two

The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a knife. Her father stared at her as if she had suggested flying to the moon.

“A school,” he repeated flatly. “Have you taken leave of your senses? No respectable woman of your station would engage in trade.” The way he said ‘trade’ made it sound like the gravest of insults, despite the fact that his own fortune came from precisely that source.

“It wouldn’t be trade,” Isabelle countered, knowing she should stop but unable to halt the words now that they had begun to flow. “It would be education. Enlightenment. A chance to open minds rather than simply teaching girls to be ornamental.”

“Enough!” Her father’s hand came down hard on the side table. “I will not hear such nonsense in my house. Your duty is to make a decent match and not embarrass this family further. You lack your sister’s beauty; do not compound the misfortune by also lacking her sense.”

Isabelle stood very still, breathing deeply to control the tremble that threatened to overtake her body. “Yes, Father.”

“Now go and practice your pianoforte,” her mother interjected, clearly desperate to defuse the tension. “Your playing was uneven at Lady Winslow’s tea last week.” “Yes, Mother.”

Isabelle placed the tea tray precisely on the sideboard and left the room with measured steps, refusing to allow her shoulders to slump until she was safely in the corridor. Instead of turning toward the music room, however, she slipped out through the side entrance into the gardens. The afternoon air was cool against her heated cheeks as she made her way to the small stone bench partially concealed behind a stand of ornamental cherry trees.

Here, alone, she could breathe. Here, she need not measure her words or guard her expressions. Here, she could remember the dream that sustained her through days of disapproval and nights of quiet tears.

That dream had begun seven years ago, on an afternoon not unlike this one, when a sudden summer storm had caught her unawares. She had been twelve, wandering far beyond the boundaries her mother had set, lost in a book of poetry she had smuggled from her father’s library. The rain had come so suddenly, transforming the sky from clear blue to violent gray in moments. Lightning split the heavens as she ran blindly for shelter, losing her way in the downpour.

Then, seemingly from nowhere, a figure on horseback had appeared. A man, tall and commanding, his face partially obscured by the brim of his hat. He had dismounted in one fluid motion and wrapped his cloak around her shivering form.

“Are you lost, little one?” His voice had been deep, kind but firm.

“I—I think so,” she had stammered, oddly unafraid despite the circumstances.

“Then let me take you home.”

He had lifted her onto his horse with strong hands and mounted behind her, his arm secure around her waist as they rode through the storm. She remembered the scar on his right hand, a jagged line across the knuckles, and the unusual ring he wore—a dark stone set in silver, carved with what looked like a bird in flight.

He had returned her to the edge of Ellwood Estate, declining her nervous invitation to meet her parents with a gentle laugh. “Another time, perhaps.” And then he was gone, leaving her with a memory she treasured more dearly than any possession.

In her childish imagination, he had become her champion, her protector, the one person who had seen her—truly seen her—if only for a moment. Over the years, as she grew from child to woman, the memory had transformed into something deeper, more yearning. In her darkest moments, she allowed herself to wonder if he would still see her now, as a woman grown, plain and plump and serious. If he would look past the face that society deemed forgettable to the heart that beat beneath.

It was foolish, she knew. Romantic nonsense of the sort her practical mind usually rejected. Yet this one indulgence she permitted herself—this single, unspoken hope that somewhere in the world existed a man who might value her mind, her spirit, her soul.

“Miss Isabelle?”

A timid voice broke through her reverie. Isabelle turned to find Mary, one of the housemaids, standing a few paces away, her apron twisted nervously in her hands.

“Yes, Mary?”

“Begging your pardon, miss, but Mrs. Ellwood is asking for you. The pianoforte…” She trailed off, clearly uncomfortable being the bearer of demands.

Isabelle smiled gently. “Of course. I’ll come directly.” As she rose, she noticed the girl’s reddened eyes and tearstained cheeks. “Mary, is something amiss?”

The maid hesitated, then shook her head. “It’s nothing, miss. Just… Mr. Ellwood dismissed Sally this morning. Without a character. For breaking that new vase in the hall.”

Isabelle’s heart sank. Sally was the youngest of their maids, barely fifteen, supporting a widowed mother and two younger siblings on her meager wages. Without a character—a letter of recommendation—she would struggle to find new employment.

“I see,” Isabelle said softly. “Was it truly her fault? The vase?”

Mary bit her lip. “It was Miss Priscilla’s spaniel that knocked it over, miss. But Mr. Ellwood wouldn’t hear of it.”

Of course he wouldn’t. The spaniel was Priscilla’s treasured pet, a gift from an admirer. Isabelle nodded, mind already working. “Tell Sally not to leave just yet. I shall speak with her before she goes.”

“Thank you, miss.” Mary bobbed a curtsy and hurried away.

Isabelle took a moment to compose herself before returning to the house. Her father would not reverse his decision; of that she was certain. But perhaps she could help in other ways. The pin money she carefully hoarded, the connections she maintained with the vicar’s wife and the doctor’s sister—both of whom ran charity schools— might secure Sally a position elsewhere.

It was a small defiance, but it was hers. In a world that valued beauty above all, that dismissed intelligence in women as unfeminine and independence as unseemly,

Isabelle had learned to find strength in small rebellions. To carve out spaces of dignity and purpose in the margins of a life that others had scripted for her.

She stepped back into the house, the weight of expectation settling once more upon her shoulders. Her mother would be waiting, impatient and critical. Her father would find fresh fault with her performance at dinner. Priscilla would shine, as always, while Isabelle faded into the background, as always.

But within her, carefully guarded, burned a flame of quiet determination. They saw only her plain face, her fuller figure, her lack of vivacity. They did not see the mind that reasoned and questioned, the heart that felt deeply, the soul that yearned for more than the narrow future they envisioned.

Someday, perhaps, someone would see beyond the surface to the woman beneath. Until then, Isabelle Ellwood would continue to live her double life—the dutiful daughter in public, the dreamer in private—writing her thoughts in journals no one would read, nurturing hopes no one encouraged, and loving a shadowy memory that had no name.

The pianoforte awaited. With a deep breath, Isabelle squared her shoulders and went to meet her duty, the ghost of a forbidden dream still lingering in her mind.