THE HEIRESS
EPISODE 32
From U.S Bah ❤ ✌?
Isabelle realized halfway throu-ghthe morning
salon that the only reason she’d rolled out of
bed that morning was in anticipation of the ball
that night.
As much as the promise of Alicia’s
removal from her suite was a relief, some
unknown thing had set her nerves to dancing.
Even after Alicia and her trunks had been
hauled from the room,
there was still a knot
coiled so ti-ghtly within Isabelle’s stomach that
it was all she could do to keep herself from
pacing. As it was, she hadn’t been able to
keep her knee from jiggling as she watched
the painfully slow progress of the arms of the
grandfather clock in the corner.
She’d a-ssumed
it was the same nervous energy she’d always
felt when she realized how caged and alone
she was in the palace, but when her eyes kept
wandering to the clock, however, she realized it
was because she was counting down the
hours.
Even with that realization, Isabelle adamantly
refused to acknowledge the meddlesome,
troublesome little voice at the back of her
head that told her it was because she’d see the
prince again.
When the hour finally came to prepare for the
ball, she was one of the first to leave the
queen’s salon, ignoring the whispers that now
seemed to follow her wherever she went. For
the first time since she’d arrived, she
scrutinized Lissa’s work on her hair carefully,
ensuring that not a single curl was out of
place. Dressed in her favourite silvery blue
dress, she donned her mother’s sapphire
ne-cklace, refusing to think about her sudden
urge to outshine the other debutantes.
Thanks to her impatience, Isabelle was ready
far too quickly, biding her time in her suite.
She offered Lissa’s help to Laura and Marjorie,
the pair of them in a tizzy without Alicia’s firm
guidance.
The three of them slowly warmed to
each other, the twins all too eager for Lissa’s
help in selecting their dresses and jewels.
Isabelle for-ced herself to wait for her pair of
ladies-in-waiting if only so she wouldn’t be the
first debutante in the ballroom.
Once they were finally ready, it was all Isabelle
could do to keep from running to the ballroom.
She wouldn’t acknowledge that it was because
she wanted the prince’s first dance, refusing to
think about how she’d react if she arrived to
find him already waltzing with someone else.
To her great relief, the thrones stood empty at
the other end of the room, the royal family still
having not yet arrived.
Releasing Laura and Marjorie to enjoy
themselves, Isabelle circled the ballroom, once
again ignoring the whispers that followed her.
She located Cora and Violet, the pair of them
chatting with a few of the other debutantes
near the entrance hall stairs. Violet’s eyes kept
straying towards the entrance hall while Cora
monopolized the conversation,
her face
glowing as she recounted some sort of story.
Staying well away from them, Isabelle searched
the room for Sam, but the tall redhead was
nowhere to be found.
She was circling the banquet table when a
butler tou-ched her elbow, clearing his throat.
“Isabelle de Haviland?” he asked.
“Yes?” she replied, all too aware of the
listening ears that had perked up in the
crowded corner of the ballroom.
“The royal family has requested your presence,”
the butler said, bowing as he gestured for her
to precede him. “If you would follow me,
please.”
Henrietta Barclay, lingering just within earshot
let out a snigger as Isabelle pa-ssed, the butler
showing her into the lower hallway that ran
parallel to the ballroom. She followed him as
he led her into the old palace, pausing to
knock at a set of heavy wooden doors. A pair
of footmen waited to either side, pulling them
open when some called “enter” from the other
side.
Isabelle took a hesitant step into an ornate,
marble-floored room.
Tapestries lined the
walls, with statues tucked into the alcoves
between them. The room was dimly lit by a
series of standing candelabras, outlining some
sort of aisle from the door to the raised dais
across the room. Their light pooled on the
floor, doing nothing to chase the shadows
from the corners. Across from her, upon the
dais, were a second set of thrones, these far
more opulent than those in the ballroom.
The king and queen sat before her, each of
them dressed in their ball finery. Behind them,
the prince stood immobile, a warning in his
eyes.
Undeterred by the stone-faced king and his
smug wife, Isabelle fought to keep the
unpleasant roiling in her stomach from rooting
her in place. Graham’s eyes followed her as
she crossed the room until she sank into a
curtsey before the royal family. Rising from her
reverence, Isabelle looked to him for some sort
of hint as to what was happening, but his face
remained the impa-ssive as he gave her the
slightest shake of his head.
“We’ve had a letter from Kentshire,” the king
started. Isabelle’s stomach swooped as she
swallowed, her eyes leaving the prince for the
king.
“What sort of letter, your Majesty?” Isabelle
asked, refusing to fidget or flee un-der the
weight of his gaze. Beside him, the queen was
looking down her nose, distaste and
satisfaction warring on her wrinkled face, while
the king stared down at her, his stony face
unreadable.
“From your father’s estate manager,” he
continued. Isabelle stopped breathing.
“Marcus?” she said dumbly. Graham eyes
flic-kered away from hers to fix his father with a
glare before they returned to her.
“It appears your father has fallen ill,” the king
said.
Suddenly the heat of the room was too much,
the light from the candelabras too bright.
Isabelle felt the floor sway beneath her feet,
the glittering marble tilting and swirling as if it
were alive.
Ill? How ill? Why was Marcus writing to the
palace to tell them? Unless…
Graham’s hand found her elbow as she
floun-dered. He’d descended the steps of the
dais in a few quick bounds as the world
shifted around her. His hands anchored her in
place, her own fingers digging into the bright
fabric of his formal jacket.
“Is he going to be all right?” she asked him,
ignoring the monarchs on their thrones
His
li-ps pressed into a line, but no other emotion
was betrayed on his face as he looked to the
king.
“Your father’s estate agent has requested the
most skilled physicians from the palace and
the Royal Conservatory, as your father’s illness
appears to be a mystery to the local healers,”
the king continued, clearly annoyed that
Isabelle had asked his son and not him to
elaborate.
“But he’s going to be all right?” Isabelle
continued, still clutching Graham.
“We don’t know…” Graham said quietly.
“What my son means to say is that we are
doing everything in our power to ensure that
the duke does not succu-mb to his sickness,”
the king said, speaking over Graham. The
annoyance was plain on his face now, his tone
sharper as he cut his son with a glare.
“I need to go home,” Isabelle said, releasing
Graham as she looked around her as if waking
up from a nightmare.
It had to be a nightmare. Papa wasn’t sick, he
couldn’t be, not when she was so far away. He
was going to be fine, but she needed to return
home, in case…
No. No, she refused to allow herself to think it.
“You may not,” the queen said, speaking for
the first time.
Isabelle gaped at her, eyes
blazing with incredulity.
“What my wife means to say,” the king
continued, even more irritated now as his glare
shifted towards the queen, “Is that you are to
remain here, per my agreement with your
father. That is an order.”
“My father is ill!” Isabelle protested, her voice
rising heedless of decorum. The king’s face
remained impa-ssive, but the queen half-rose
from her throne before sinking back down, her
fingers clutched in a white-knuckled vice-grip
on the arms.
“And as a debutante, you are a ward of the
crown until your next of kin releases you,” she
snapped, her own voice rising. Isabelle’s heart
was racing in her che-st, her eyes flying
between the two old monarchs before she
turned to Graham.
The prince remained beside her, unmoving,
something akin to pity leaking though the
impa-ssive mask on his face. She clutched his
arm again, silently beseeching him to tell her
something, anything, to explain what was
happening. But he did nothing more than give
her that subtle shake of his head yet again.
Realizing that he would be of no help to her,
Isabelle yanked her hands back, staggering a
few steps away from him.
“My father would want me with him!” she said,
bunching her fingers into fists in her skirts as
she rounded on the monarchs. She refused to
think about the meaning of Graham’s silence.
The queen blinked slowly, pursing her wrinkled
li-ps while the king’s stony face hardened.
“That is for your uncle to decide. Until we
receive word from him, my order stands,” the
king said.
“If you so choose, you may excuse yourself
from the ball tonight, but you are expected at
breakfast tomorrow morning. That will be all,”
the queen said, regarding Isabelle with distaste
as she dismissed her.
“My uncle?” Isabelle demanded, refusing to
leave. The king, whose gaze had turned away,
disinterested, attempted to ignore her, but
Isabelle would have none of it. Baring her
teeth, she marched towards the monarch, only
for Graham to step in and stop her.
“You will send me home this instant or-”
Isabelle started, before Graham seized her by
the arm and cut her off.
“I’ll show her out,” he said, tugging her back
towards the door, but he hadn’t spoken soon
enough.
“I beg your pardon?” the queen demanded, this
time rising from her throne. The king had lifted
an eyebrow at Isabelle’s antics, a dangerous
look in his eye as he regarded her. The way
Graham was dragging her back and away from
him told Isabelle that she had crossed a line.
And it was not wise to cross lines with King
Charles.
“She’s hysterical. I’ll see to it that she’s
escorted back to her rooms,” Graham said,
more to his father than to the queen. He spun
Isabelle around to march her from the old
palace’s throne room, clamping a hand over
her mouth when she opened it to speak again.
“Remember my orders,” were the king’s final,
ominous words as the doors clanged shut
behind them.
Graham released her as soon they had closed,
but Isabelle still whirled around to shove him
with all her might.
“You dare manhandle me so!” Isabelle
snapped. “Why wouldn’t you say anything?”
“You shouldn’t have lost your temper,” Graham
said quietly.
“Lost my temper?” Isabelle demanded,
incredulous. “They’re making it sound as if my
father is dying, Graham, and you won’t even tell
me what’s happened!”
“It’s not for me to say,” he said, that same
pained pity returning to his eyes. That look,
however, was enough to confirm Isabelle’s
worst fears.
“I need to leave,” she said, blind panic searing
across her mind as she turned on her heel.
Once again, Graham reached out to stop her.
“You can’t, the king has ordered you to stay,”
he said, something urgent in his tone. Isabelle
whirled on him, throwing his arm off.
“Do you think I care? My father is dying,
Graham! If I don’t leave now, I might never see
him again!” she snapped.
“I know,” he said quietly, enduring her abuse
with that same troubled look in his green eyes.
“But I can’t allow you to leave.”
She stared at him, the corners of her vision
blurring red.
“How long have you known?” she demanded
quietly. “Did you know last night when you
fli-rted with me over the fire?”
“No,” Graham said.
“Liar,” she spat. Anger flashed in his green
eyes, but he remained silent.
“Do you not feel the least bit inclined to help
me?” she persisted, advancing towards him
until he caught her shoulders, only for her to
swat him away. “Or did you enjoy watching
your father for-ce me to bend to his will, just
like he does to everyone else!”
“My silence was for your own good,” Graham
replied, his voice still quiet despite the wrath
she was flinging his way.
“My own good?” Isabelle demanded, a high,
hysterical cackle escaping her li-ps. “Pray tell,
how might that work?”
“I can’t help you now,” he said, crushing
sadness weighing in his eyes. “Don’t you see?
If you’d have listened, if you’d have held your
tongue and not challenged the king, he would
have let me negotiate for you. But now you’ve
angered him…I’m sorry, Isabelle, but I can’t-”
“You’ve never lost a parent before, but I have!”
she screamed, even as he took her by the arm,
marching her away with a concerned look back
towards the throne room. “I have to see him
again, Graham!”
“I’ll do my best to organize something soon,”
he said, “But-”
“Soon?” Isabelle shouted, “Soon?”
“Isabelle, I-”
She wrenched her arm from his, brandishing a
finger in his face.
“If you don’t let me leave tonight, so help me I
will find my own way home, even if it means
stealing a horse and riding throu-ghthe night!”
she snarled.
“Don’t you un-derstand? It isn’t safe for you
there! It isn’t safe for you anywhere, not until I
can arrange for a proper armed guard and- ”
Graham started, but Isabelle cut him off with
an angry growl of a scream.
“I leave tonight, Graham, with or without your
aid!” she said, whirling on him. He regarded
her, something pained in his green eyes before
he lifted his hand to gesture to someone
behind Isabelle.
“Please, don’t make me do this,” he said.
“I will make you do whatever it takes to get me
home to Papa!” she screamed, Graham’s face
swimming before her as the tears she’d been
fighting in the throne room rose to her eyes.
“Post a guard at her door, she’s to stay there,”
Graham said as two pairs of gloved hands
took each of her arms. The tears fell as she
blinked at the guards holding her.
“Graham,” she said, her voice cracking. But the
prince wouldn’t look at her as they dragged her
away, his name repeating on her li-ps until they
slammed her suite door behind her.
To be continued……