To England, With Love

Chapter X: Out of the Frying Pan

The Chatsworth House ~ October 1818

"Is everything to your liking, my Lady?" Arabella flounced and fluttered behind her mistress with alacrity, eager to serve, eager to satisfy; yet Caroline wanted none of it. She smiled hollowly and regarded, once again the Duchess' favourite barouche being cantered out the gates of her prison with none but her accomplice in tow through the bay window of her chambers.

"Yes. Very good, Arabella. Leave me." Caroline had naught even regarded her countenance. She gently lowered into the chair and propped her chin in the palm of her hand when she heard Arabella scurry, bad posture; and felt the whispered impetus of her Mother's strike between her blades before she sat up ramrod straight again.

It was quite sad, truly. That she was to bear the brunt of suffering for their folly even to this very day. That the perfect Bella Wilton could parry and prance about town with the Duchess Dowager, while she was locked in an insufferable, ivory tower. That her brother and mother had this much control over her movements and reservations, when at fifteen, she could very much marry into power and raise robust households. What'er did she do to deserve this untoward partisanship?

This, all and after, was naught the first time she had let herself into Lennox's study and it would naught be th'last, thank you very much. Flashes of her controlling sire juxtaposed to her brother's visceral reaction annoyed her yet to this day. They were morosely one in the same to her. She had no freedom, she had no fun. Yet, she was beguiling, mighty in her own right and she deserved respect, damn it!

Caroline leapt from her chair with vigour in her starveling and fire in her spine. Fie her brother to the fiery pits of hell! Fie her mother to the torment of Purgatory and fie her father though damn it he was dead already. She would show them all what happens when one attempts to holdfast on Caroline St. Jules if it was the last thing she did.

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London: The St. Maur Residency ~ October 1818

"My dearest Duchess Bess, I simply do naught know what to do." Lady Emelia St. Maur said shakily while setting down the teacup in its corresponding plate, her visage as distressed as a damsel, her appearance as ethereal as an angel. "His Grace clearly despises me, abhors me. And we have naught even wedded."

Duchess Bess smiled in reassurance and tilted her head to the side in concern, "Oh dear, do naught think so lowly of yourself. My son loves you. If he did naught, he surely wouldn't have proposed." She shook her head as if remembering some distant memory. "He just takes after his father's countenance is all. Give him a chance, an heir. And he will be yours for the taking."

Bella was awfully amused at the remark as she rose from the harp that Lady St. Maur's butler angled and dusted upon request. The Duke of Devonshire was many things, most likely not all interesting, but surely never one to be available for any taking of any kind. Much less by the well-bred Lady St. Maur who seemingly could naught hold the Duke's attention long enough to save her name and her house.

Bella's eyes glanced out the large window of the lady's townhouse, which was trimmed elegantly with curtains sewn and hemmed with goldthread. It was charming weather both outside and in the morning room; the tapestry on the wall fluttered delicately in the summer breeze, patterned lapis lazuli walls casted the glow of the sun streaming through the windowpanes subtly, and the thick smell of floral foliage was just as delightful as it's winking colour.

The Duchess brought her along for a requested afternoon call, which: just as Bella suspected, was a ton-like cipher for gossipmongering and gentleman-discussing. With less than ten minutes to spare save the visit be deemed inappropriate, the Lady St. Maur arched her pale neck, regarded Bella daintily and said, "Her Grace is convinced that you are a prodigy of harp-play. Wherever could you learn such genteel trade?"