his...his...machinations."
"Edward, I do believe you have a touch of your cousin in you. You are growing quite melodramatic. I am sure Miss Latham is sensible enough to avoid whatever 'machinations' you are imagining. I understand she assisted her uncle and has a surprisingly sophisticated understanding of business. I doubt she'll be taken in easily. And if she is, then we may assume it was because she was inclined to be. May we not?"
Having discovered what she wished to know, Lady Bertram gently turned the conversation to other channels. She noted, however, that Lord Hartleigh never did fully regain his equanimity, and she wondered if he was too much of a fool—as men so often were—to realise what he wanted.
Chapter Nine
Isabella had never sympathised much with her Aunt Pamela's social ambitions. After all, the Lathams were not slave-traders; their businesses were respectable. And certainly they were far better off financially than many of the nobility. The latter were often obliged to bring themselves to the brink of bankruptcy, just to keep up appearances. Look at her uncle, Lord Belcomb.
Had Aunt Pamela not been so ambitious, her four daughters might have had their pick of any number of respectable, though untitled, young men. And Isabella might have stayed quietly in Westford, making herself useful to her uncle, instead of having to spend her time dodging the various parties so eager to make use of her fortune.
But that same social ambition had also provided her current means of escape. Insisting that a proper young lady must be conservant with the art of managing a horse, Aunt Pamela had insisted on riding lessons for her girls. After many debates on the subject, Uncle Henry had finally agreed—on condition that Isabella be taught as well.
"The poor child does not have sufficient exercise," he'd told his wife in his quiet but firm way. "She must be encouraged to spend more time out of doors." That his wife demanded too much of the girl within doors was an issue left unspoken, for he had no wish to hear the lengthy denials.
Thus Isabella had been afforded some refuge from the chaos of the viscount's household. And in this one case, at least, the viscountess did not require detailed explanations. Lady Belcomb's passion for horses, like her need for battalions of servants, had contributed in part to her husband's current unhappy financial state. Isabella, then, had only to don her habit in the morning and take her groom with her, and she would have an hour or more of peace. For that, today, she was doubly thankful.
She had left well before time, both to actually exercise the horse and to clear her own head. She'd lain awake a long time the night before, trying to calculate the risks of flouting her aunt's demands, and had at length determined that if all else failed, she would turn to Uncle Henry. He had straightened out worse tangles. And so, clinging to this comforting thought, she'd fallen asleep at last.
She took a side trail, away from the park proper, where there would be room to run. As she urged her horse to a gallop, the groom, by now inured to her headlong pace, patiently waited. On their first excursion, he'd been convinced the horse had run away with her, and had earned a good-natured scolding for his attempts to rescue her. Today, as he had ever since, he gritted his teeth and fervently prayed that Miss would not be killed—at least not while in his keeping.
But Miss was made of sterner stuff than most people realised. She flew across the meadow, confident and secure. As she felt the fresh morning air and the graceful power of the animal beneath her, aunts and debutantes and suitors faded from her mind. Life made sense again; as it rarely had since she'd come to London. She wished she could continue galloping, on, out of the park, away from the city, and back to her uncle's comfortable home. But one could escape only for moments at a time.
Reluctantly, she made her way back, and was guiding her
"Edward, I do believe you have a touch of your cousin in you. You are growing quite melodramatic. I am sure Miss Latham is sensible enough to avoid whatever 'machinations' you are imagining. I understand she assisted her uncle and has a surprisingly sophisticated understanding of business. I doubt she'll be taken in easily. And if she is, then we may assume it was because she was inclined to be. May we not?"
Having discovered what she wished to know, Lady Bertram gently turned the conversation to other channels. She noted, however, that Lord Hartleigh never did fully regain his equanimity, and she wondered if he was too much of a fool—as men so often were—to realise what he wanted.
Chapter Nine
Isabella had never sympathised much with her Aunt Pamela's social ambitions. After all, the Lathams were not slave-traders; their businesses were respectable. And certainly they were far better off financially than many of the nobility. The latter were often obliged to bring themselves to the brink of bankruptcy, just to keep up appearances. Look at her uncle, Lord Belcomb.
Had Aunt Pamela not been so ambitious, her four daughters might have had their pick of any number of respectable, though untitled, young men. And Isabella might have stayed quietly in Westford, making herself useful to her uncle, instead of having to spend her time dodging the various parties so eager to make use of her fortune.
But that same social ambition had also provided her current means of escape. Insisting that a proper young lady must be conservant with the art of managing a horse, Aunt Pamela had insisted on riding lessons for her girls. After many debates on the subject, Uncle Henry had finally agreed—on condition that Isabella be taught as well.
"The poor child does not have sufficient exercise," he'd told his wife in his quiet but firm way. "She must be encouraged to spend more time out of doors." That his wife demanded too much of the girl within doors was an issue left unspoken, for he had no wish to hear the lengthy denials.
Thus Isabella had been afforded some refuge from the chaos of the viscount's household. And in this one case, at least, the viscountess did not require detailed explanations. Lady Belcomb's passion for horses, like her need for battalions of servants, had contributed in part to her husband's current unhappy financial state. Isabella, then, had only to don her habit in the morning and take her groom with her, and she would have an hour or more of peace. For that, today, she was doubly thankful.
She had left well before time, both to actually exercise the horse and to clear her own head. She'd lain awake a long time the night before, trying to calculate the risks of flouting her aunt's demands, and had at length determined that if all else failed, she would turn to Uncle Henry. He had straightened out worse tangles. And so, clinging to this comforting thought, she'd fallen asleep at last.
She took a side trail, away from the park proper, where there would be room to run. As she urged her horse to a gallop, the groom, by now inured to her headlong pace, patiently waited. On their first excursion, he'd been convinced the horse had run away with her, and had earned a good-natured scolding for his attempts to rescue her. Today, as he had ever since, he gritted his teeth and fervently prayed that Miss would not be killed—at least not while in his keeping.
But Miss was made of sterner stuff than most people realised. She flew across the meadow, confident and secure. As she felt the fresh morning air and the graceful power of the animal beneath her, aunts and debutantes and suitors faded from her mind. Life made sense again; as it rarely had since she'd come to London. She wished she could continue galloping, on, out of the park, away from the city, and back to her uncle's comfortable home. But one could escape only for moments at a time.
Reluctantly, she made her way back, and was guiding her
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