“Yessir.” Kelan bent over to retrieve his feed sack.
Roden suddenly froze beside Kelan. “What’s that?”
“What?” Kelan followed Roden’s eyes to the floor, where the jar lay on the floor, forgotten. “It’s a jar, but I don’t know why it’s here. It was sitting there when I came in this morning.”
“Sitting where?” Roden asked, his weathered face grim.
“Right there,” Kelan pointed to the spot where he’d fallen, “in front of the mare’s stall.”
The old groom snatched up the jar. He looked at it, cursed, and walked out into the stable yard. Kelan trailed after, blinking in the light of the newly risen sun.
Roden stopped just outside the door and peered into the jar, turning it so the weak, early light illuminated the contents. He scooped a dollop of the paste onto his finger, sniffed it, then lightly touched it to his tongue. He spat.
“God’s blood,” he muttered. “That misbegotten whoreson … ” He rounded on Kelan. “Bring the steward. Run, lad. I don’t care if you have to tear Helmsdale apart, you find the steward and bring him here fast as you can. He has to see this, and send word south to His Grace.” He cursed again and scraped his finger on the jar’s mouth.
Kelan wondered what the fuss was about. It was just a jar with some kind of jam —
“Don’t stand there with your jaw flapping in the breeze, boy,” Roden snapped. “Run!”
Kelan jerked, frightened anew by the urgency in the head groom’s voice.
He ran.
Chapter Ten
Isabelle enjoyed the pleasant sensation of slowly waking in a luxurious bed. After her bath last night, she’d fallen asleep before her head hit the pillow, and so had not noticed how extremely comfortable it was. The smooth sheets smelled faintly of powder, and if there were clouds for the cherubs in heaven, surely they could not be softer than this mattress.
At last she opened her eyes. A tray with chocolate sat beside the bed. She lifted the bowl to her lips and sipped. Tepid. She furrowed her brow. What time was it? It was not her custom to sleep late.
She slid out from between the sheets and her bare toes curled into the thick nap of a fine carpet. Late morning sunlight streamed onto her face when she drew the heavy drapes. Turning, she spotted a clock on the mantle. Almost noon.
Not surprising, all considered. Yesterday had been a terribly long day. Her legs, feet and back still ached from standing so long. She had been up quite late …
Isabelle’s face flushed as the memory of what she had been up late doing returned. She’d behaved like an absolute wanton, and only a happenstance reminder from her conscience that she should not, in fact, become intimately engaged with a man to whom she was not married had brought her kiss-addled brain back to its senses.
She was more than a little afraid of the way her heart skipped a beat as she thought about him. Developing an easy repartee with her former husband was one thing, but he’d already broken her heart once; Isabelle couldn’t allow him to do it again.
She donned a light blue dress with green leaves embroidered on the sash. After styling her hair in a neat twist, she went looking for Lily. Her friend was not in her room. A maid told her Lily was having a late breakfast with Lady Naomi and her guests.
Isabelle started toward the dining room, but stopped short when a number of feminine voices floated down the hallway. She suddenly felt very conspicuous and out of place. No doubt Naomi would welcome her to the table, but how would she explain Isabelle’s presence to the others?
Instead, she decided to find Marshall. He was an enormous help last night. She’d been overwhelmed and sinking fast; his arrival had bolstered her spirits, in addition to providing another pair of hands. It would be appropriate to thank him, if he hadn’t already gone back to London this morning.
The butler informed her that, yes, the master was still at home, and working in the greenhouse. Following the butler’s directions, she took a path past the expansive vegetable garden she’d raided yesterday, into a more sheltered area. Tall trees mingled with the plantings, giving the garden the appearance of having just sprung into being, although Isabelle knew Marshall’s hand had been at work here.
The intimate, raw beauty of this garden made her feel like a fairy tale princess wandering through the woods. She smiled, restraining the girlish temptation to skip along the stones.
At a curve in the path, the overhead canopy opened to a clearing, in the center of which stood Marshall’s greenhouse. She gasped at the sight of it: a beautiful structure, all sparkling clean glass and white iron. The framework divided the glass into a neat grid. A row of pointed finials marched down the length of the roof. Boxwoods lined the sides, and roses and lavender mingled together in a bed near the entrance. The whole effect gave the greenhouse the appearance of a cozy cottage — albeit one made of glass.