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Chapter Six

I saiah hovered in the doorway of the library at Redmond House and studied his sister Diana, who was curled on a settee near the fire, frowning down at the pages of a book.

He tried to imagine her galloping and whinnying; it was impossible.

His and Diana’s manners had been as ruthlessly, meticulously guided and pruned by their parents as the roses in the garden.

But much like Isaiah, Diana was apparently all the wrong things, at least in the eyes of their father.

It was never explicitly said, of course.

But it was often implied. For instance, a few months ago, Diana had worn a new green dress to dinner.

“You look lovely, Diana,” their mother, who had been considered a great beauty in her day, told her, then turned to her husband.

“Darling, don’t you think that color suits your daughter? ”

Their father had contemplated his beaming, hopeful daughter.

“You have quite a distinguished nose, Diana,” was all he said finally, brightly. “I just realized you’re the spit of your great Uncle Edward.”

Verdict delivered, he’d returned to his mutton.

If one went by the portrait that hung in the hall, their Great Uncle Edward Redmond had a nose like the prow of a ship.

After dinner, Isaiah had come upon his sister sitting on this very library settee, quietly sobbing into her hands.

He’d settled down next to her and gingerly dropped his arm about her shoulders.

Stiffly, she’d accepted his presence, his awkward affection, and his handkerchief.

For a few wordless moments they’d sat together, bleakly united.

They were oft pitted against each other in the war for their parents’ approval and affection, but in this they were paradoxically also allies.

Isaiah liked his sister’s face. Her complexion was rosy, her hazel eyes were bright and filled with humor and intelligence, and her brows were bold, which was interesting.

And while her nose was assertive, he thought it suited her.

He did not think of girls in terms of separate body parts.

Surely some men might think she was pretty?

But no one would ever call her a great beauty. She was too aware of this, and was no doubt anticipating the blows her pride might take when it was time for her to make her formal London debut alongside her beautiful mother and—if all went according to plan—her brother’s stunning wife, Fanchette.

Isaiah considered his sister quite a fine person—and besides, she was a Redmond, which certainly counted for a lot.

But he also knew if they didn’t get her married off and married well, she could become his responsibility for the rest of his life.

His alliances would determine her opportunities, too.

This was another reason why his engagement to Fanchette Tarbell would be a triumph.

Diana glanced up and saw him. She gestured with her book. “ Sylph . A biography. Good heavens, the Duchess of Devonshire is quite the reprobate. Appalling, really.”

“Mmm. I see. And yet you seem to have devoured most of it.”

She laughed. “All right. Appalling and riveting. I’ll give it to you when I’m finished.” She clapped it shut and laid it aside. “Did you vanquish Finchley at darts?” He’d just returned from The Pig & Thistle.

Isaiah settled into the chair across from her, and sighed. Neither of them ever truly sprawled.

“On the way back, I noticed the outside of the new town hall is almost completely painted. How goes the preparation for the assembly?”

Her eyebrows went up. She’d noticed he’d dodged the darts question.

“Very well, I think. We’ve decided on fresh flowers in abundance scattered about and colorful bunting and exquisite little lanterns…

” she trailed off and eyed him, somewhat puzzled.

“It will be beautiful,” she said gently, as if reassuring him.

“A fitting backdrop for the creation of indelible memories.”

She likely concluded he might be nervous about proposing to Fanchette. After all, aside from his parents, Diana was the only person in the world who had seen him tremble when his father harangued him for stammering.

He was both touched and irritated that she could see him so clearly. He really would prefer that no one alive be able to inventory any of his past or present vulnerabilities.

He smiled neutrally. “Who is ‘we’?”

“Well, we’ve ten people on our decorating committee. More if you count the vicar. He pops his head in now and again.”

Isaiah paused, considering how to approach his objective. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. The local matrons and girls are all agreeable and we get on well. Then again, perhaps they feel obliged to be nice to me, given that our house casts such a great shadow over the land.” She said this dryly.

But he knew she, too, struggled with the notion of being liked for just herself.

“Or perhaps they simply like you because you’re easy to like.”

She flushed with pleasure.

He leaned forward slightly, hands clasped.

“Do you know…I just had an idea. It might be a gracious thing for you to have a picnic for the committee to celebrate your work. Mrs. Fordyce likely wouldn’t mind starting a war among the local cooks over who makes the best tea cakes in Pennyroyal Green.

You know how proud she is of hers.” Mrs. Fordyce was the Redmond family cook.

Diana’s face lit. “Oh, Isaiah. That is a lovely idea! And it’s so like you to consider everyone’s pride and start an internecine war for the fun of it at the same time.”

He laughed. But it was hard to imagine an ordinary sort of wealthy bloke, like Finchley, for instance, appreciating a woman who used words like “internecine”. And this made him feel both protective of his sister and a trifle impatient, because it would be easier for all of them if she didn’t.

“I think I will ask mama if we can have a picnic…” she said happily.

“We could hold it in the rose garden. Perhaps the day of the assembly, as a way of celebrating our achievements. We’ll have a light repast—cheese and little cakes and jellies, fruit, that sort of thing, because we’ll have so many refreshments at the assembly.

Fanchette should have arrived by then, the roads and weather willing, so she’ll be able to join us. ”

The day of the assembly was a little more than a week away, and this wasn’t at all what Isaiah had in mind when he’d gone looking for Diana in the library.

He rifled his brain for another tactic.

“You know…Isaiah…” Diana ventured almost timidly. “We could use the assistance of a tall person to help us decide how and where to hang our bunting. Given that you’re the Redmond heir, after all, and we’re pillars of society, and so forth. If you’ve the time to spare?”

Inwardly, he exulted.

But he hesitated for show.

“I think our group would be honored and pleased if you took an interest. And I don’t often get an opportunity to show off my brother,” she coaxed.

He snorted softly. “Nicely played. I suppose I could spare a few hours. But I’ve felt a bit cooped up lately. I don’t suppose I can help with any of the outdoor work?”

She arpeggiated her fingers on her chin, thinking. “Well, Mr. Tingle is helping with the painting outside of the town hall… perhaps you can help in the churchyard with weeding and the like? That’s another outdoor task. But I can’t recall you ever doing any gardening.”

He pantomimed shoveling. “It’s a bit like that, isn’t it?”

She laughed. “Very well, then. We’re meeting at the hall tomorrow afternoon. Come with me, and we’ll tell Mrs. Sneath you’d like to help in the churchyard.”

“Very well.” He let the last word trail into a yawn. “My fate is in Mrs. Sneath’s hands, then.”

But what tingled in his veins was triumph.

He did know a twinge of guilt. But he’d gotten what he’d wanted, and his sister was none the wiser that she’d been the means to his end. And Diana would benefit, too, would she not?

For the first time in his life, however, he was reluctant to examine why he wanted what he wanted.

All he knew is that he felt twice as alive as he’d been only yesterday at the very idea of seeing Isolde Sylvaine again.

“Well, I think I’ll go change into a shirt that doesn’t stink of cheroot smoke from the Pig & Thistle.” He stood again.

“Off you go, then,” Diana replied absently, returning to her book.

Just as he reached the doorway she called, slyly, “And I’m sorry about your darts loss to Finchley.”

He laughed, startled, and mimed taking a dart to the back.

She indeed knew him too well.

Isaiah couldn’t fidget with his gold watch while he was holding a full bucket of water, but he did know it had been five minutes past two o’clock when Mrs. Sneath handed it to him.

She’d left him with her thanks, which were the perfect balance of brisk (because she was always brisk) and obsequious (because he was a Redmond), as well as a handful of rags and a little brush. These he’d stuffed into his pockets.

He’d been told the vicar would be helping out in the churchyard today, too, but a few minutes ago the elderly Mrs. Barton, a Pennyroyal Green parishioner, had rushed through the gates into the churchyard, apparently in urgent need of spiritual counsel.

Reverend Holroyd had bustled her into the church.

Isaiah’s instincts told him they wouldn’t emerge soon.

So, Isaiah stood alone in the shadow of a willow, his face aimed in the general direction of the gate, his back to the stone bench featuring a carving of a little boy angel. He’d averted his eyes from that bench his entire life.

Today as he’d wandered through the churchyard, he’d realized one could track the rise of the Eversea and Redmond fortunes by the dates on the headstones. About a century ago both families began retiring their expired members into family mausoleums instead.