THE HEIRESS
EPISODE 13
*
From U.S Bah ❤ ✌?
Isabelle relished the way Alicia’s eyes nearly
popped out of her head when she returned to
her suite in time to prepare for the ballet. It
was only compounded by the fact that the
lady-in-waiting had, for some reason, dressed
herself in ball finery and opera gloves.
“Have you also been invited to the ballet?”
Isabelle asked, running an eye over Alicia’s
dress as she crossed to her own room. It was
crimson and gaudy, cut so low that it didn’t
leave much to the imagination. Alicia’s hair
had been heat-pressed into ringlets, piled atop
her head with a pair of ru-by combs to match
the dress. Those same curls were quivering
now as Alicia leaped to her feet. Behind her,
Laura and Marjorie exchanged horrified looks.
“You’re supposed to be sick,” Alicia snapped.
“As your lady-in-waiting, it falls to me to take
your place.”
“How fortunate for Laura and Marjorie, then,
that you’ll be here to keep them company,”
Isabelle said, not bothering to wipe the smile
from her face.
She closed the door in the fuming lady-in-
waiting’s face, ringing for Lissa as she tried to
contain her giggles. When her ladies’ maid
arrived, Isabelle urged her to go and witness
the spectacle for herself, the pair of them
doubling over with laughter when Lissa
returned. Apparently Alicia had torn out her hair
combs in a rage, but one of them had snagged
in a burnt curl of hair.
Laura and Marjorie were
desperately attempting to tease it free while
Alica barked orders, her face the same colour
as her dress.
Isabelle’s preparation was decidedly less
extravagant. She chose a watered silk dress of
silvery blue, tying her hair up into a chignon.
She debated with Lissa about the need for
opera gloves, Isabelle refusing to remove her
ring while Lissa insisted that it would be
improper for her to leave without gloves. In the
end, Isabelle slid her engagement ring onto a
chain, ensuring that Leopold’s diamond hung
prominently in the curve between her
collarbones as she snatched up her gloves and
made her way to the entrance hall.
The rest of the debutantes were already
outside, enjoying the fragrant summer night air,
the stars winking to life in the clear sky above
them. Casting her eyes around the a-ssembled
men and women, Isabelle sp-otted Sam
handing Violet into a carriage.
She spared little
more than a cursory look around for Byron
Fletcher before gathering her skirts and
heading towards Violet’s carriage. If Byron
couldn’t be bothered to find her, Isabelle would
stuff herself in with Sam and Violet.
“Any room for a third?” Isabelle asked as she
approached them. Violet’s face lit up as she
leaned her head out of the carriage to see who
had spoken.
“Of course! Are you feeling better?” she asked,
shooing Sam out so he could help Isabelle in.
“It seems a day of rest did me some good,”
Isabelle said, reaching for Sam’s hand, only for
him to pull it away and dip a bow.
“Your Highness,” he said, looking over
Isabelle’s shoulder. She didn’t bother to hide
her scowl as she turned and curtseyed.
“Did Byron forget to come and collect you?”
Prince Graham asked, Cora already on his arm.
She bristled as Graham offered Isabelle his
other elbow, her back going rigid in her jade
silk gown.
“It seems he has,” Isabelle said, ignoring his
arm. “Perhaps I’ll find him at the theatre.”
She turned back to Sam, whose ruddy
eyebrows had nearly disappeared into his
hairline.
“Well you don’t want to be riding in this
carriage, not when you have the honour of
riding in mine,” Prince Graham said. Isabelle
gritted her teeth.
“How wonderful,” she said.
When she turned
back around, his elbow was still outstretched,
waiting for her. Cora looked as if she’d su-ck ed
on a lemon.
With a sigh, Isabelle resigned herself to riding
in Prince Graham’s carriage, shooting a look
over her shoulder at Sam and Violet as the
prince led her away. He was enjoying having
her and Cora on his arm far too much, jovially
conversing with the pair of them as he led
them towards the grandest carriage at the head
of the queue.
Standing beside it looking just
as surly as he had at dinner was Byron
Fletcher, clearly not amused that the prince
had arrived with Isabelle on his arm.
“Ah, Byron. How kind of you to grace us with
your presence,” he said, handing both Cora and
Isabelle into the carriage.
“It seems Miss de
Haviland was attempting to escape our
esteemed company.”
Isabelle fixed the prince with a glare, but he
had leaned close to say something low to
Byron.
“You didn’t have to take his elbow, you know,”
Cora said, folding her arms as the men
exchanged words outside.
“A simple ‘thank you for the invitation, Isabelle’
would have sufficed,” Isabelle said, making
quite the show of arranging her skirts. Cora
opened her mouth to retort, only to clamp her
teeth shut into a too-large smile as Graham
and Byron climbed in.
“We certainly are two of the luckiest gentleman
in Highcastle tonight, wouldn’t you say, Byron?”
Prince Graham asked, settling in next to Cora
and across from Isabelle.
“Yes, your Highness,” Byron replied, sounding
just as unenthusiastic about the evening as
Isabelle felt. Looking out the window as the
carriage lurched forward, she tried to ignore the
smug grin on Graham’s face as he stared at
her.
~*~
Despite being the first carriage to leave, they
were the last to arrive thanks to the circuitous
route their carriage followed throu-ghthe city.
The prince a-ssured Isabelle, even though she
most certainly hadn’t asked, that it was to
ensure that they made an appropriate entrance.
In fact, he’d spent the majority of the voyage
pointing out the sights of the city, like the
Royal Conservatory, Highcastle’s university,
which was lit up with lanterns hanging from the
old oak trees on its gated grounds. Isabelle
had remained mute, un-der the distinct
impression that the nighttime tour of the
capitol was more for her benefit than anyone
else’s, as both Cora and Byron had grown up
there.
When they had finally alighted, Isabelle had
taken Byron’s arm with about as much
enthusiasm as he had offered it. The pair of
them followed Cora and the prince, who had
fallen in behind the king and queen. The entire
entrance hall had dropped into reverences and
Isabelle felt her stomach turn at the way her
friend’s chin had tilted into the air, mimicking
the queen’s snobbish posture. Prince Graham
marched onward, much like his father, paying
little heed to the nobles bowing before him.
Byron was positively glowering, clearly annoyed
that Prince Graham was escorting his first
choice of debutante.
“This theatre is remarkable,” Isabelle said,
breaking the silence between them as they
were shown to a pair of seats at the back of
the royal box. It was outfitted with plush red
velvet chairs and a pair of butlers already
pa-ssing out refreshments.
“Hmph,” was Byron’s noncommittal reply.
When he turned his attention elsewhere,
Isabelle focused instead on the rest of the
theatre as the box’s curtains were lifted, the
royal fanfare echoing from the orche-stra pit.
The entire parterre rose in a shuffle of skirts
and whispers, turning their attention to where
the king stood, surveying the room, at the front
of the box. He gazed out over them, holding
their attention for longer than was necessary
before he sat, the rest of the box and the
theatre following suit. Once again, Isabelle felt
that hot wave of resentment for the king roll
over her.
Here he was, again, abusing his power
because he could. He could have simply taken
his seat and allowed the ballet to commence,
but instead he had held the entire theatre in his
thrall, on their feet until he allowed them to sit.
Thankfully, the curtain rose, a dozen daintily-
dressed ballerinas with their arms in the air,
immobile, on the gleaming stage. Isabelle’s
wrathful thoughts about the king were silenced
when the music began and the ballerinas, as
one, slid into graceful motion.
She had been to the ballet once before as a
child, in this very same theatre in Highcastle.
Her mother had been fond of the arts and had
very much disliked the frigid winters in
Kentshire, so she’d convinced her husband to
buy her a winter home in Highcastle. Some of
Isabelle’s earliest memories were of that three-
sto-rey townhouse, its narrow sitting room lit by
a crackling fire and the warm scent of spices
and evergreens hanging in the air as she
waited up for her mother to return from the
theatre. She’d only spent a few winters there,
though, before her mother fell ill. After she
pa-ssed, her father had sold the house and
they’d never spoken of those magical
Highcastle winters again.
But seeing the dancers on stage, twirling and
gliding so gracefully it seemed almost
effortless, all those old memories came
rushing back. She remembered now how her
first visit had been during the holidays, when
the theatre had been decorated with evergreen
boughs and sprigs of holly. She couldn’t forget
how the dancers on stage had kept her so
raptly attentive that she hadn’t wanted to go to
sleep when they’d returned home, for fear that
she’d wake to find it all had been a dream. She
didn’t recall which ballet she’d watched, but
she did remember that neither of her parents
could stop her from twirling and leaping down
the hallways at home for weeks afterward.
They were the memories of before; before her
mother’s death, before Kentshire’s financial
woes, before she had to worry about courtship
and marriage and politics. They were the few
souvenirs she had left of the innocence of
youth, when dancing down the halls was
permitted and dreaming was encouraged, not
frowned upon.
She hadn’t realized that tears had welled in her
eyes until the audience erupted in applause as
the curtain crashed closed for the intermission.
Hastily blinking them away as the butlers lit
the box with candles, Isabelle dragged herself
back to the present, pretending to fuss with
her skirts to give herself a moment to regain
her composure. Byron had risen without so
much as a word to her before he stalked from
the box, brushing past where Cora had
cornered the prince between his seat and the
door.
Her friend had seized yet another opportunity
to attempt to charm the prince and Isabelle
had absolutely no interest in interrupting, not
with the looks Cora kept darting her way.
Following Byron if only so she could find Sam
and Violet for some company during the
intermission, Isabelle halted in her tracks as
the prince outstretched his arm to block her
path.
“For your sniffles,” he said, a monogrammed
handkerchief in his hand. Mortified that he had
perhaps noticed her tears, Isabelle snatched it
up and flounced away, out of the box, refusing
to look at him.
To be continued…..