Chapter 8: What Isolde Chose
Isolde was in the east sitting room when Edmund found her.
She had not left the house.
She was sitting in the chair nearest the fireplace, still in her evening dress, a glass of water untouched on the side table.
She looked up when he came in.
"I've been thinking," she said.
"So have I." He sat down across from her.
Not close.
Not far.
The distance of two people who had not yet decided what they were to each other.
"I want to explain something," Isolde said.
"Not to justify it.
Just so you understand."
"Go ahead."
"When the Countess told me about Cecily — before the wedding — she presented it as a settled matter.
A difficult situation that had been resolved for the good of the family.
She made it sound like Cecily had been given options and had chosen her path." She stopped.
"I believed her.
I chose to believe her, because it was easier, and because I was twenty-four years old and I wanted the life I was being offered." She looked at her hands.
"That was wrong.
I've known it was wrong for years.
I just kept deciding it was too late to change."
"When did you know it wasn't settled?" Edmund asked.
"When did you know Cecily hadn't chosen anything?"
Isolde was quiet.
"Isolde."
"The first year of our marriage," she said.
"I found a letter.
One of the ones she'd sent to the estate before we married, asking for the will.
The solicitor had returned it with a note.
The note was — it was unkind.
Clinical.
She was asking for something she had every right to ask for and she was being turned away, and the note made it clear that was intentional." She paused.
"I should have told you then."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because telling you meant dismantling everything.
The estate review, the Countess's role, the solicitor, the wedding — all of it would have unraveled.
And I was afraid." She looked up at him.
"I was afraid you would choose her over the life we had already started."
Edmund sat with that for a moment.
"I might have," he said honestly.
"I don't know.
I was twenty-three.
I don't know what I would have done." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"But you didn't give me the chance to find out.
You made the decision for me.
For six years, you made that decision for me every single day."
"I know."
"And when she appeared here — when you recognized her—"
"I panicked," Isolde said.
"I moved her to the east wing because I needed time to think.
I told myself I was going to find a way to handle it quietly.
That I would tell you, eventually, when the moment was right." She stopped.
"The moment was never right because I kept making it not right."
Edmund stood up.
He moved to the fireplace and stood with his back to her, looking at the grate.
"My solicitor will contact you this week," he said.
"There will be a legal review of the estate documents.
I've agreed to support it.
Whatever the outcome, I intend to ensure Cecily is restored — her name, her standing, her share of what was our father's." He paused.
"That process will require full disclosure of everything you know.
Every letter, every conversation with the Countess, every decision you made or were aware of."
Isolde said nothing.
"If you cooperate fully, that will be noted," he said.
"If you don't, the legal process will proceed without your cooperation, and that will be noted differently." He turned around.
"I'm not asking you to destroy yourself.
I'm asking you to stop protecting a decision that was wrong from the beginning."
Isolde looked at him for a long time.
"And us?" she asked.
The fire crackled once.
"I don't know yet," Edmund said.
"I need time.
And I need to know that the person I'm taking time with is someone who tells me the truth." He moved toward the door.
"Can you be that person?"
Isolde looked at her hands again.
At the ring on her left hand.
At the untouched glass of water.
"I want to be," she said.
"That's not the same thing."
"No," she said quietly.
"It isn't."
He left her there.
May you like
The fire burned low.
The glass of water stayed where it was.
