Page 5 of Love’s Refrain at Roslyn Court (Noble Hearts #2)

Five

ISAAC

P erhaps, if Miss Bradley had not confessed her sad family history to him earlier in the music room, Isaac would not have noticed the odd undercurrent at the dinner table concerning the young lady. But as it was, he had been put on his guard about the baronet’s wife and his senses were alert.

He suspected he was not entirely welcome to remain at Roslyn Court, and resolved to talk to Sir Neville at once about shortening his stay, but more alarming was Lady Poole’s subtle mistreatment of her niece.

For when one is unwanted, and then is foisted off on the least valued member of the household, the insult is felt by both parties.

For his money, though, he would gladly take an hour or two with Miss Bradley over the subtle disdain of Lady Poole or the narrow interests of Sir Neville. The intent might have been a slight, but for him, it was a gift, and he accepted it in that manner.

Miss Bradley was a most extraordinary musician, and he could not deny that her music reached into a part of him that had felt no light in far too long.

But the lady herself was a balm, quiet and understanding beyond what most young women could hope for.

There was no artifice in her, no grasping for attention or subtle scheming.

Her gentle manners, her cool voice, her quiet willingness to play the same piece three times simply because he needed it, all spoke of a compassionate soul, and he liked her more each time he contemplated what she had so quietly done.

Quite unconsciously, purely by being herself, she gave him the one thing he had been missing for far too long: the hope of peace. It was a gift far beyond rubies.

Miss Bradley had suggested they begin their tour in the morning, once her morning duties were complete—something rather odd to contemplate considering her aunt insisted she had nothing to do—and Isaac was looking forward to the activity. In truth, he was quite desperate for it.

Being an active man by nature, and used to the physical rigours of military life, his enforced leisure over the last few days while recovering from his strange ailment did not sit well.

He was more than anxious to move, to stretch his legs, and feel the air in his lungs.

Perhaps after showing him the house, Miss Bradley could suggest a walk he might try, perhaps one that would take him to the village, or along some nice lanes.

Anything would suffice as long as he could move his limbs.

What a pleasant surprise then, when the lady announced regretfully that she must postpone the tour of the house and gardens because she had an errand to run for her aunt in the village. Her raised eyebrows held a hint of invitation, and Isaac leapt to the opportunity.

“Would I be a nuisance if I accompanied you?”

Her face softened into a gentle smile. “I am on foot, since it is no great distance and there is no rain. Are you strong enough?”

A long-lost thread of playfulness danced through him, and Isaac struck a pose, such that he imagined a sportsman might adopt to display his prowess. Mirth lit her eyes.

“I am, indeed, milady. I am much recovered, and I quite long for some exercise. How far is the village? Is that what I see from my window?”

Her smile widened at his antics.

“It is, sir, just a half a mile down the lane. It is a gentle walk downhill to get there; it requires a bit more exertion to return, but the climb is nothing too strenuous. One hardly notices it at all, unless pulling a cart.”

“Then, if you will have my company, I will be pleased to escort you.”

The conversation at first was general, as Miss Bradley pointed out some landmarks and commented on the weather, a never-ending matter of interest in England.

Roslyn Court held a lofty position on a rise of land near one of the gentle hills in the area.

Behind the house, so Miss Bradley explained, there was land enough for a fine garden with paths to wander along, before the land dipped into a basin where there was a small lake, likewise edged with paths and sites of interest and amusement.

In front of the house, where they were now walking, the lane wound through the trees and near the river on its way to Chilcombe, a village of respectable size.

This was prosperous land, she explained, and the community likewise flourished.

“What is this duty you must discharge there?” Isaac asked as they rounded a curve. The village was visible now across a field, and it did, indeed, look promising from where they stood. “Lady Poole said nothing of it last night.”

“With the family soon to come out of mourning for Henry, my aunt is having some new gowns made. She says she will be in half-mourning for the rest of the year and requires some additional garments in mauve and grey, to supplement those she has already requested. Madame Joelle sent a message that she has received some supplies, and I am to bring small samples of the fabric home to Lady Poole.”

“Is this not a task for the seamstress herself to carry out? Or does Lady Poole not enjoy an outing to see all the bolts of fabric herself? My sisters could never hurry to the modiste quickly enough when there were new textiles to be chosen.”

Miss Bradley’s laugh was not cheerful.

“Indeed, you are correct on both counts, but it serves my aunt’s purposes better to send me.

It reminds me of my duties to the family.

Oh, do not fuss on my account. I do not mind it; I am pleased to be busy and useful.

But I am always kept aware of my place and the benevolence my family has shown by bringing me into their home. ”

There was little to be said in response.

Miss Bradley’s task was discharged quickly enough, and supplied with a selection of squares of cloth in various muted colours all bundled in a small bag, the two set forth again.

“I have one more stop, to ask a question of the wheelwright for my uncle, and then we may return.”

It was a pleasant day, and as Isaac was enjoying both the walk and the company, he agreed readily.

The streets had been quiet when they made their way into the seamstress’ workshop above the milliner, but in the few moments they had been inside, the village’s denizens had emerged into the sunlight.

People from all strata of society called out their greetings to Miss Bradley, and she responded to the symphony of Sophia s and Miss Bradley s with her own salutations. She knew everybody by name, and all they met seemed sincerely happy to see her.

In short order, Isaac was introduced to the grocer, the laundress, the couple who owned and managed the tavern and stables, the apothecary, and the former merchant who was now wealthy and content to live a quiet life in his smart house at the edge of this pleasant and busy village.

A chaise rolled by, vying for space on the high street with the assortment of carts and curricles, but rather than continuing on its way, it rolled to a stop and a face peered out from under the hood.

“Sophy,” a cheerful voice called. “And this must be your visitor.”

Miss Bradley dipped into a curtsey.

“Indeed it is. Mrs Wright, may I present our guest and Henry’s friend, Major Hollimore? Major, Mrs Wright is a valued member of our local society, and one of my aunt’s good friends.”

“You sound so very formal, my dear,” that lady called out.

Her smile held all the warmth Lady Poole lacked.

“Henry and my own son were good friends growing up. Nicholas is up at Cambridge now, but oh, how he was devastated when he heard the news. You will pay us a visit, young man? Come for tea, talk to us about poor Henry. I shall mention it most specifically when next I speak to your aunt, Sophy. And you must come. It is an age since last I heard you play. I quite depend on you coming to bring us music. Ah, my driver is distracted. We must be off.”

And with another cheerful wave from its occupant, the chaise continued down the road.

“Your cousin was well liked. He must be very sorely missed,” Isaac observed as they resumed their walk.

He almost missed Miss Bradley’s soft nod.

“He was. He is. The village lost a lot of its colour when he died. It is only now returning to the lively place I remember. This is the first time, I believe, that Mrs Wright has asked about music. I have missed playing. She, at least, appreciates?—”

She stopped in mid-thought. When she spoke on, it was on quite a different topic.

“Henry was something of an artist, and I know you love music. What are your particular talents? And do not say you have none, for we are, all of us, blessed with some special skill.”

“Ah, my skills. They are formidable, indeed. I have that particular talent of drawing an object in such a manner that nobody can determine exactly what it is supposed to be. And I once tried to serenade a young lady where I grew up, only to have her cat leap at me, yowling and with its claws out!”

In this light-hearted manner, they returned to Roslyn Court, teasing and laughing, until they had taken temporary leave of each other to freshen up before calling for tea, but Isaac remembered that look of sadness on Miss Bradley’s face as she was about to confess how little her aunt cared about anything she did.

For several days, this pattern continued.

Miss Bradley would make plans to show Isaac the house and its grounds, and each day, Lady Poole would come up with some necessary task for her niece to do.

Sometimes this task was a solitary one, such as tallying the household accounts or dealing with items of business for the family; at other times, Isaac was able to accompany her on her errands, which he enjoyed a great deal.

She was easy to talk to. Despite her subservient status as far as her aunt went, her uncle had raised her with all the advantages his own daughters enjoyed.

She was well educated and well informed as to the latest events, and she could discuss history and art with insight and wit.

If she was unable to lead a tour of the property as she had promised, Isaac did not mind.

He was still weaker than he liked, and had an alarmingly thick pile of reports and correspondence to tend to, which had been accumulating whilst he was fighting in Spain.

He sat himself down to begin this dreary task while poor Miss Bradley was at her own duties.

And every afternoon, when she had discharged her many obligations for her family and moved to the music room to play, he slid in silently to listen.

At first, she had simply nodded to acknowledge him when he arrived, but now she waited for him to take his seat before she began to play.

Sometimes she tried new pieces, other times she played ones she knew well, and every now and then, asked what he wanted to hear.

Every note was a jewel. A gift. He found peace when she played that gave him hope.

And each evening, Lady Poole would make some strange comment about Dear Sophia being quite at loose ends all the time and having nothing to keep her usefully employed. Isaac could not quite understand what she was about.

Neither had Isaac yet spoken to Sir Neville about taking his leave. His trunks could be packed in an hour, but he found himself strangely loath to commit to a date of departure, despite the cool manners of his hostess.

He had made excuses. Sir Neville was distracted; Sir Neville was too kind and it would seem like an insult; he was worried about a relapse of whatever it was that had brought him low…

He did not want to admit to himself that he was enjoying the company of Miss Bradley a bit too much.

Still, he did have obligations elsewhere and Lady Poole’s reluctant tolerance for a houseguest would soon run dry.

He resolved to steel himself and speak to Sir Neville first thing tomorrow morning, with an aim to be gone within two or three days.

Conversation at dinner began as it had since his arrival.

The family wished to talk about Henry, and it was the least that Isaac could do to oblige them.

He was, after all, their last link with their deceased son and brother, and if telling stories about Henry’s friends or exploits somehow eased their heavy burden, he would tell them again and again.

By the second course, however, the subject had shifted somewhat, from Henry’s habits in Spain to Isaac’s own, and from there to his thoughts on his recent journey.

“It is a great pleasure to be in England again,” he answered as he accepted the platter of asparagus and forked several spears onto his plate.

“And to be here in May, when everything is so green and lush, is a joy beyond what I could have imagined. I never thought, before, that I would miss this country so much. One takes things for granted: the mists on the hills, or the wildflowers, or the asparagus.” He gestured to his plate.

"Or even the lambs in the meadows. It is so very different from Portugal, and while that country has its own beauty, I do not think I will miss it. I am pleased to be back in England.”

“You do not return there?” Lady Poole raised an eyebrow in question. “Are our fortunes so turned against the Corsican that you are no longer needed?”

Sophia stifled a groan at her aunt’s ill manners, but Major Hollimore answered plainly.

“No, indeed, ma’am. Wellesley—or Wellington, as he is now styling himself—will have to manage without me. I am needed in England; I am selling out.”

“Is that so?” Sir Neville’s fork hovered in the air between his plate and his mouth. “Henry suggested you were a career soldier; that your fortune lay on the battlefield. Was he mistaken?”

“He was not mistaken. That had been my intention in life, and the intention of my late father as well. But the fates had another end in store for me, although I do not relish it. Still, after what— After my time in the Peninsula, I will not long for the army again. No, I have been recalled to these shores by my uncle. His son, my cousin, has always been sickly, and now is unlikely to survive the year. I am unexpectedly cast into the role of heir, little as I want it. I have no experience with such matters, no knowledge of them. My father was the younger son and a soldier, and I became a soldier as well. What do I know of estates and tenants and crops? Worse, what do I know of parliament?”

“Parliament?” Now Sir Neville’s fork traced an intricate pattern in the air as his hands gesticulated at the word.

“Sadly so.” A most morose expression accompanied these words.

“Is your uncle an MP? Is his land a pocket borough?”

“No, indeed. He sits in Lords.” Isaac had hoped not to have to utter these next words. “He is a viscount.”