THE HEIRESS
EPISODE 03
From U.S Bah ❤ ✌?
Isabelle’s trunks were packed the next day,
though she was not at all inclined to leave
earlier than she needed to. Intent on proving to
the royals that she was not a servant to be
summoned at their will, she incessantly
pestered her father to join her on a tour of
their duchy until he finally relented and agreed.
“But so help me, if you don’t arrive in
Highcastle in time for the inaugural ball, I’ll
send you to a convent instead of Germania,”
he’s threatened, when he’d finally taken a seat
after another of their shouting matches.
Isabelle grinned.
“Perhaps if I miss the first ball, those
meddlesome royals will simply send me back
home, where I belong,” she said.
Despite his grumbling, her father accompanied
her eagerly.
Clad in his traditional family garb of tartan and
ceremonial broadsword, the Duke of Kentshire
accompanied his daughter to Highcastle.
She
wore a sash of family tartan as well, handing
out handkerchiefs emblazoned with the family
sigil in each village they pa-ssed. It was her
father’s idea to wrap each of them around a
pence – enough money to buy a sweet or cool
drink on the hot day they rode throu-ghthe
surrounding villages. The pair of them
dismounted in each village to greet their
people, the duke offering handshakes while his
daughter handed out the handkerchiefs.
Wherever they pa-ssed, there were cheers,
Isabelle’s carriage trundling and jingling along
behind them, laden with her multitude of
trunks.
As they rode throu-gh, Isabelle realized that her
father had intended to accompany her from the
start, telling her things about each village as
they approached. He’d wanted to show her the
people she was helping, hopefully so that she
would behave herself, but most likely so that
she would see who stood to lose if she irked
the king. His plan worked; her determination to
be an utter nuisance melted away as she
looked into the faces of the people who would
grow hollow-cheeked and ki-ss ed the children
whose bellies would growl throu-ghthe cold
winter if she misbehaved.
It was probably the greatest motivator of any,
but it did nothing to warm her feelings towards
the king. She couldn’t help but wonder what
kind of brutal man would starve his subjects if
only to spite a wayward duke.
They arrived in Highcastle two days later,
weary but punctual, a day early for the
inaugural ball the next evening. Eager to leave
the capitol he so despised, Isabelle’s father
ki-ss ed her goodbye in the palace carriageway,
departing with his retinue before he could be
dragged into a council meeting or invited to
stay and enjoy the royals’ hospitality.
He didn’t
have to tell his daughter that he’d rather camp
by the roadside, wrapped in his tartan, than
spend a night in Highcastle Palace, and she
didn’t try to stop him.
Unluckily for her, however, the maid that had
greeted her informed her that she was
expected that evening for dinner with the
queen. Fatigued and grimy from travelling,
Isabelle had been hoping to soak in a bath
before tumbling into bed, but those hopes were
dashed when she reached her debutante suite.
Awaiting her on the writing desk was a prim,
formal letter in sharp, angular cursive with
instructions that she would be attending that
night’s dinner in formal attire, at the invitation
of the queen.
“You could always feign illness,” Lissa
suggested, her maid just as exhausted from
travelling as Isabelle was. Stifling a yawn, the
heiress shook her head.
“I’ll save feigning sick for when I truly can’t
stand it any longer,” she said, helping her maid
sift throu-ghher trunks for something suitable
to wear, “Which will probably be sooner rather
than later.
Here, I’ll wear this one.”
Lissa’s li-ps pressed into a line, but she didn’t
object to the bright crimson gown Isabelle had
chosen. It was flamboyant enough to ensure
that she’d make a spectacular entrance, which
was exactly what she intended to do if the
queen thought she could order her around
when all she wanted to do was sleep. It also
paired well with her tartan sash, which she
donned despite the protest Lissa was unable
to stifle.
Plaid family tartans were a Germanian tradition,
leftover from her house’s old ways and very
much frowned upon by the Pretanian royals.
The de Haviland line had a de-eper green and red
tartan, shot throu-ghwith white, yellow and navy
blue. To Isabelle, wearing the sash was a
blatant form of rebellion that paled only in
comparison to her ring.
The diamond still
glittered on her finger, where she intended to
keep it for the duration of her stay.
Her final rebellion against the queen’s orders
took the form of tardiness. Choosing to wait in
her suite while the rest of the noisy debutantes
made their way down to dinner, Isabelle
explored the confines of the room, wondering
why there were three empty beds in the
bedchamber across from hers. When the
clock’s arms had slid past the quarter hour,
she decided that it was time to make her
entrance.
The maid that appeared when she rang the
call-bell was unable to hide her surprise,
goggling at Isabelle’s dress until the debutante
cleared her throat, tapping her foot impatiently.
The maid shot an incredulous look at Lissa,
who simply ignored her as she tidied up the
room.
As they walked, Isabelle’s eyes swept over the
palace, noting with growing distaste all the
opulent touches in the debutante hallway
alone. Before each window stood a vase
overflowing with rare flowers, the scent of them
almost cloying in the summer heat. The
carpeting was plush beneath her sli-ppers and
the walls were so covered with hangings that
the hallway was as silent as a crypt.
The dining room she was shown to was no
different, stuffed to brimming with chintzy
chairs and exorbitantly gilded sideboards.
Isabelle was so busy running her critical gaze
over the room that it was only when the
conversation lulled into silence that she
realized the room was staring back.
“Miss de Haviland, how kind of you to grace
us with your presence.”
Whether it was the quip in her tone, or the
sing-songy way the queen had trilled her
barbed greeting, something sparked Isabelle’s
instant hatred of the queen of Pretania.
Perched atop a dais in a dress so adorned
with jewels it was a wonder she could walk in
it, the queen watched her with rheumy, blue
eyes. She was older than Isabelle had
expected and her pallor was not improved by
the not-so-subtle touches of rouge on her
cheeks.
A bevy of older ladies surrounded her,
each of them wearing the same pinched scowl
as the queen.
“Good evening, your Majesty,” was all Isabelle
said, as she dipped her curtsey, doing her best
to ignore the queen’s taunt. The rest of the
debutantes were watching her with scandalized
stares, running cruel eyes over her attire as
they whispered.
She had expected as much,
especially since her reputation likely preceded
her. If she’d floated in dressed in a potato
sack, she’d still be the likely target for the
cruel stares and whispered insults thanks to
her name and future title.
In the sea of young women, however, Isabelle
did notice a pair of friendly faces.
Seated together at a table near the corner of
the room were Violet Harwood and Cora
Neasmith, a pair of her cla-ssmates from Saint
Mary’s. To her credit, Violet’s cheeks had
flushed with plea-sure as she grinned in
greeting, but beside her Cora was scowling.
Isabelle groa-ned inwardly as she dreaded the
tongue-lashing her old friend was sure to
unleash as soon as they were alone.
For the five months leading up to their
graduation, Cora hadn’t stopped talking about
her debutante season. She’d rambled on and
on about Highcastle Palace, about Prince
Graham and Queen Leonora, about the summer
she would spend waltzing with eligible
bachelors during her quest for a crown.
Isabelle had listened, genuinely excited for her
friend all while contentedly twirling her brand
new engagement ring around her fourth finger.
Violet, the quiet one of the trio, had also been
unable to contain her excitement, though her
aspirations for a husband were not so lofty as
Cora’s. Isabelle had wished the pair of them
well at their graduation, un-der the impression
that their next meeting would be for her
wedding to Leopold.
But fate had other plans and Cora was clearly
just as displeased about Isabelle’s arrival at
the palace as Isabelle herself.
“Does Kentshire keep time as they do here in
Highcastle?”
The question in that too-high voice to-re
Isabelle’s gaze away from her friends.
“Of course, your Majesty,” she said, bracing
herself for what would follow. The queen was
not daft, so she knew very well that they kept
time in Kentshire as they did everywhere in the
civilized world. The question was no more
than an opening for a fresh insult that Isabelle
was in no mood to face.
“Then there must be some explanation for your
tardiness, I’m sure,” the queen continued,
arching a heavily penciled-in eyebrow. Isabelle
fought from scowling, too exhausted and too
hungry to play along with the queen’s coy little
game.
“I fear I was not anticipating such a grand
event mere hours after my arrival,” Isabelle
said, lifting her left hand to slowly tuck a piece
of hair behind her ear. She held the queen’s
gaze, satisfied when the queen’s li-p curled as
she noticed the diamond ring.
“That much is clear,” the queen continued, the
sing-song cadence gone from her voice, “For I
shall have you know that tartan, in all its
barbaric forms, is strictly forbidden within the
walls of Highcastle.”
Isabelle for-ced a practiced look of innocence
onto her face even as her temper heated.
Barbaric? What was barbaric was the way this
queen spent money on flowers and perfumes
and gowns to flounce around her palace when
Isabelle’s people were being taxed into oblivion
to pay for all of it.
“I thought only to pay homage to my people
and kin,” Isabelle said, dropping her gaze to
her sash, “I hadn’t realized my family’s prized
pattern was so offensive.”
“Come here, dear,” the queen said, nothing
friendly in her tone.
The debutantes’ whispers mounted around her
as Isabelle crossed the room with a weary
sigh. She shouldn’t have sa-ssed the queen
because the consequences would likely mean
a missed dinner, but she couldn’t hold her
tongue when her family’s traditions were
insulted.
She studied the queen as she approached,
thinking back to her father’s advisor and his
warnings about her.
“Queen Leonora is a viper, Isabelle. She may
not look like much, but she judges swiftly and
harshly,” Marcus Macaulay, Kentshire’s resident
priest and family advisor, had warned. “You’d
do well to stay among her favourites if you
want your stay to be a pleasant one.”
Well, so much for that.
Up close, the monarch’s skin was even more
papery and pale, the rouge doing nothing but
accentuating her age. Her perfume hung
around her in a heavy cloud of rosewater, so
pungent Isabelle nearly sneezed. She had
blonde hair so light it was almost silver and
her complexion was washed out by the pale
peach satin of her opulent gown.
“If you ever appear in my presence clad as you
are tonight, I will send you back to that
backwater duchy you crawled out of,” the
queen hissed, leaning down with a rustle of
skirts to stare Isabelle square in the eye, “Is
that quite un-derstood?”
“Of course, your Majesty,” Isabelle replied,
taking a mental note to add a tartan sash to
each and every one of her dresses. The sooner
she was sent home, the better.
“You shall be excused from dinner for your
impertinence,” the queen continued, “And you
will meet me before breakfast tomorrow, in my
drawing room.”
“As you wish,” Isabelle said, dipping a curtsey.
When the queen turned her attention back to
the gaggle of old hens that served as her
ladies-in-waiting, Isabelle turned on her heel
and left, not bothering to stifle her yawn.
The room tittered around her, but she didn’t
much care. She threw a parting glance towards
Cora and Violet, but only Violet was watching
her now, wide-eyed. Unsurprisingly, Cora was
whispering with the debutante seated beside
her, a smug little smile on her face. Of course
she’d be thrilled that Isabelle had been asked
to leave, especially now that she likely
considered Isabelle to be competition.
Isabelle would deal with her tomorrow, too
tired to think about handling her two-faced
friend that evening. It wasn’t the first time Cora
had soured towards her and it wouldn’t be the
last, but somehow their friendship always
weathered the storm.
“…dressed like a barbarian…”
The whisper came from one of the debutantes
seated near the door, her honey-brown eyes on
Isabelle as she spoke. Isabelle fixed her with
an arched eyebrow, staring her down until the
other girl looked away. They could say what
they wanted about her, for she had no
reputation to maintain in Highcastle, but she
wouldn’t let them intimidate her.
Not when she’d be the one with the last laugh,
seated atop the Germanian throne next to the
man she loved.
To be continued….