Page 17 of An Inconvenient Vow

“Where is Father?” Sabina asked once Isemay had shut the door after them.

“He has ridden out with Hodgson this morning to look over the crops. He should be back soon.”

When both sisters looked to him, he cleared his throat. “Hodgson is your father’s steward?” he asked, unsure of his cue.

“Hodgson fulfils many roles,” Sabina answered. “Steward is just one of them.”

“Father has had to let so many of his staff go this past couple of years,” Isemay piped up. “Everyone has had to take on more duties.”

Thinking of their mother’s snores, Jeffree made no comment, though he noted he had only seen one servant about the place so far.

“Please be seated and I will fetch us some refreshment,” Isemay said with a formality that seemed to surprise even her sister. “And then we can discuss what is to be done about everything.” She then whisked out of the room and Jeffree turned to Sabina who was lowering herself onto a loveseat. Deliberately, he walked and sat beside her on the two-seater bench. Sabina turned to him but before she could speak; he forestalled her.

“I think we need to be on the same page before your sister returns,” he said bluntly. “She seems determined to put her oar in.”

“Do you find that surprising, all things considered?” she asked coolly. “Yesterday was supposed to be her wedding day, not mine.”

Jeffree regarded her frowningly. “I do not understand why their marriage did not take place,” he admitted finally. “Our own union should not have been a bar to it.”

Sabina folded her hands and set them in her lap. “As to that, I was not there when any decision was reached,” she said with a shrug. “Have you spoken to your uncle this morn? Does he still desire it?”

“I have no idea.” Speaking to his uncle had not been high on his priority list. “I do not see why he should have changed his mind.”

Sabina regarded him with a stunned look. “The day now has been tainted with… certain associations. Your uncle is a good deal more delicate in his feelings than you, it seems.”

Jeffree found himself bristling at the implied criticism. “What would be the point in postponing their wedding, only to have to go through the whole rigmarole a few months down the line?” he asked, he thought reasonably enough.

Sabina made no reply, instead turning her head sharply as though she heard some footfall. Sure enough, her sister came sailing through the door, carrying a jug and three cups. She was so out of breath, Jeffree guessed she had run the whole way, as though she feared he might tuck her sister under his arm and carry her off like a marauder!

“Here we are,” Isemay said blithely, sloshing the ale into the three cups. “Now,” she said sitting down opposite them. “What is to be done?”

“Done?” Jeffree echoed tetchily. From what his uncle had let slip about his prospective bride, he had imagined her to be some demure, retiring maiden. Not this interfering young woman who seemed determined to thrust herself into their business.

“About Sabina.”

“Sabina is my wife,” Jeffree responded. “There remains nothing to be ‘done’ about that. The matter is done and dusted.”

Isemay straightened in her seat. “I do not see why Sabina’s life should be blighted,” she began with what Jeffree could only believe was a staggering disrespect, when a muffled shriek came from the direction of the doorway.

“Isemay!” Thora Burrell squawked, rushing into the room. “You stupid child! What are you saying!” She flapped her hands at her youngest daughter, rather as though she were swatting away flies. “You must excuse her, Sir Jeffree,” she said turning back to him. “Isemay’s—er—disappointment over what happened yesterday, or rather what failed to happen, has sadly disordered her wits.”

“My wits are perfectly fine, thank you, Mother!” Isemay sniped from behind her mother’s bulk, only to be ignored.

“We are, of course, sensible to the honor you have done us by marrying into our family and repairing my daughter’s honor,” Thora Burrell twittered, her eyes solely trained on him. Jeffree inclined his head. Perhaps the woman was not as bad as he initially feared.

“What is this?” his mother-in-law asked sharply, her eye falling on the pitcher of ale. “Isemay! You did not serve Sir Jeffree that weak ale! Why, that is not fit for visitors! You should have brought out the honeyed!”

“I thought you said he was family now, not a guest,” Isemay pointed out, a toss of her head.

“Do not be so provoking, child! Go and ask Hildeth for the honeyed ale at once and the best goblets!”

Isemay’s face grew tight, but she rose from her seat and left the room looking back over her shoulder at her sister and wriggling her eyebrows expressively. Really, Jeffree could not understand what his uncle had been thinking wanting to wed the girl. If Sabina was a shrew, then assuredly, Isemay was unbecomingly headstrong.

“And how is your dear uncle, His Grace the Duke of Bethencourt, this morn?” asked their mother, happily unaware of his thoughts.

“He’s—er—keeping to his rooms this morning,” Jeffree managed to dredge from his memory. “Apparently, he took a chill sitting in the Great Hall all day yesterday in a draught.”

Thora Burrell’s face fell. “Oh, the poor, dear man!” she cried, sinking into a chair.