THE HEIRESS
EPISODE 23
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Isabelle spent the better part of a week trying
not to think about the Countess of Tarlsburgh.
Thankfully, the prince had been otherwise
occu-pied by the king’s council, absent from a
number of daytime and evening events.
Isabelle savoured the blissful reprieve, but his
words still haunted her.
Determined to put the matter to rest, especially
since Leopold still hadn’t written to her, she
ventured down to the palace library one rainy
morning when the rest of the debutantes were
playing card games.
The stuffy old head
librarian, a man with too much grey hair on his
face and not enough on his head, adamantly
refused to help her. When she hara-ssed him
enough, following him throu-ghthe stacks like a
very insistent gnat, he finally informed her that
women were not welcome in the library.
So Isabelle recruited an ally.
The next morning, Sam met her before the
great wooden doors, their hinges squeaking as
he pushed them open. The clouds had parted
overnight, bright yellow sunbeams dancing off
the library’s polished floors. Dust motes
swirled and eddied in the air currents from
their footsteps, Isabelle leading Sam directly to
where she’d found the head librarian the day
before. Sure enough, he was seated at the very
same mahogany desk, with even more piles of
books surrounding him as he stamped and
sorted them.
As they’d planned, Sam spoke first.
“I’d like to learn more about the genealogy of
the noble houses of Germania,” he said, not
bothering with a greeting. When Isabelle had
described the librarian’s less-than-courteous
welcome the day before, Sam had bristled and
grumbled about respect and the utter lack
thereof in the palace.
“Certainly sir, might I…oh, it’s you,” the
librarian said, looking up at Sam before he
noticed Isabelle. “I’m sorry, sir, but women are
not permitted in the library.”
Sam and Isabelle’s arms crossed at nearly the
same time.
“The lady stays with me,” Sam said, leaning
over to loom as imposingly over the other man
as he could. The librarian gulped before
relenting. He muttered and wrung his hands as
he led them throu-ghthe aisles, stopping briefly
to inspect the spines of a few books before
hauling one out.
Dust plumed from the reading
table as he hefted the book onto it, fli-pping
open the worn pages.
“Here is the royal line,” the librarian said,
peering down throu-ghhis spectacles at a
branching family tree. Each entry was
handwritten with dates of birth, death, and
marriage. Isabelle’s eyes instinctively strayed
to the bottom, where she found Leo.
“The rest of the noble lines will be here as
well. May I a-ssist you in finding one in
particular?” the librarian asked Sam.
“No, thank you. That will be all,” Isabelle said,
already reaching to turn the page. The librarian
huffed and blustered until Sam folded his arms
once again, curtailing the librarian’s protests
and sending him scurrying away.
“Let’s see if there’s any truth to this,” Isabelle
said, tugging out a chair. Sam took the one
beside her, the book large enough that the pair
of them could each scrutinize a page.
“What’s the name again?” Sam asked, fli-pping
a page before Isabelle peeled it back again to
double check the family tree she had been
inspecting.
“Tarlsburgh. Or at least, that’s the land. I
haven’t any idea if we’ll even find her here. For
all I know, she may not be a real person,”
Isabelle said.
They fli-pped and inspected pages in silence
until Sam made a hesitant noise in his throat.
“The Countess of Tarlsburgh?” he asked.
Isabelle nearly climbed over him in her haste
to examine the page he’d found.
“What does it say?” she demanded, running her
eyes along the slender lines of the family tree.
“Here, at the bottom,” Sam said, pointing to
where the tree abruptly ended in a single entry.
“Julia Andover, ninth Countess von Tarlsburgh.”
Isabelle’s world narrowed to the elegant,
handwritten name on the yellowing page before
her. Julia Andover, Countess of Tarlsburgh,
was the exact same age as Leopold, five years
older than Isabelle. Unlike the other entries on
the tree before her, there was no entry about a
marriage, nor did she have any siblings. Her
tree was also far older than most, meaning her
family was probably quite powerful thanks to
their longstanding title.
“She’s orphaned,” Sam pointed out. Isabelle’s
eyes flic-ked up to the names of her parents,
both of them featuring the same year of death,
thirteen years prior.
“Bloody hell,” Isabelle muttered, pushing the
book away so she could bury her head in her
hands.
Her world was crumbling around her.
Everything she’d thought she’d known had
changed. Who was Julia Andover? Who was
she to Leopold? Why did Graham know about
her? His story suddenly made too much sense,
especially if this rotten Julia Andover had been
orphaned and then subsequently sent to court
to be raised according to her station. She was
the same age as Leopold and if she’d been in
Rhysalia, at the Germanian royal court, then he
had probably gotten to know her…
Leopold’s heart has belonged to the Countess
of Tarlsburgh ever since they were children…
“I think that’s enough books for one day,” Sam
said finally, patting Isabelle on the shoulder as
his chair legs scra-pe d against the floor. “Come
along, time to get up.”
“He wasn’t lying,” Isabelle said throu-ghher
hands, gritting her teeth to keep the wail of
frustration from escaping her li-ps.
“You don’t know that,” Sam said, his hand a
rea-ssuring weight on her shoulder. “For all we
know, she’s as homely as a boot and Prince
Graham planted this idea to torment you.
Frankly, I wouldn’t consider that beyond him.”
“Or she could be as beautiful as Cora and just
as lovesick with Leopold as he might be with
her,” Isabelle said.
Her shoulders shook as she
inhaled and Sam sighed, settling back into his
chair.
“You can’t allow him inside your head so
easily, Izzie,” he said, pulling her hands from
her face. “You’re the most intelligent woman
here, if you can’t outwit him then we’re all
doomed.”
“But Sam…” Isabelle started, her eyes welling
with tears. She didn’t know what to say. What
if it hadn’t been just another of Graham’s
taunts? What if there was really something
brewing with this Julia Andover wench? What if
she was the reason Leopold hadn’t written to
her?
Before the tears fell, Sam’s big hands landed
on her shoulders again, giving them a gentle
shake.
“Easy, la-ss,” he said.
“You should never allow
them to see you cry.”
“You’re not one of them,” Isabelle said, blinking
as a tear left a hot trail down her cheek.
“Thank the heavens for that,” he said, reaching
into his pocket to offer her a handkerchief.
“But as I recall, we still have a ball tonight. I
daresay a tear-stained face and red eyes would
make poor accessories.”
“What do you know of accessories,” Isabelle
asked, sniffling as she dabbed at her eyes.
Sam chuckled.
“Enough to know that showing any form of
weakness is expo-sing a chink in your armour,”
he said, helping Isabelle to stand. “If anything
good comes of this, at least you’re armed with
knowledge now. Best to use it to your
advantage rather than allow it to sit and rot in
your head.”
They left the book on the table, Julia Andover’s
name seared into Isabelle’s mind.
~*~
Thanks to Sam’s intervention, Isabelle’s face
was free of any tears and their unsightly
aftermath for the ball that evening. She wore a
turquoise dress embellished with gold
embroidery and a ne-ckline frothed with lace,
arriving arm-in-arm with Violet.
It was a
change from her usual, rather plain attire,
mostly because she’d taken Sam’s words to
heart.
She could let the knowledge about Julia
Andover destroy her, festering in her mind to
fill it with doubt and pain, or she could choose
to use it as a weapon. It was high time she
start making use of her time in the Pretanian
court to gather an arsenal of secrets and allies,
rather than waste her time away, pining after
her betrothed. Thankfully, a ball was a
splendid place to start employing her new
approach.
A minor hindrance in Isabelle’s plan was that
Cora hadn’t spoken to her since the picnic,
fleeing back to Henrietta’s side. The pair of
them, once again, reigned over the debutantes,
ensuring that Isabelle remained ostracized from
the group. Clearly the news about Isabelle and
Graham’s kis-s had opened a chasm that no
amount of friendship could bridge. Isabelle
refused to allow her exclusion to impede her,
choosing instead to sparkle and dazzle as any
proper debutante would at a ball.
She and Violet milled around near the
refreshment table as Isabelle inspected the
a-ssembled guests for anyone with secrets
worthy of pursuit. The royal family hadn’t
arrived yet, but the music had already started.
Much to Violet’s delight, Byron Fletcher
sp-otted her from the top of the entrance hall
stairs, cutting across the entire ballroom to
ask for her first dance. Isabelle encouraged her
friend to go, despite Violet’s blus-hes, and
made a mental note to press Byron about
Violet later.
Later came soon enough, Byron returning Violet
to Isabelle’s side after their dance, acting like
quite the proper gentleman. Isabelle seized the
opportunity, sighing wistfully about her lack of
partners. As expected, Violet fell for the ruse.
“Oh, but you must dance with Isabelle,” she
said, turning beseeching eyes to Byron.
His
pleasant expression soured for the ba-rest of
moments before he smiled again, bowing.
“Your wish is my command, Violet,” he said,
taking her hand to kis-s it in farewell. Isabelle
watched the spectacle unfold with a for-ced
smile of her own, the pair of them leaving her
besotted friend at the edge of the dance floor.
Once Byron had led her out among the other
dancers, Isabelle kept her smile in place as
she turned to face the shipping heir.
“Why are you pursuing Violet?” she asked, still
outwardly pleasant despite the ice in her voice.
To her surprise, Byron’s smile remained in
place as well.
“Because I find myself growing fond of her,” he
said automatically.
His eyes spoke differently,
however, one of his eyelids twitching with a
repressed wince.
“The real reason please, Mr. Fletcher,” Isabelle
pressed. “For I am not foolish enough to
believe you.”
The mask of polite amusement fell from his
face as he regarded her. Finally, he chuckled.
“Yes, they’d warned me that you were shrewd,”
he said, running a calculating look over her. “I
am pursuing Violet because I need a wife who
is close to the queen. Being friendly with the
royal family is good for business, you see.”
Isabelle frowned as they spun.
“I hadn’t realized you were planning an
expansion to Germania,” she said. His grin
wide-ned.
“I am not,” he replied. Isabelle blinked, still
frowning.
“Then I fear your sources must have
misinformed you, because Prince Leopold of
Germania is the man whose ring graces my
finger.”
“No, I’m quite certain that my sources are
correct. You are not going to be the queen of
Germania, you are going to be the queen of
Pretania,” he said, relishing the look of shock
on her face.
“I most certainly am not,” Isabelle huffed. “And
I will ask you to please ab-ort this cruel pursuit
of my friend before-”
“You told me you weren’t foolish, but
apparently you are,” Byron said, speaking over
her. “For even a fool can see that Prince
Graham wants you. And even a fool knows that
what Prince Graham wants, he gets.”
They exchanged glares before Isabelle for-ced
herself to look elsewhere. This was
preposterous. Isabelle was not some prized
ribbon to be pinned to the prince’s che-st like
the many medals he’d already accrued. She
was Leopold’s betrothed, no matter what
Byron’s “sources” said.
“If that is your reason, then your pursuit of
Violet is cruel and unnecessary,” Isabelle said
finally, as their dane drew to a close.
“I disagree,” Byron replied. “For you are nothing
if not loyal to your friends, Miss de Haviland.”
“I am,” she agreed. “Though I would caution
you that I also have a long memory. If you
wrong my friend, I will destroy you.”
Byron laughed, bowing to her as the music
ended.
“A woman, destroy me? Perhaps you are a fool
after all. Good evening, Miss de Haviland,” he
said, his eyes sparkling with malice as he
turned on his heel. Isabelle watched him go,
hating the way Violet’s face lit up as he sought
her out once again.
She didn’t want to hurt her friend, but someone
had to warn Violet before Byron broke her
heart. She hoped that Violet would believe her
and, eventually, that her friend would be able to
forgive her for the cruel awakening she’d be
for-ced to deliver.
Isabelle was caught standing in the middle of
the dance floor when the royal fanfare
sounded. Inwardly groa-ning, she obediently
turned towards the thrones and curtseyed,
cursing her foul luck.
She’d intended to remain
well out of the prince’s view until he found
himself another partner for the first dance, but
now her plan had been foiled. As the king and
queen strode out from the doors to the old
palace, the prince appeared on their heels.
To be continued….