobel glanced through the carriage window at the rolling hills without; when the carriage passed from the lands of the Duskwood family, and in to the Duke of Norbury's sprawling lands, Isobel noticed immediately a change, as if clouds had rolled away from the face of the sun overhead. The grass seemed brighter, more alive; the distant fields rolled calmly, as opposed to the stormy shade gathered like roiling darkness over top of Duskwood Manor. Hopeful, Isobel felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She bargained with herself - she would only need a short conversation, she thought, to charm the Lord Brighton in to seeing her point of view. Certainly he would understand, wouldn't he? A village starved, hard winters - her father's failing health, and their families' long and fruitful relationship would certainly help her in negotiating some sense of security for her family, her estate, and the people of Upton.
The ride calming and the sun falling along the horizon, Isobel yawned and relaxed in the ramshackle carriage. Set upon a rough wooden bench, with cobbled axles squeaking along Norbury's flattened stonework, it didn't feel an appropriate form of transportation for the Lady Duskwood. She began to imagine how she would fix Upton, and the manor, after successfully negotiating the loosening of debts from the Lord Brighton. She would fix up the window in the foyer landing; she would restore both windows to their former glory, so that sunlight tinted in brilliant reds and greens could shine across the manor's marbled tiles and violet rugs. Exhaling with a small smile curling along her lips, young Isobel pondered the nature of this mysterious man whom her father had so vehemently rejected for years. A man who had constantly sought her - what could he be like? She imagined a fine gentleman, tailored in a quaint suit; perhaps he would have a nice hat he could tip to her as they met. Perhaps a sprawling feast, laid out on the dinner table; maybe her father had simply been over-protective. Maybe the Lord Brighton would wind up a perfect gentleman - and not the sort, like the Duke of Thrushmore, with that eerie edge of 'too good' about him.
She closed her eyes; the sun had begun to shimmer near the end of the day, and it had been a long day. Deaton would not budge on his insistence on taking money from the locals to pay the Manor's debts. Isobel felt a revulsion in her stomach at the very suggestion; she knew her father would not have it, and no doubt silenced all of Deaton's insistence on this matter until the day he died. Certainly Deaton had a great fondness for her father, but he was too often driven by his own sense of businesslike duty. And certainly ever had their duties - but it was Isobel's duty now to look after Duskwood Manor and Upton's people, in much the same way that her father had. She resolved to carry on her father's legacy just as she imagined he would want it.
The carriage hit a steep hill, and Isobel felt her back pressed against the back of the carriage. She yelped quietly, surprised by the sudden ascent.
"Apologies, m'lady," Mr. Trevingham called back to her. "It's a rough road out here, it is."
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"Th-thank you, Mr. Trevingham, I'm q... quite fine, just—how far from the estate, are we?" Isobel asked tensely, holding herself steady against the carriage.
"Just over this hill!" the driver s
houted back to her. Mr. Trevingham had always provided horses to the family estate - though he, too, had fallen into difficult times during Isobel's absence, many of his prized horses dying in a rough winter. He, too, owed the family estate money... as most of Upton did.
"Th-thank you, much, Mr. Trevingham," Isobel's voice stammered as the carriage nearly slowed to a crawl along the steep road. She heard the horses whinny, and Mr. Trevingham gave them a rough shove. Finally the vehicle made it past the difficult hump; the sun began to glimmer and set near the horizon, and Lady Duskwood calculated that it had taken her nearly an entire afternoon to make it here, to the estate.
"Alright, m'lady! Pulling up now!" Isobel could hardly deny that she had a nagging curiosity on the nature of this mystery man, the Lord Brighton, and of the estate in which he lived. She snuck a gaze out the front window, and though she could not see very much, she made out a dominant palace on the edge of a hill, the orange sun's rays bouncing against a facade of ruby-red and deep gray. It looked like a castle of old, only fashioned in the regency style; curtains in tall and dominating windows; black iron-wrought fences trimming beautiful foliage. With a tall flat roof, it bore all the hallmarks of stylish, fresh regency construction, though it carried with it in hue and nature an allure of foreboding. The tall windows cast long shadows; the black of imposing iron and the red of vivid paints mesmerized the onlooker. Isobel swallowed, unsure what sort of man would have such decadent and curious tastes in the architecture of his estate.
The carriage swung around a grand turnabout; at its center stood a marbled fountain, though no water flowed from the piece; it stood, its cherub bearing an empty pot, tears stained on its sullen eyes. Isobel stepped out of the carriage as it came to a stop; surprise struck her. The estate looked so, so much larger, so much more imposing, up close; its colors, fences, grates, and shapes bore down oppressively on the small woman, who took a deep breath to try to steady fraying nerves. The looming estate cast grand shadow across her; bound in a soft lilac dress of simple design and modest cost, she felt terribly underdressed, now, for her meeting. A man like this certainly must be accustomed to grand flowing gowns, majestic accessories and the finest sort of manners. She could at least provide him with all the feminine charm she could muster, which Isobel decided would need to be enough to negotiate.
"Are you the Lady Isobel Duskwood?" the door to the manor swung open with a loud creak, the front doors nearly thrice as tall as Isobel. In the threshold stood a maid, her voice like a cawing crow, calling out to the stunned Lady. She stepped forward, squinting with an inquisitive eye at the new arrival. "Duskwood? The one s'posed to be meeting with the Lord Brighton? You don't look like much." Isobel gulped.
"I'm—" she tried to laugh awkwardly. "I'm... the Lady, Duskwood, yes, come to discuss certain matters of pressing importance about my estate and the people of Upton," Lady Duskwood curtsied for the rather rough-spoken maidservant.
"Well, are you going to come in quite quickly, then? The sun's setting, and there's still those damned Merry Bandits about the roads," the maid grumbled. "They'd take a shine to someone like you. Your carriage... ought to be fine, though," the maid gave a disgusted look back at what Lady Duskwood had rode in on.
"Oh, well, you know, the royal carriage, is—ours, is damaged, at the moment, so I had a subject in Upton bring me, he was kind enough, of course," Lady Duskwood lied, her cheeks blushing in embarrassment. The maidservant did not appear convinced, but silently beckoned the lady into the estate. Isobel followed, and when the maid pushed the towering front doors shut, Isobel's eyes took a moment to adjust before awe struck them.
The foyer looked like nothing she had seen before - plush-red wallpaper bearing flour-de-lis hung atop flawless wooden panels running the lower halves of the wall, trimmed impeccably with golden thread. On every well-carved, glossy oak table sat curios - trinkets, statuettes, gemstones, riches beyond anything Isobel had ever seen at the Duskwood Manor. The Lord Brighton clearly had wealth and class to flaunt, and he did so from the moment travelers stepped in to his home. Lounging lazily about the foyer sat well-upholstered couches, built of wood finished in gold-flecked paint; red, black and gold outlined every surface, giving a dark but opulent tint to the whole room.
"Here, you can sit here, wait, while I summon Lord Brighton," the maidservant gestured lackadaisically to a couch perched near a table adorned with a small model of the estate, crafted entirely of gold; so rich that it gleamed in the low, dancing lamplight from the walls. Speechless, Isobel nodded, setting herself quaintly atop the couch and taking a deep breath. The maidservant's footfalls echoed through tall ceilings, covered in stylized plaster and holding delicate chandeliers, with candles burning atop the strung, swaying glasswork.
Isobel's mind raced as she sat in contemplative silence. She couldn't imagine, now, what awaited her when she finally met the Lord Brighton. A man of this measure of style and wealth could, she reasoned, only be the very example of a true, noble gentleman. How could her father have thought otherwise? She began to question the warnings so often received from her father, from Father McConnell - now, even from Deaton. What issue did they have with a man so wealthy, with so well-appointed a home? She began to dream about him; the suit he must wear, clearly as opulent as everything in this foyer. She thought of his dignity; his fair and friendly tone. She sunk into the inviting cushions on the sofa, letting herself drift away, plaintive and sweet and comforted. With a yawn she imagined him, from head to toe, the image of class; maybe he'd even been to London, or abroad, and she could speak to him of her own experiences outside of the north, away from the Scots and the rolling fields and rural people.
Finally she heard footsteps trouncing down the stairwells. Her heart pounded hard; her voice caught in her throat as she thought on how to properly introduce herself. She stood up, her cheeks bright, her feet bouncing anxiously. The footfalls came slow and deliberate, and she waited to see the face of the man she imagined, wheeling around the corner. She smoothed her gown, put on a beaming smile, ready to fix all the ruinous trouble that'd befallen her sweet father as best she could, and save the people of Upton. And maybe even find herself a husband.
"M'lord," she murmured, curtsying preemptively, her head nodded in friendly deference to the man as he sauntered down the stairwell. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is—"
"I know your name. Of course I know your love. All that ceremony's not necessary, love. Chin up. There'll be plenty of time for lookin' down later," came a response from... the man she could only assume was Lord Brighton. His braying tone, his nonchalance, and that putrid little, lewd insinuation... shocked, Isobel huffed, lifting her eyes to meet the gaze of the man who held her in his pocket. She felt surprise bolt along her spine; she could scarcely believe it.
She knew that face. Piercing eyes of jade, skin a deep tone of olive; wild and stylish dark hair, with only a coating of virile stubble along his chin. An ostentatious suit, appointed with gemstones; tailored custom and perfectly. She exhaled sharply, her nerves rattled when she saw his face. She recognized him, even without the chortling Lady Brittany at his side; even without the wine bottle held crassly, guzzled deeply from in the solemnity of a funeral. She couldn't believe it.
"Y-you're the... you're the Lord Brighton?" she asked, her words startled, hoping perhaps she'd become confused. He grinned a completely imprudent grin, and she silently seethed.
"Did you expect somebody else? I bet you did," he said, his words cutting and coy. "Didn't I get a spy of you crying at that funeral, not long ago? Isobel? Your father," he commented crassly, "was a good man. Bloody hated me, though I don't rightly know why. Never wanted to let me court you. Kiss you, or even look at you. Too bad, wouldn't you agree, love?" Isobel smiled weakly. She knew he had her at his mercy, and so she tried to remain friendly. She could scarcely deny this improper lord was indeed astoundingly gorgeous, she couldn't quite stand his manner.
"You... yes, I did see you at my father's funeral. Braying with laughter, drinking wine on sacred ground," Isobel hissed, flustered. Lord Brighton smirked.
"Gotta lighten up the mood at least a little bit, huh? Death, sadness, that's not really my sort of thing, love," he commented wryly. "Would you have rather I lied and cried, the way the others did? The sycophants and liars, biting at your father's will and testament like brainless fish? Snap, snap," he imitated the noise of jaws clamping. "I don't think that's what you want, love."
"I... I came here to discuss an important matter, about m-my estate, the village of Upton," she stammered, thrown off by how painfully frank the young lord spoke. "About... my father's estate..."
"What's got you, love? The fact that your manor and village are deep in debt to me, and that if I could I'd have all of it, and the Duskwood family'd fall off the map? Am I guessing in the neighborhood or there'bouts, love?" Lord Brighton grinned wolfishly. Isobel's heart sank. God, it had to be him, didn't it? All of her dreams of saving her people, of saving herself, began to wash away. One could only guess what a man like this would want, but she tried to maintain some sense of hope.
"M'lord," she said, her voice wobbly from the shockwaves of her astonishment, "if... if you could... just take, what I say into consideration," she murmured. "The people of Upton, they're poor, and we're quite in need. My majordomo, Deaton, he tells me—"
"Deaton? The little, nipping squirrel, used to bite at Lord Reginald's bare arse? He hated me too, heh," Lord Brighton guffawed roughly. She felt this magnetic need to watch his face, even as she was repulsed by the words he brayed on with. He looked so handsome. But why did he have to have a manner more befitting a fattened cow than a lordly gentleman?