THE HEIRESS
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EPISODE 44
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From U.S Bah ❤ ✌?
Graham’s ruse worked.
As he’d warned, he arrived at dawn the next
morning with the captain of his father’s
soldiers in tow. The prince was all formalities
when Marcus greeted him, politely accepting
Graham’s request for an audience with the
duchess. Isabelle made them wait while Lissa
helped make her appear as haggard and
exhausted as possible.
It wasn’t too difficult a job, given that Isabelle’s
wounds still hadn’t completely closed. She’d
tossed and turned as she slept, accidentally
re-opening her injuries in the night. She’d
refused to change her bandages, preferring to
use them as props for her act. Lissa powdered
her face and ne-ck to add to her pallor, careful
to leave her bruises uncovered.
When Graham and the captain entered the
room, Isabelle’s heart soared when the prince
fought a grin behind the other man’s back.
Isabelle had caught a glimpse of herself in the
mirror before declaring herself ready, both glad
that she looked so awful and hating to appear
so disheveled and unkempt before the man
she loved.
But the way his green eyes danced as the
captain expressed his condolences for the late
duke almost ruined Isabelle’s act. Lissa thr-ust
a handkerchief into her hands, shooting
Isabelle a look to remind her of the part she
was supposed to be playing.
With an exaggerated sob, Isabelle pressed the
handkerchief to her face, sniffling and thanking
the captain for his words. She grimaced as she
handed the handkerchief back to her maid,
making a great show of being unable to use
her hands properly when she reached for the
cu-p of water at her bedside. Lissa helped her
drink, Isabelle wincing with each swallow
before waving her maid away.
“I wish you a safe return journey,” Isabelle said,
coughing with yet another wince as she
tou-ched a hand to her throat. When she looked
up at the captain, he wasn’t quick enough to
mask his horrified expression.
She covered her smile with another cough.
“Thank you, your Grace,” Graham said, bowing.
“We will not disturb you any longer.”
The captain bowed in turn, wishing Isabelle a
speedy recovery. When he turned on his heel
to leave, Graham fixed her with a look so full
of adoration it nearly had her tearing the
blankets away so she could kis-s him one last
time. The prince winked before sli-pping out
behind the captain, gently closing the door
behind him.
Isabelle slumped back against her pillows,
clinging to that last look of his as she fought
the sadness seeping back into her thoughts.
Lissa watched throu-ghthe window for the
prince and the captain to leave the castle
grounds before allowing Isabelle to rise from
her bed. Her maid helped tidy up her
disheveled appearance before Isabelle called
for the healers to dress her wounds and sent
word to Marcus that she was ready to get to
work.
Rather than allow the loneliness to suffocate
her, Isabelle threw herself into running the
duchy. The days turned into weeks as Marcus
went throu-ghher father’s affairs, educating
Isabelle on all that had happened while she
had been in Highcastle.
With the Winters’ men still in Inverloch, their
garrison was more than sufficient should
Leopold renege on the treaty. Her father had
stockpiled enough food to see them throu-gh
until the spring, the garrison included. Lord
Roxton, the Marquess of Eastcliffe had sent his
condolences, along with a request for a
meeting with Isabelle at her earliest
convenience.
He was not the only noble to do
so, most of her liege lords sending similar
letters requesting audiences.
Marcus counselled her to wait before accepting
any of them, advising her instead to meet with
Lord Winters first. He was their closest ally
and had been the first to step in during their
time of need. According to Marcus, Lord
Roxton would most likely attempt to capitalize
on Isabelle’s youth and inexperience for his
own benefit and slighting Lord Winters by
seeing the Marquess of Eastcliffe first was not
a wise move. Marcus also warned her that her
father had usually been caught between
Kentshire’s two neighbouring nobles, both Lord
Winters and Lord Roxton frequently bu-tting
heads and forcing the late Duke Francis to act
as a mediator.
Isabelle remembered Lord Roxton from her
childhood, a blustering, red-faced man who
too-often loosed his unflattering thoughts
about the king when he’d drunk too much
wine. Where Lord Winters was calm and
calculating, Lord Roxton was impulsive and
quick-tempered. He was a large, loud man that
had ba-rely ever spoken to her, but Isabelle now
outranked him. Marcus wasn’t certain how the
Lord Roxton would handle such a shift in
power, especially as the Marquess of Eastcliffe
seemed to think that all women were pretty,
dainty, brainless things.
The reality that she now outranked the vast
majority of Pretanian nobles slowly settled
onto Isabelle’s shoulders as the days marched
on towards the winter solstice. Two weeks
after her father’s pa-ssing, she resumed duke
Francis’ Sunday tradition of mediating her
subjects’ grievances. It was an exhausting
affair, sitting atop Kentshire’s throne after their
weekly service with Father Hammond, listening
to her people plead their cases before her. She
kept Marcus close, frequently leaning in for his
advice and any pertinent information he could
provide. It tried her patience and her wisdom,
but she did her best to be just and unbiased.
With so much on her shoulders now, she had
little time to address the loneliness that
constantly nipped at the edges of her
thoughts. The evenings were the worst, once
Marcus retired to his room and left Isabelle
alone with the stacks of papers and letters she
hadn’t had time to address that day. She tried
to distract herself with her work, but each night
her mind refused to cooperate, instead drifting
towards a city so many miles away.
Isabelle hadn’t realized how accustomed she’d
become to Graham’s presence until her first
night alone in her study. She discovered that
she’d half-expected him to knock at her door,
bearing desserts or a chessboard, much as he
had at the palace. That realization alone had
been enough to burst the floodgates, all the
terrible thoughts of loss and loneliness that
she’d buried into the de-eperest corners of her
mind now boiling up to consume her. Try as
she might, the resurfacing of her grief and pain
slowly became a nightly ritual, one she
dreaded very much. She told herself it would
abate with time, but after nearly a week without
any reprieve, she wondered if she would ever
truly be whole again.
As if he’d predicted her struggles, Graham’s
first letter found her a week after his departure.
The royal seal caught Isabelle by surprise,
nestled in among the rest of her daily
correspondence. The sight of her name in
Graham’s handwriting and the way the
envelope smelled ever so faintly of his cologne
nearly broke throu-ghher mental barriers, but by
some miracle she retained her composure and
put it aside for later. It served as a bright sp-ot
in her day, a treat to look forward to instead of
the dread that usually consumed her at the
thought of her evening alone.
When Marcus took his leave, Isabelle curled up
in an armchair by the fire, breaking the seal
with a smile.
My dearest prized cow,
I must first begin by congratulating you on your
hidden talent. I hadn’t the slightest inkling you
were such a spectacular actress. Captain
Horace painted a rather pitiful picture of you to
my father, thanks mostly to your performance
the morning of our departure. I doubt the king
will give you much more trouble, now that he’s
convinced you’ve been sufficiently punished.
Though it would still be wise to attend the
council meeting at the Winter Solstice, for purely
political purposes of course. Not at all because
I miss the sight of you here in the palace.
I would say that you’re also sorely missed here
by the others, but that would be a lie. I was set
upon by a pack of crazed debutantes the
moment I set foot in the ballroom the night
after my return. I thought it would be a kind nod
to you to ask your friend Violet for my first
dance, though I daresay Byron Fletcher thought
differently. I think you would have quite enjoyed
the look on his face. While it may not be my
news to share, I think you’ll appreciate a
warning that Cora Neasmith is sporting a rare
ru-by ring on a very important finger. As a result,
Henrietta Barclay now considers herself a shoo-
in for the crown and it’s taking all of my
willpower not to let her know that my heart is
many miles away, in Kentshire.
Not a morning has pa-ssed that I haven’t wished
to wake up in your castle and spend the day by
your side, before settling in for a cozy dinner
together. The only home I’ve ever known has
been Highcastle Palace, but Inverloch has come
closer to replicating that feeling than anywhere
else.
Alas, I fear I’ve gone soft. Write back quickly,
my love, with plenty of insults, or upon your
return, you’ll be faced with a lovesick, doe-eyed
ninny rather than the dashing, arrogant prince
you’ve fallen in love with.
I very much hope that will be soon.
Forever yours,
His Royal Highness the Turnip Farmer
Isabelle had to keep from crushing the letter to
her che-st, Graham’s voice singing from the
page as if he were there beside her, reading it
aloud. A pang of longing engulfed her,
drowning out the usual sorrow and grief that
occu-pied her evenings. She missed him,
terribly, but there was still so much to be done
in Kentshire before she could even consider
returning to Highcastle to accept Graham’s
proposal. At the thought of marrying him,
however, a new worry crept into Isabelle’s
head.
Did she really want to become queen of
Pretania?
She had been ready to a-ssume the Germanian
throne next to Leopold for the greater part of
her adolescence, but she had fallen in love so
ha-rd and so quickly with Graham that she had
never stopped to consider what being queen of
her own country would entail. Germania was a
great mystery, painted as a decidedly romantic,
welcoming place thanks to Leopold’s careful
grooming of her young mind. Isabelle was now
all-too familiar with Highcastle Palace and
knew well enough that it was not a pleasant,
kind, hospitable court that would welcome her
with open arms.
She was also no stranger to King Charles’
penchant for manipulation of his nobles, but as
Graham’s wife-to-be, the king’s power over her
would be hindered by his son. On the other
hand, Queen Leonora was a cold, cruel witch
of a woman and, if Isabelle were to accept
Graham’s proposal, she would be for-ced to live
out her days at the older queen’s elbow until
Graham became king. It was a nauseating
notion, but as Isabelle’s eyes fell to the
signature at the base of the letter, she knew
that even Queen Leonora’s vile queenscourt
would not be enough to dissuade her.
The only thing that could change her mind was
Kentshire.
She was the last surviving De Havilland and it
was her duty to oversee and care for the
duchy. What would become of her home if she
ascended Pretania’s throne was a question that
required answering before she could ever agree
to a marriage. If becoming queen meant
abandoning her people to some jumped-up
noble appointed by the king, she would bury
her heart and for-ce herself to give Graham up.
Her father would have done the same, a notion
that had guided her as she attempted to fill his
shoes. Thankfully for Isabelle, however, the
man that she loved was a plotter who had no
doubt already formulated some sort of plan for
such a circu-mstance.
There was only one way to find out, which was
why she hastily crossed to her desk,
smoothing out a fresh piece of paper and
trimming her quill. The salutation of “My
dearest turnip farmer” slid effortlessly across
the page, a smile on Isabelle’s face as she
imagined Graham reading it.
To be continued……